A Warm ATL Welcome

(Photo Courtesy of Wikipedia)

Growing up in New York, we saw my father’s parents every weekend. An only child, Dad also saw his parents solo at least a few times during the week. If we didn’t trek down to the Lower East Side on Saturdays, they came to Queens on Sundays. Though I enjoyed spending time with a Grandma who came bearing chocolate and raisin Chunkies, and a Grandpa who handed out quarters, I don’t think Dad had any input into the timing or duration of their visits.

Some Sundays, Mom could be heard muttering under her breath about her in-laws arriving earlier than she’d wanted them to. It was the pre-dishwasher era, and my grandmother, so unnerved by the sight of dishes in the kitchen sink, would begin washing them. No doubt mom would have preferred that Grandma stay in the living room.

As of this writing, I’m headed back to Boston from Atlanta -- following a fun, but all too brief, visit with Daphne and Etan that began on Friday night and ended early Sunday afternoon. I will connect with my son-in-law at the South by Southwest Interactive conference in Austin in less than two weeks. A digital media maven, he has promised to walk me through the schedule before I go, just to make sure I select the best out of what seems like hundreds of workshops.

Like Dad, Daphne is an only child. So I want to believe I’m sensitive to the perils of turning into a high maintenance mom and mother-in-law. As it happens, the earthquake in Chile required that Etan head into work at CNN International early Saturday morning -- scotching his plans to join us for breakfast at the Flying Biscuit near Piedmont Park, and providing us with time for a little mom-daughter outing.

With blue skies and cool crisp weather, I asked Daphne if we could explore her new neighborhood, East Atlanta, with a four-mile run. My heart rate monitor reflected a terrain of rolling hills, providing some assurance that we were burning calories – anticipating a weekend of Southern restaurant cooking.

After a quick shower in the plush carpeted parents/in-law suite the kids have in the basement of their new home, Daphne and I stopped at Joe’s, a wonderful, independent coffee house within walking distance – just to fortify ourselves for what we knew would be at least a half hour wait for a table at the Flying Biscuit.

I needed to see all the places the kids might visit in the course of a week -- mostly to assure myself they’re happy in their new environs, but also to be able to visualize how they’re living. Daphne and I strolled through Piedmont Park, where we looked at the Noguchi Play space she and I last visited when she was a toddler. I got a kick out of seeing seesaws with rubber tires bolted to the underside of the wood planks to ensure soft landings.

Saddened by the tragedy in Chile, I still looked forward to getting the back story about what a digital media producer does when a breaking news event like that occurs. That would come with our tour of CNN late Saturday afternoon, and during the course of dinner at a packed dive bar cum Southern seafood restaurant called Six Feet Under.

Sunday morning, before heading to Ria’s Bluebird for buttermilk pancakes with caramelized bananas and hot maple syrup, I got to see some of the news segments Etan has helped produce since starting his new job – all lovingly recorded on Tivo by Daphne. The kids suggested that I return to Atlanta in April for the Dogwood Festival at Piedmont Park.

Etan’s parents are planning to visit the kids for the first Passover Seder in late March. Daphne is delighted about the prospect of Etan’s mom, Janice, helping her plant flowers along the walkway leading up to the entrance of their new house.

I think Janice and are both determined to be model moms/moms-in-law. With the kids living far away, it’s important to make the visits fun and memorable.

House Guests

This particular Courtyard by Marriott radio ad hasn’t run for while, but I loved it because it dealt with that perennially sticky issue of house guests. It went like this: An entire extended family is staying in a house with one bathroom. A really irritating male relative takes it upon himself to schedule a shower time for every guest, starting with Aunt Martha. He warns that anybody violating the rules will be required to shower with the garden house. 

Flash back to 1972. My first husband, Jerry, and I – transplanted to Boston – often stayed with his parents at their home in Roslyn when we returned to New York. Assigned to sleep in his tiny childhood room with two twin beds perpendicular to each other, we would joke about having gotten the presidential suite.

Both middle children, it wasn’t lost on us that his older brother and his wife got to stay in a wing of the house that once served as a grandma apartment, and had its own bathroom. Jerry and I would grumble to each other about staying in a hotel the next time, but I don’t think we ever did.

My mother-in-law, Pearl, was a relaxed hostess, and if she was anything less than happy about our showing up for a few days, she never showed it. Though she would often guilt Jerry about visiting other relatives in the area, I don’t think he took her demands too seriously.  

I would be the first to admit that I’m anything but a relaxed hostess, despite my best efforts to change or at least pretend I’ve changed. Pearl’s visits to Boston sometimes coincided with Passover. We were living in a vast apartment in Brookline at the time, and without consulting me, she began giving her sister the grand tour, leaving a trail of matzo crumbs on the hardwood floors. Poor Jerry got an earful about what I considered an egregious breach of houseguest etiquette.

Years after Jerry died, I began dating a widower named Dennis, who’s now my husband. After his first wife died, Dennis always had a house full of guests. He joked about his house being a hotel, with him playing the role of concierge. My “new” husband is not one to worry about things like particles on the floor.

Dennis does cherish his privacy, which is why any time we have visited his grown children in New York or Chicago, we’ve stayed in a hotel. Similarly when in the past we went down to Florida to see my daughter and son-in-law, Daphne and Etan, we have booked a hotel room.

In addition to enjoying poolside chaise lounges and a gym, I’ve gotten to behave like a slob – tossing wet towels on the floor, just so that housekeeping knows I’m not going to be “green” and re-use them. I can also feel that I’m not doing anything to irritate the kids.

This weekend will be a first. Daphne and Etan have moved to Atlanta, and purchased their first home several weeks ago. With three bedrooms and three bathrooms, they have insisted that I stay in their home.

Knowing that they have stayed in our condo in Boston – putting up with my no shoes, beach sand or crumbs on the hardwood floors rule – I feel a little anxious about how Daphne and Etan will evaluate my performance as a houseguest. Of course I promise to re-use whatever towels they give me and spray the anti-mildew stuff on the shower after each use.

Should I ask Daphne and Etan to provide me with house rules? Oh, dear, am I starting to sound like that obnoxious relative in the Courtyard by Marriott ad?

No Thank You, OMNI-Carb

This is the second time I’ve received the OMNI-Carb brochure from Brigham & Women’s Hospital that says “Come Dine With Us. . .” I have some reservations about agreeing to eat one meal at BWH five days a week while participating in a 21 week research project – even if helps wipe out killer diseases.

Still, intrigued by the opportunity to receive “up to $1500 for completing the study,” and “meals and snacks for 21 weeks at no cost,” I went online to get more information. Apparently OMNI-Carb stands for Optimal Macronutrient Intake for

Carbohydrate. The point of the study is not to help participants to lose weight, but to determine which of four different diets is most likely to reduce the risk factors leading to diabetes and heart disease.

At first I thought I could meet the eligibility requirements. I’m not taking medication for blood pressure, cholesterol or diabetes. I’m over 30 and have normal blood pressure. I suppose if there were enough of an incentive, I could change my eating habits for 21 weeks.  But here’s the catch. . . Participants need to have a BMI (Body Mass Index) of 25 or more, which I think means overweight.

Every time I’ve inquired about the weight loss programs advertised on posters outside the office of my primary care physician in a BWH practice, my doctor, Suzy, always laughs. She’s often expressed concern not about my overindulging in food, but about my overdoing the exercise.

The only time I’ve come close to “dining” with the good folks at BWH is going into the Au Bon Pain there in search of coffee before my appointments with the orthopedist who’s treating me for wrist tendonitis, most likely the consequence of poor form during my spinning classes at the gym. Though the most recent cortisone shot coupled with a really uncomfortable wrist splint seems not to have made any difference in the pain, I want to believe the wrist will be healed in time for the rowing season, which could come as early as March.

But let’s pretend. Imagine I did have that BMI of 25 or more, how would I fare in the study? With an early a.m. exercise schedule followed by a full day at work, I’d most likely need to eat dinners at BWH five days a week.

Start with the desserts, because that’s where I like to start. I’m not sure if one gets a choice, but these are the “desserts/snacks” offered in the OMNI-Carb study: Water Crackers, Peppermint Patty,Twix Candy,Unsalted Pretzels,Dove Chocolate Minis, Jelly Beans, Peppermints, Vanilla Wafers, Angel Food Cake, and Caramel Rice Cake.

The jelly beans sound o.k. but I suspect portion control would rule the day, with perhaps a cherry, licorice, pineapple, orange, and lime but nothing more. The study hasn’t even begun and I’m thinking about going to bed feeling hungry and deprived.

Not on the list are those little packets of whole wheat fruit Newtons at a mere 130 calories or the Dulce de Leche Luna energy bars at 180. Nor do I even see sorbet, my dessert of choice when I’m dieting. Of course when I’m not dieting, my weekend treat is some sort of warm fruit in puff pastry concoction with a small scoop of ice cream.

As for sources of nutrition, the study seems to require the consumption of foods I consider less than mouth-watering. Granted I’m not fussy enough to cause me to be a “problem guest,” but I don’t eat eggs, egg beaters or cod. Ham turkey sounds unappetizing enough to make me feel that I was working really hard for the “up to $1500.”

Unlike Patti Blagojevich, who reportedly ate a spider just for the money, I guess I’d be a lousy reality show contestant. OMNI-Carb, please remove me from your mailing list!

Mom Blogging & February Vacation

Photo Credit: Go Caribbean

Tell me we need yet another mom blogger! Daphne -- now all grown, married and living in Atlanta -- has requested that I pen more posts about my days as a young mother. Though I’ve largely resisted that suggestion, I can’t resist talking about February school vacation, unfolding right as we speak.

For the record, I’m working this week, with no worries about childcare. But be assured I can empathize with my younger colleagues who have scrambled to make arrangements.

Flash back to February 1985. With Daphne having started third grade the previous September, I abandoned my career as free-lance journalist -- with flexible hours and lots of work at home time -- for a full-time gig as a public affairs officer at an environmental regulatory agency based in downtown Boston.

With plans for a trip to Paris in place before I’d started the job, I’d been able to negotiate three weeks of unpaid leave in April – handily covering my daughter’s spring break. Her dad and I even had our summertime childcare arrangements in place, signing her up for eight weeks at a lovely overnight camp on Lake Winnipesaukee.

I may have taken Christmas week off to be with Daphne, perhaps taking her to visit grandparents in New York for part of the time. But February was a problem. The best option I could think of was the vacation week program at the Jewish Community Center – filled with gym activities and a few museum outings.

Daphne balked at the idea, and I was riddled with guilt at the prospect of my little darling spending her school vacation in what was frankly an institutional setting. While other working parents were lobbying the Brookline School Committee to eliminate this particular week off, I took a more pragmatic approach.

My daughter had wanted a pair of expensive Guess overalls, all the rage among Brookline third graders at the time. We ran out to the Chestnut Hill Mall and made the purchase. But the deal was Daphne couldn’t wear the overalls until she completed the JCC vacation program.

Curious about the origins of this particular week off, which didn’t exist when I went to school, I did an online search, and found a story in the Albany News-Tribune citing the energy crisis of the ‘70’s, when schools in the Northeast closed to save on fuel costs. Citing the hardship for parents, the article also seeks balance, quoting sources from the travel industry and a teacher’s union.

Recently I heard my stepson, Jeremy, lamenting the high price of airfare for a trip to Disneyworld during school vacation week. “Suck it up,” I said jokingly, having paid through the nose during all those years when trips functioned partly as family vacations and partly to alleviate the hassle of childcare arrangements.

Still, I have to admit that we avoided places like Disneyworld or any venue that was likely to be especially mobbed during a school vacation week. Next time I speak with Daphne, I’ll have to ask her if she remembers the fights over beach chairs at Barbados Beach Village during February vacation week.

Eulogy for a Rower

(Photo credit: Row2k.com)

For the past several weeks I’ve dreaded receiving an email from my rowing club with “Alan Fischer” in the subject line. It was six years ago that he had been diagnosed with cancer. I don’t think Alan had even turned fifty when he got the news.

But somehow I hoped this wonderfully smart, kind, athletic and thoroughly decent man would beat his illness. Out of respect for his privacy, I never sent him a note or told him that he was in my thoughts and prayers.

More than a year after Alan had been diagnosed, I admired his courage -- learning that he had been rowing with a chemo pack on his back. I also worried because I knew this meant his cancer was not yet under control.

Last fall brought bittersweet scenes of Alan out on the Charles. Two of his dear friends and rowing partners, Larry and Allison, were out in a canoe on late Sunday afternoons. As I passed them in my rowing shell, I noticed a man in a life jacket sitting in the middle seat. I assumed he was the parent of one of them.

When they shouted across the river to announce Alan with was with them, I was stunned. Having lived through my first husband’s bout with cancer, and seen how the disease accelerates the aging process, I didn’t want to believe that Alan might be in the autumn of his life. On the other hand, knowing how much he loved the Charles, I was glad that he could see it at its most beautiful – mirroring red, orange and yellow leaves.

In late December, I was at a meeting at the boathouse. Telephone research assignments were handed out, and I volunteered to call Alan.

He had been given between two weeks and two months to live. Because of the complexity of his medical needs, he could no longer be at home with his family, and was in a palliative care facility.

When I reached Alan on his cell phone, we had a warm conversation that would have given me no indication how ill he was – except that he used the word “precarious” when referencing his condition. We spoke for a few minutes on how things were going on the club’s board, and what suggestions he had for people willing to commit time to the club.

Ostensibly I called Alan on official rowing club business. But my real reason for volunteering to make the call was that I wanted to thank him for having been so kind to me over the years.

In typical Alan fashion, he had no recollection of three really sweet deeds I remember in vivid detail:

(1) The boathouse, under construction to add more boat bays, was jacked up on temporary supports. Overhearing my lament that I wished I could row with my own oars – instead of the club oars that were too big for my hands – Alan offered to climb up a ladder on the side of the building to retrieve them. He had such a nice way about him that a member of the construction crew put up a ramp to make Alan’s task easier.

(2) One day Alan asked me how I liked the new electronic logbook. Presumably he had been part of the group designing a state of the art system for determining how many miles each rower logged, and which boats were being used. I responded that I had never used a laptop, which was part of the new system. The next time I came down to row, Alan had added a mouse to the laptop, making it user-friendly for people like me.

(3) It was race day for the Head of the Charles Regatta, but I suspected that Alan wasn’t feeling well enough to race. Despite a torrential downpour, he was working the dock. Sensing my nervousness as I launched, Alan instructed me to fold the paper cup I had for bailing and wedge it between my seat and the side of my boat. The epitome of kindness and patience, he offered to steady my boat for as long as it took me to get myself comfortable.

Alan died earlier this week, and a lot of us have been hit hard by this loss. Still I’ll try to remember what he told me when last we spoke – that having been blessed with such a loving wife and two terrific daughters he could say that life had been good to him. Though this is a very difficult time for them, I hope life ultimately allows them to savor the memories, and feel lucky for having had him as husband and father. 

Virtual Daphne and Web 2.0

Last night I had a dream. Strewn on the floor of our living room were dozens of large brown envelopes containing grad school acceptance packets for my daughter. Daphne was leaning toward the University of Michigan and I was doing my best to steer her to Columbia – an easy drive from Boston for a weekend visit.

The reality is that Daphne graduated from Columbia Journalism School in 2002, and hasn't lived with me since going off to college. After working in Virginia and Florida, she moved to Atlanta last week to join her husband, Etan Horowitz.

Daphne reported her own dream shortly after this latest move. Struck and killed by a bus, she was beside herself knowing how grief-stricken I’d be when I got the call from the police.

I’ll admit it. I’d assumed that when Daphne and Etan bought a home, it would be closer to Boston. At the same time I’m a parent who firmly believes you’ve got to “follow the job,” and have always stressed self-reliance.

When Etan got a great offer at CNN International, I assured Daphne I supported her decision to give her notice at the Orlando Sentinel, follow her husband to Atlanta, and look for a new job. It was my vote of confidence in her career prospects despite a lousy economy, and a key indicator of my love and approval of my son-in-law.

Still it’s driving me nuts that except for pics in Facebook and a link to the real estate listing, I haven’t seen the home they bought. I know it’s in an eclectic neighborhood just three miles from downtown Atlanta, and has a modern kitchen. 

It’s not that Dennis and I haven’t been invited. A series of professional and extra-curricular commitments will prevent us from visiting much before late March or April. Though I’ve been available for consultations on what type of washer/dryer to buy, where to purchase area rugs, and which alarm company sounds better, I make it a point of not calling so often that my daughter will label me a helicopter parent.

So I’m living vicariously through new media, supplemented by text messaging. Through Facebook I know that she and Etan hosted a Super Bowl party at their new home for some new friends on Sunday. A pic portrayed Daphne with her trademark smile showing off the cupcakes she baked for the occasion. I’m dying to know the specifics of who attended, but asking might peg me as nosey.

I follow Tweets from both Daphne and Etan that tell me what they’re doing. And should I feel a need to pinpoint the exact locales of restaurants and other venues they visit, and vice versa, we all installed the Foursquare application on our iPhones.

But my favorite is ATL Animals, Daphne’s brand new blog. Having experienced a childhood with a large collection of stuffed animals, numerous trips to Drumlin Farm in Lincoln, MA, but no pets, she has long had a gift for writing about animals as though they were people.

On her second day in her new home base, she got inside the Fedex hangar at Hartsfield International Airport to witness Mei Lan, the first giant panda cub born at Zoo Atlanta, being deployed to a breeding center to bolster endangered species in China. Daphne’s blog post provided me with sweet details about Mei Lan’s traveling companions, including a cousin, Tai Shan, born at the National Zoo. It also told me that all giant pandas in this country are considered to be on loan from the Chinese government.

It was Daphne’s follow-up post that hit me hard. She interviewed Dr. Rebecca Snyder, a vet from Zoo Atlanta, to find out how Mei Lan’s parents, Lun Lun and Yang Yang, were faring amid their daughter’s move to China.

Like my daughter, Mei Lan had been “living independently” at the time of her move. Unlike me, Mei Lan’s parents do not seem to be experiencing empty next syndrome.

Recently I received a call from a Facebook friend and professional colleague. He’d seen my post about Daphne’s move and very kindly offered to put my daughter in touch with his son, a communications professional in Atlanta who might have ideas about job opportunities.

I was very touched by his offer, but also by his efforts to assure me that Atlanta is a nice city with everything one would expect in a sophisticated metropolitan area – though different from the New York of his youth and my youth – and that Daphne will be just fine.

Once I get to see Daphne “in real life” or “IRL” as they say on Twitter, I should be o.k.  Of course new media is about two-way conversations. But I’ll admit to using it the same way psychologists use one-way mirrors to observe young children at play. 

6 Things I Love About My Husband

Dear Dennis:

I’ve got a few handmade Valentine’s from Papyrus and the Museum of Fine Arts gift shop that I’ll soon be mailing to you both at home and work. We came into each other’s lives as widow and widower introduced at the gym by your friend and periodontist, Steve, back in 1995. I haven’t yet figured out how we should celebrate our upcoming 10th anniversary in March.

But in the meantime, I thought I’d share with you the six things I love best about you:

(1)  Your aesthetic sensibility requires that you make our bed every morning – with the comforter turned back to show its reverse pattern, and all the pillows and pillow shams arranged just so. Yes, that requires that you wake me up on Sunday mornings – even if I might prefer to sleep in for another hour – because you can’t bear to return home from your studio to see an unmade bed.

(2)  You have impeccable taste. Even though I know you would have preferred to stay home last night, you were a good sport about accompanying me to the Coach store at the Chestnut Mall. Of course I’m capable of selecting my own purse. But I felt a lot more confident in my purchase knowing that you identified the one I too thought was most stylish. You then teased me about adding another “schlepper,” or oversized shoulder bag to my collection.

(3)  You have an essential spirit of optimism buttressed by sound practical judgment. Yes, I was a basket case when one week passed and the house in Chestnut Hill hadn’t sold yet. That was in the summer of 2006, right after the real estate market began tanking. But you insisted that no matter how slow the market, there were buyers in need of homes. Your law partner represented me when the house went under agreement some four months later. You were left to do all the handholding with your firm’s most demanding client – telling me as often as I needed to hear it that the deal would go through, but that every deal has details needing to get ironed out.

(4)  You love beautiful things. Even before the closings on the house and the condo we selected in Brookline, you were busy measuring and sketching out designs for each room of our new home. When you began going around with fabric swatches in your pocket, and told me you had ordered window treatments for the many large windows, and also the sofa and chairs I’d admired at Circle Furniture, I got worried. You laughed, saying that even if the deal on the house fell through, the new home furnishings were going to look great.

(5)  You put family first and foremost. Your three children, their spouses, and your three grandchildren are the loves of your lives. You are also a very loving step-dad. Never will I forget the time you insisted I take the day off and go down to New York for lunch with my then college age daughter, who seemed in need of motherly love and attention. When Daphne told her then boy friend, Etan, to call her step-dad in Boston, she knew you’d stop whatever you were doing for paying clients to coach him through getting a security deposit back.

(6)  You cherish your independence as much as I do mine. One of your dearest friends enjoys reading books about relationships and observed that you and I represent the “companionship” model. I think he meant that while we spend plenty of time together, we also have interests of our own requiring significant chunks of time spent alone. My relationship with my first husband, Jerry, was similar in that regard, and I suspect your relationship with your first wife, Fran, gave each of you lots of space. You’re just as supportive of the time I spend rowing as I am of your time painting in your studio. But I love to hear the key turn in the lock, indicating you’ve come home.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Love,xxxxxxBonnie

If I Couldn't Live in Boston. . .

Photo Credit:  Landscape Online

Last week Daphne and Etan became homeowners. The home is what realtors in Atlanta call a 3-3, meaning 3 bedrooms and 3 bathrooms, and it’s a craftsman style bungalow. I’m happy for my daughter and her husband, and sent them an early Valentine with a little gift inside as a symbol of my love and support.

Dennis and I won’t visit just yet, as I think the kids need time and space to adjust to their new lives. Since going off to college, Daphne has lived in St. Louis, different sections of Manhattan and Queens, Williamsburg, VA, and Orlando. More than two weeks ago, she gave her notice at the Orlando Sentinel, and will now be exploring new opportunities in Atlanta. Etan has already settled in to a job he loves at CNN International.

I’ve always believed that whom you’re with matters more than where you are. Still, surrounded by my husband’s oil paintings and some large, framed photographs I’ve taken in the course of my travels, I notice that most of them depict people surrounded by water. Casting aside any of those elements considered when magazine polls report best places to live, such as taxes, cost of housing, heat or air-conditioning, I offer my own selections if I couldn’t live in Boston:

• Philadelphia boasts Boathouse Row, the Schuylkill River, and the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Call me a bobo if you must. But the last time I was there, I took great pleasure in getting coffee and a scone at a wonderful bakery on Rittenhouse Square after I ran each morning. The historic buildings and row houses remind me of Boston. Philadelphia also happens to be conveniently close to one of my favorite vacation spots, Cape May.
• Though I make no pretense of following the Texas Longhorns, I have great affection for Austin. Lady Bird Lake, a prime rowing venue, also provides superb running trails. The Four Seasons Hotel offers sun-dried tomato scones with creamy butter, and lunch is available on a patio overlooking the lake. Though this last note may strike you as just too bobo, I can’t help noting that the Whole Foods in downtown Austin – with its wine section, nut-roasting bars and enormous bakery – makes other Whole Foods stores seem deficient.
• Despite winter weather equally brutal to that of Boston, Chicago offers a superior public transportation system. The running path along Lake Michigan -- with its charming urban beaches -- reminds me a bit of Barcelona without the flashers. I’m a big fan of Second City and Jilly’s Piano Bar. Thank goodness the Chicago Jazz Showcase, where I got to hear Scott Hamilton and the legendary David “Fathead” Newman, has found a new home. The Magnificent Mile is my venue of choice for significant clothing purchases. 
• Only 2.5 hours away from my other beloved vacation spot, the Outer Banks, Williamsburg, VA sounds like an odd choice for a woman who claims to be so enamored of urban life. Maybe I’m nostalgic for this place because I think it’s where Daphne grew up in so many ways – knowing not a soul when she first moved there, but ending up playing on a women’s tennis league and getting involved in the life of the community. Like the above three choices, it’s a visually beautiful university town, and it reflects a sense of history. 

 When Daphne and I were in Paris, she asked if it would be o.k. to move me close to where she and Etan live if I reached a point in life where I couldn’t take care of myself. I’ve been to the High Museum and the Alliance Theatre. But among the things I like best about Atlanta are Mid City Kitchen, the Noguchi Playground at Piedmont Park, and the prospect of getting a personal tour of CNN from Etan – followed by an introduction to the city’s jazz scene.