If I Won the Lottery . . .

The picture of Abraham Shakespeare, the dread-locked day pool laborer found dead earlier this week in Central Florida beneath an enormous concrete slab, continues to haunt me. Life changed when this 7th grade dropout who could neither read nor write collected a $17 million lump sum payout three years ago. He bought a BMW and a $1.1 million home in a gated community.

Police suspect foul play in his death, but no arrests have been made. His self-described financial advisor, a blowsy looking blonde, is said to be a “person of interest,” in part because Shakespeare’s body was found behind the home of her boyfriend.

It’s a cliché that money doesn’t buy happiness, and stories abound of lottery winners who ultimately end up in dire financial straits. No doubt a course in financial literacy might help. But I suspect some winners have found it stressful to deal with a change in circumstances, not to mention becoming the object of requests from vultures.

The last time I bought a lottery ticket was several years ago, when a part time receptionist at my office made a point of reminding anybody who walked by her desk to purchase a Mass Millions ticket. This was a woman who probably spent most of her day dreaming of a financial escape hatch liberating her from her job.

So my odds of winning the lottery are zero. But if I did win, I’d stay in the home I own now. After all these years, I finally live in a place I love, and I hate moving. I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I planned to donate the lump sum to a charitable organization pursuing world peace, an end to hunger, relief for all present and future victims of natural disasters, or a cure for disease. But I’d probably continuing giving to charities related to health and education.

At the risk of sounding painfully pedestrian, here are 5 things I would do if I won the lottery:

(1) Visit Family More Frequently. This would include the little weekend trips to visit Dennis’ children in New York and Chicago on those weekends when he is willing to give up going to his studio to paint. Now that Daphne and Etan are about to move into a home in Atlanta, it would of course include visiting as often as they could tolerate our presence. Trips to nice cities invariably involve shopping and fine dining, so the extra pocket money would come in handy.

(2) Take Lots of Nice Vacations. The recent trip I took to Paris with Daphne was a beautiful mother-daughter bonding experience, and I wouldn’t mind making that an annual event. Dennis has no desire to visit Israel, but I would love to go back after more than 20 years, and perhaps I could persuade Daphne and Etan to join me. Asia and South America are places I’d love to see – perhaps on custom designed tours where I could get onsite photography lessons while touring places of interest.

(3) Educate My Grandchildren. I don’t have any grandchildren, but if I do at some point in the future, I’d want my lottery earnings to pay for these kids to have a college education. My grandparents paid for my college with money they earned, and that was very generous of them. I would probably throw in two months away each year at summer camp for these children, if only to provide their parents with some mental health time.

(4) New Workout Clothing. Yes I’ve got enough workout clothing to take me through five days a week of working out or rowing, and then some. Still, when I walk around my really nice, all women’s gym, I sometimes have the feeling I’m the only woman not dressed in performance wear by Lulemon Athletica. Frankly I’m starting to feel self-conscious in the Champion, Nike and Addidas stuff I’ve been wearing for years.

(5) Additional Private Coaching. Dennis figures that after more than 15 years of one on one sessions with a rowing coach, that I would be good enough not to need any more. Trust me, rowing is about striving for perfection, and I’m not there yet. Similarly, after hundreds of hours of private dance lessons in another life, lottery winnings would make me sorely tempted to supplement my Zumba classes with one on one lessons – providing me with the moves to ace the classes. But I suspect the reason I love the classes is that I don’t think too much about whether I’m doing exactly what the teacher is doing.

Conference Call Redux

Photo Courtesy of howstuffworks.com

Dear Communications Colleague:

I apologize for what I said to you on yesterday’s conference call. Despite my self-image as a kind and empathetic person, I insulted you without ever having met you or given much thought to the fact that there are good, decent people out there who don’t necessarily adhere to the Brookline-Cambridge view of the world.

Chalk it up to my own elitism. But I assumed that if you were in charge of a fall communications conference in Portland, Maine, you would have selected a hotel in the city’s downtown area – within walking distance of the waterfront.

Yes, I know you’re just another hard-working volunteer in a national professional organization to which I happen to belong. And I’m sure you were doing your best to keep costs down for attendees who will be tagging airfare on to the tab. So there was no excuse for my query that wasn’t really a query: “you’re having a conference in Portland and we’re going to be inside a shopping mall???”

In volunteering to join the committee planning the conference, I came in at the tail end – long after the venue, a suburban, chain hotel connected to a shopping mall off a highway had been selected. So I had no right to criticize your choice.

My assumption that we would be staying at the Portland Regency, the charming hotel my employer selected for a weekend board retreat more than a decade ago, was flawed. Nor should I have sounded aghast when you mentioned that enormous “floating restaurant” with the so-so food synonymous with places capable of accommodating large groups.

In case you’re interested, the Regency is within walking distance of the harbor. Not to mention all those gourmet restaurants highlighted in the New York Times’ food and travel sections, and that boutique where I picked up a Peruvian, hand-knit sweater that's a staple of my weekend wardrobe.

In my own ignorance, it never occurred to me that while you’re a Mainer, you come from Augusta, a tiny state capital in what I have to imagine is a fairly rural area, and that you like it that way. You probably drive most places because you get plenty of exercise on your snowshoes or cross-country skis in winter. Attending the conference will no doubt drag you away from an otherwise delightful weekend of fall hiking.

My assumption that the conference call would focus solely on the substance of the conference was wrong too. Seriously, I know getting sponsorships is essential to keeping costs down for attendees, and I was impressed to hear a colleague of ours from Kansas City speak with confidence about how much money she plans to raise through her contacts.

Admittedly I would have preferred a reduced focus on “outings” such as the proposed trip to the LL Bean Store in Freeport. The rationale is that such excursions promote bonding among conference attendees. My own opinion is that highlighting excursions over substance erodes the credibility of the conference as a professional event. Besides, we now have an LL Bean at Legacy Place in Dedham.

As volunteers, we all bring something to the table. I committed to developing programs focusing on issues management and marketing communications. There are a lot of talented, committed people in our organization and I’m hoping I can persuade a friend and colleague from Philadelphia to join me in this effort.

He’s the same colleague who was sweet enough to snap a pic of me in Beverly Hills on his iPhone and email it to Dennis. If he balks at the idea of staying at a hotel in a suburban shopping mall, I’ll remind him that I will be driving up from Boston, and stand ready to chauffeur around as many people as can fit in my Honda Civic. 

Meanwhile, when I get to the conference I look forward to sitting down with you over a Chimay, just as President Obama did with Professor Skip Gates from Harvard and that policeman from Cambridge. Maine is beautiful, and I pledge to help ensure the success of our conference.

Apologetically yours,

Bonnie

Zumba Newbie Wants to Dress the Part

(Photo Courtesy of www.annabotelho.com)

Grandma Anna assured me that dressing the part was everything – regardless of my place on learning curve. The result is that one of my walk-in closets houses a collection of spandex dance dresses -- red, purple, royal blue, and lots of black. Just spin or swivel my heels and the skirt becomes a banner signaling that I’m a much better dancer than I really am.

Those dresses, along with a pair of dancing shoes with suede soles are a relic of my years as a widow. Dennis is an excellent dancer, but his bad back limits us to jitterbugging only at the occasional wedding.

One week ago Saturday I indulged my love of dance with my first Zumba class at HealthWorks Brookline. My place on the dance learning curve had once taken me to competency in swing and West Coast swing, but needing remedial work in any of the Latin dances.

According to Wikipedia, Zumba is an aerobic dance program that started in Colombia in the ‘90’s -- with classes using music based on salsa, merengue, cumbia, and reggaeton. I had thought about the prospect of getting a few private lessons, just to get me up to speed to avoid the humiliation of using my right foot when I was supposed to be using my other right foot.

I had taken spinning classes on Saturday mornings with a beautiful young woman named Leonie. Because she moves with such grace, I thought she might be a dancer. Exhausted after one of her spinning classes, I couldn’t resist her invitation to join her new Zumba class she said would follow in another studio at 10 a.m.

Ultra positive in her approach to teaching, Leonie sees Zumba as “a big party,” the sole purpose of which is to have fun while getting a great workout. The fact that HealthWorks is an all women’s gym probably helps too, but my new teacher began by telling beginners that her class is not about benchmarking one’s progress by what other people are doing or feeling self-conscious.

Clad in one of the many cotton T-shirts I’ve purchased at rowing regattas and art museums, and a pair of spandex shorts, I was fine – except for the running shoes. Leonie told me I could put tape on the bottom of a pair of running shoes, just so that my feet wouldn’t grip the floor.

But remembering Grandma’s advice, I asked Leonie what type of shoes she was wearing. Who knew there were special “dance sneakers”? She told me they were definitely not necessary, but if I wanted, a company named Bloch made good ones.

Thankfully I had MLK Day off, and amid a snowstorm headed out to the Capezio store in Wellesley. A helpful sales woman suggested I try a few different brands of dance sneaker to ensure the best fit. In my heart of hearts, I was happy that the Bloch ones really did feel the most comfortable.

A web site I checked suggests that a complete Zumba outfit would require cargo pants and a tank top – which is what Leonie wears when she’s teaching. But for now I think the Bloch dance sneakers are enough.

A friend of mine from Argentina once observed that Americans insist on having special clothing or accessories for every activity – implying this is just a wee bit self-indulgent. That brings me to the question of which gym bag I use for storing my dance sneakers.

I had been storing them with the biking shoes, padded shorts and gel seat pad I use for spinning. But since an old wrist problem has flared up, I may have to relegate the biking gear to the walk-in closet housing the spandex dance dresses, and three deep shelves of rowing outfits.

Be assured that my substantial inventory of rowing shirts – made of a form-fitting tech fabric that wicks perspiration away – along with color-coordinated spandex rowing pants, shorts, and my rowing club’s official unisuit will be put to good use as soon as the Charles thaws.

The special clothing is about more than just looking the part. It’s about making a commitment to stick with an activity despite the challenges of even a steep learning curve.     

 http://www.zumba.com/us/

www.annabotelho.com

http://www.zappos.com/n/p/p/7136746/c/3.html

http://www.healthworksfitness.com/

Political Upset in Massachusetts

Because of a snafu involving Brookline’s voter registration process, Dennis was turned away from the polls yesterday at 7 a.m. – deprived of his right to cast a vote for Martha Coakley in the U.S. Senate race. As it turns out, his vote would have made no difference.

Scott Brown, a relatively obscure state senator from Wrentham, got 52% of the vote. With just 47% of the vote, Martha will continue in her job as Attorney General.

I consider myself apolitical. The organization for which I work is strictly non-partisan, endorsing principles -- never people. Criticize me for my lack of civic engagement, but if I saw snippets of the debates in this most recent race, it was only because I happened to be sitting in our den while Dennis was watching TV.

When I got a request for a campaign contribution from a lawyer friend, I sent Martha $100. Unlike my sister, Phyllis, who lives in Boulder, Colorado, and sent Martha $100 earlier this month amid concerns about the Democratic 60 vote majority in the U.S. Senate being destroyed, I’ve rarely contributed to a political campaign.

If I’m the type of person who doesn’t stay up nights worrying about political outcomes, why did I support Martha’s campaign? I think she has done a good job as Attorney General. I knew all of the contenders for Ted Kennedy’s seat – except for Congressman Mike Capuano – would have a steep learning curve moving from local to national stage. But I thought she was smart enough to do it.

Lacking the personal warmth of Boston’s legendary mayor, Tom Menino, she came across as aloof and too cautious for her own good. Still she seemed like a shoe-in, until I got home from Paris on Friday evening, and Dennis told me her campaign was reportedly in trouble.

By Monday evening, I was getting Facebook queries about the predicted upset giving Massachusetts its first Republican Senator since 1979 -- from friends living in Alabama and Pennsylvania. My father, ever the political junkie, called from North Carolina, in hopes of engaging me in a discussion. I told him I was planning to get out and vote.

Whether I’m planning to head to the gym or blog, my ability to get seven hours of sleep requires a 9 p.m. bedtime. So I went to sleep last night hoping I might wake up to learn that when all the votes were counted, Martha had pulled off a victory. But the email I opened this morning from my friend, Jeanne, referencing my candidate’s concession speech, was sent at 9:35 p.m. last night.

Except for the snafu that prevented my husband from casting his vote yesterday, we are fortunate to live in a nation where free and open elections are taken for granted. We settle our differences at the polls and in the courts, not with bloodshed.

As the editorial in today’s Boston Globe puts it, Scott Brown is now our U.S. Senator, and we owe him support. Still, I can’t help thinking back to November 2000, when Al Gore lost to George W. Bush.

Dennis and I were in our room at the Hotel Arts in Barcelona, getting ready to go to breakfast. My husband, who usually yells at the television only during Red Sox or Patriot games, could be heard yelling: “You jerk, you could have won!” 

Indulging My Inner Foodie

By the time this is posted, I will be back to my routine of going to the gym five days a week, and living in a home devoid of chocolate or ice cream. There might be a few mandarin orange sorbet bars in the freezer from when my son-in-law Etan, allergic to milk, visited last month. I hope Dennis has eaten them while Daphne and I were in Paris.

Hold the crying towel. Dennis is likely to indulge me in our weekly ritual when I return home. With La Morra Brookline as our neighborhood bistro, we will likely dine on a beet, green apple, and goat cheese salad, and a half portion of Bolognese tagliatelle.

If I’ve gained weight on the trip to Paris, I’ll end the meal with sorbet. If not, I’ll go for the warm apple crostata with homemade honey ice cream.

The first half of today permitted me one last fling as a gourmand. Descending to the charming little brick-walled breakfast area in the basement of our hotel in the Marais, Daphne and I feasted on crusty baguettes and flaky croissants. My daughter can’t resist the French jam, which she’s capable of eating with a spoon, directly out of the little jars.

Never have we eaten better food. From perfectly gratineed onion soup to superb smoked salmon and blini -- to sorbets evoking the taste of lusciously ripe fresh fruit, along with tartes tartin topped with ice cream -- the food has been too tempting to pass up.

A conservative estimate of our daily calorie consumption would be 3000 calories each. Yes, Daphne and I walked many miles most days, and used stairs whenever possible. Still I fear that we consumed more than we burned.

Arriving at Charles De Gaulle for our flight home, Daphne is sad to see her jar of apricot jam confiscated by security. Troubled more by the thought of something so mouth-watering going to waste than her own deprivation, she urges the guard to try the jam – eliciting a shake of the head but also a smile.

Inside my bag is a small box of truffles I’ve purchased for Dennis at the Maison du Chocolat inside a department store, along with a silk necktie. Inside Daphne’s bag is a box of jam samplers from Hediard’s – small enough to pass the test for liquids. The plan is to split them when we get home.

With 20 Euros left, and regrettably no plans to return to Europe any time in the immediate future, I wander the airport in search of something to buy. Daphne is seated in the boarding area guarding the luggage.

Remembering that first trip to Paris more than 25 years ago when my daughter ate little but sorbet, I feel the urge to provide her with a few final treats. Thankfully I see an airport outpost of Maison du Chocolat. I return to the boarding area with little cups of raspberry sorbet and pistachio ice cream – along with a bar of milk chocolate studded with hazel nuts.

Daphne smiles so broadly that for a moment, I feel like a very young mom with a six year old in tow.  

Paris 2010

(PARIS) – Assuming things are back to normal after a mini-strike leaving numerous travelers stranded at Charles De Gaulle Airport, Daphne and I will be returning to Boston tomorrow afternoon -- back in time to join Dennis for dinner. Paris is even more wonderful than it was 25 years ago – when my first grader and I, hands tightly clasped, boarded the RER each morning in a Paris suburb before transferring to the Metro.

We would then spend an entire day searching for all the obligatory monuments, museums, and eateries. Those were the days of favorable exchange rates, and Daphne and I also spent a lot of time in stores selling expensive shoes and leather purses. As my map reading skills are limited, and I never took French in school, it sometimes proved difficult to get directions back in the early ‘80’s.

Now a very self-reliant young woman, Daphne speaks some French, and prefers figuring things out for herself – despite the fact that Parisians we have approached for directions could not have been more helpful. One woman who gave us directions to a local department store apologized for knowing “just a little” English.

Rather than feeling anxiety, I now realize that getting lost or encountering curve balls is just part of one grand adventure. Emerging from the metro at the famous Pere Lachaise cemetery -- where Daphne and I had hoped to see the graves and elaborate tombstones for centuries of celebrities -- we are permitted no further than the gate.

The cobblestone paths are coated with ice, and two securities guards ignore our pleas that we will be fine with our boots. An elderly woman – perhaps a grieving widow hoping to visit her husband’s grave – takes issue with the guards, also to no avail. Daphne translates for me. One of the guards is telling the woman that if she slipped and fell on the ice, she would have to be taken to the hospital.

The neighborhood surrounding Pere Lachaise has florists selling floral displays in the shape of crosses, and shops where head stones can be ordered. Seeing three people walking toward the gates of the cemetery with flowers wrapped in paper, I feel sad. Perhaps it’s the anniversary of a loved one’s death, and yet they, too, will be forbidden entry.

Fortunately, Daphne has read the Guide Michelin, and planned for us to see the charming homes of La Campagne a Paris, just a short walk from the cemetery. Originally built for the working class, these town houses are probably frighteningly expensive today. The door of one home is decorated with a wreath made of Granny Smith apples, and we stop to snap photos.

My daughter is pleased to be taken to A Priori The in the Galerie Vivienne for delicious brewed mint tea and a tart made of raspberries and almond paste. But she is now our official tour guide, and I’m relieved to experience this role reversal.

We embark for a nighttime walk to the Eiffel Tour – not withstanding the fact that I’m usually in bed by 9, and generally dislike going out at night. Daphne insists it’s best to photograph the tower when it’s lit up. She says that if we stick around, we can see a spectacular light show.

There was no Internet on our first trip to Paris, and certainly no Web 2.0. Now Daphne and I spend a certain portion of each day in the lobby of the WiFi zone of the Hotel Castex. We are communicating with her husband, Etan, via Skype and Facebook, and he insists that we are making a big mistake if we don’t go to Versailles.

I tell him we spent hours inside Versailles’ Hall of Mirrors back in the ‘80’s. My response doesn’t satisfy Etan, who fell in love with the gardens last November. Yesterday was snowing, and after a bit of slipping and sliding as we walked to the Chateau from the RER station, we arrived to see the gardens covered in snow.

Yes, some of the sculptures were wrapped in green canvas for the winter. But I don’t think we’ve ever seen anything more beautiful. We walked the gardens for a few hours, returning to Paris only after Daphne said her feet were frozen.

Via Facebook, we have also gotten suggestions from one of my rowing friends, Patrice. Now living in Northern California, he happens to be traveling through France at the same time we are, and suggests we not go home without sampling the candied chestnut ice cream at Berthillon on the Ile-Saint Louis. Opting for three scoops, I also get a rich chocolate laced with fresh orange, and salted caramel.

Daphne, seemingly disciplined enough to stick with fresh fruit sorbet, insists that I try the cherry, along with the pineapple, and lime. Her resolve weakens after tasting the candied chestnut ice cream, and she asks if we order a third dish. Maybe after a visit to the Maison Europeenne De La Photographie.

Dennis has assured us, via Facebook, not to worry about overindulging. We can walk off the calories. From his lips to G-d’s ears!

        

Paris in January

Daphne and I arrived in Paris just two days ago. My daughter developed a love for this city starting at age six. She and I tagged along on business trips with her dad in March of ’82, and April of ’83 and ’84. Daphne’s been back to Paris a number of times, including as recently as November of ’09 with her husband, Etan.

But for me it’s my first trip back in 26 years. And I’m relieved to say that aside from seeing more Parisian women in down coats than fur, lots of young people with iPhones, fewer smokers, and cleaner sidewalks, not much has changed. The city is still a perfect blend of old, magnificent architecture and beautiful new components – at least new for me – such as the Louvre’s I.M. Pei glass pyramids and the Musee d’Orsay, a renovated railroad station with glorious Impressionist paintings.

At Daphne’s insistence, we took just one small suitcase each, with an eye toward using public transportation to get from the airport to the Hotel Castex in the Marais. A heavy laptop bag slung across my body, I insisted that we use elevators and escalators as much as possible. But there were a lot of stairs involved, and even in a Metro station where I spied an elevator, I knew enough French to understand an out-of-order sign.

I thought back to Boston’s MBTA, and the multi-million settlement reached a few years go on behalf of physically handicapped travelers seeking access. Hoping the comparison doesn’t sound gauche, I’d like to tell those grumbling about the expense to try carrying even a small suitcase up and down steep flights of stairs.

When we arrived at our hotel, a desk clerk asked if we wanted a shuttle service on the day of our return back to the airport. For a mere 34 Euros, I could not have been more grateful to learn about a service that will pick us right in front of our hotel.

According to the guidebooks, it almost never snows in Paris. There was snow on the ground when we arrived, and it snowed yesterday. I’ve experienced chilling downpours in March, and sunshine and temperatures warm enough for sunbathing in the Luxembourg Gardens in April. I’m excited to see roofs crusted with snow.

English speaking, friendly and helpful, another desk clerk responds with solicitude to Daphne's inquiry about the weather. After going online, he reports that tomorrow will especially cold. With a back and forth motion of his hand, he tries to caution us against icy sidewalks. We explain that’s not an anomaly in Boston.

He offers us an umbrella to shield our heads from the snow. We decline, motioning to the fur-trimmed hoods on our down coats. My decision to wear my La Canadienne boots on the plane has paid off. Thankfully my Floridian daughter packed a pair of Texas boots she’d picked up while doing a story about ranchers.

Paris has been unusually cold, and I can’t help noticing what would be an anomaly for Boston, travel agencies with posters of exotic vacations in warm places, and travel bureaus dedicated to specific locales like New Caledonia and Tunisia. Despite reports on business pages about the demise of Club Med, the posters showing well tanned, blond French children at Club Med resorts would suggest otherwise.

Last November, when I first asked Daphne if she’d be interested in a mother-daughter vacation, I offered two alternatives, Paris or something tropical like Mexico or Barbados. She insisted that nothing could rival Paris – with its spectacular museums, food, and wine.

Not to mention world-class walks along the Seine, where happily the paths have been sanded. I’ve always been drawn to its bridges, and can’t decide whether the Charles makes me nostalgic for the Seine or vice versa. Daphne was right.

House Hunting & Parental Back Seat Driving

Daphne and Etan spent the weekend house hunting in Atlanta. I spent the weekend here in Boston – trying very hard to be a model parent. With a lot of support from Dennis, the father of three grown children, I did my best to refrain from the back seat driving that can undermine the self-confidence of even the most self-reliant adult child.

My own father’s unsolicited comment, “I hope you didn’t overpay,” uttered in 1976 when Daphne’s dad and I bought our first home, still stings. My parents, living in New York at the time, had no frame of reference other than the brick row house they had purchased in Queens. 

Happy that I had snagged a home in Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts for $56,750, I could feel the air hissing out of my balloon after a telephone conversation with my father. He couldn’t understand why I would accept a wood structure, which he considered a fire hazard.

Though I know real estate has taken a hit in this recession, and the cost of living in Atlanta is lower than in the Northeast, I know little else. So when Daphne told me she and Etan have friends in East Atlanta, an up and coming area, and saw some renovated properties that could be promising, I said, “Go for it.”

My daughter was pleasantly surprised that I would support her decision to explore homes in a part of Atlanta that I imagine has more in common with Boston’s South End of the early 1970’s or Dorchester, MA today than Chestnut Hill. I felt proud that she and Etan, both journalists earning modest salaries, had managed to save enough for a down payment on a home.

If I told you I kept my mouth completely shut, as Dennis urged, I’d be lying. After my Google search of the area turned up an article about housebreaks leading to the loss of flat screen TV’s in East Atlanta, I e-mailed my daughter the link. She responded well, acknowledging the importance of taking certain crime prevention measures.

But I crossed the line when I sent Daphne the Zillow link to a particular home. The only reason I had the address was that she had e-mailed me pics of some properties she had seen with a buyer’s agent. 

Daphne’s response demonstrated courtesy and maturity: “Thanks. Etan had the Zillow app on his iPhone, so we looked up all the homes while we were touring.” I’ve been put in my place, and I deserved it.

            

Counting My Blessings

An Open Letter to My First Husband, Jerry

Dearest Jerry,

It’s the third day of the New Year, and in just three more days, I will light a yahrtzeit candle marking the 20^th anniversary of your death. To become a widow at 39 was a watershed mark in my life. Losing you was profoundly painful for Daphne and me – hoping and praying you’d get better in time for her Bat Mitzvah.

Even a loss can come with gifts. You gave your daughter and me the tools to become supremely self-reliant, and most importantly, the ability to discern what really matters. In that spirit, I want you to know that Daphne and I, now living in different cities, are happy and healthy, celebrating life at its fullest:

(1)  Daphne and Etan, now married more than one year, will be leaving Orlando, where they fell in love writing for the same newspaper, and relocating to Atlanta. Etan will be joining CNN International as a digital media producer. Your daughter inherited your brains, looks, and networking skills, so I’m confident that despite the economy she will find a great new job.

(2)  Dennis and I will be celebrating our 10^th wedding anniversary in March. You were a psychiatrist who especially enjoyed working with artists, so I know you’d appreciate his dual degrees in painting and drawing and law. Both his skills sets come in really handy. Our condo is filled with beautiful paintings, and Dennis is great when I have legal questions regarding the condo. Daphne and Etan gave him a very loving Chanukah present, a gift certificate to Jerry’s Artarama.

(3)  Ken and Evelyn came over for brunch on New Year’s Day, along with some neighbors from Beverly Road who happen to be clients of Dennis. Evelyn brought over a big platter of cookies. (The little pieces of zucchini bread evoked memories of the days when you and I would give Evelyn jars of Crabtree & Evelyn raspberry jam as a token of our appreciation for all the yummy baked goods she gave us.) Afterwards, Evelyn and I retired to the den to do some serious online research on the status of certain people we know, while Dennis and Ken continued their conversation in the dining room.

(4)  Despite my dream the other night that my boat rack at the rowing club had been taken away for no discernible reason, I look forward to getting out on the Charles as soon as the river thaws. I went over to the boathouse for a meeting yesterday, and catching up with the friends I see on the dock at 5:30 a.m. in warmer months felt like old home week. The rowing club was my salvation after your death, and I want you to know that the plaque commemorating gifts for the most recent boathouse renovation has a line saying “in loving memory of Jerry Sashin.”

(5)  As a psychoanalyst, you will no doubt be intrigued by another dream in which I make a horrible discovery. Unbeknownst to me, a medication I’ve been taking contains cortisone. When I look down I see the cortisone has caused an unsightly midriff roll. I feel lucky to report that I’m still 125 pounds, thanks to lots of rowing in the summer, spinning in the winter, and weight training in all seasons. I feel lucky enough to be able to say that you and Dennis would love me even if I did have a midriff roll. But I don’t.