Chicken Soup

I made chicken soup this morning. It seemed like the only rational response to yesterday’s event.

I’ve learned, during my 42+ years as a wife, and then mother that chicken soup really does cure all.

There are important steps to the best soups. First, you need a cut up kosher chicken. Something about the process involved in kashering chicken makes it perfect for making soup. And you need the skin and bones to ensure the broth has flavor and healing powers. Boneless skinless chicken breasts are great for grilling, but useless when making soup.

Start with the chicken covered in water, letting it boil slowly  for an hour before adding salt - a tablespoon per chicken. Then another half hour of simmering before adding the vegetables. These are critical to flavor as well. Yellow or sweet onions quartered. Good carrots, cut up. Celery stalks - those with the leaves are best. And cut up parsnips. Add another tablespoon of salt - and pepper corns - and again, leave it alone to simmer for a couple more hours.

Gives one time to think about process and the steps involved in making something that will nourish body and soul as it heals. 

When the smells permeate the house, it’s time to derive the golden broth from the spent vegetables and chicken. Drain off the veggies, reserving the carrots to return chopped to the broth. Pull the chicken from the bones for use in pot pies, or chicken salads…and you’re left with pure healing power awaiting noodles or matzo balls for that final comforting touch.

My advice to my dear friends and family? Find your chicken soup. 
Figure out how to nourish your stores of energy and drive because one thing is very clear this morning. We have a lot of work to do to protect our children and grandchildren from Project 2025 ever being fully implemented.

Days of Awe

The flight of time, captured by Avi Nahum.

This morning the Weather Channel reporters were standing in the beautiful sunshine of the Florida coast with remnants of the hurricane named Milton scattered about in the background. It’s a far cry from the frenetic scenes last night as fully grown men, who should know better, were proving their balance skills in 60 mph winds being pelted by punishing rains. It appears right now that Milton was far less destructive to Florida than Helene was to Western North Carolina and that is truly something to be thankful for.

And that’s what this week has been – a time to reflect on the year past. To assess the damage of the year’s awful events while seeking salve of gratitude for those that were awesome.

We are in the midst of the period called the Days of Awe, and this week of hurricane images are somehow a perfect metaphor for the year that was. For those unfamiliar, the period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is a reflective period of time when many Jews assess all of the ways we can do a better job in our relationships with family and friends, in relationship to world events, and ultimately with God. The idea is to determine what our role is in repairing this world of ours.

This year, the word “awe” has taken on an expanded meaning for me. Those who’ve kept up know that there was a six month aw(e)ful period of painful waiting and recovery from hip replacement surgery, followed by an all too brief release back into the wild of driving and independence. Then whammo – an Achilles snap that threw me back into repair and recovery mode.

There were moments of awesome in all of that recovery. I know some awesome orthopedic surgeons and am ready with referrals if need be. I met some truly spunky octogenarians in one of The Homes who are great fun on outings. And learned an important lesson in how to ask for help when I truly need it.

Now I’ve moved back to physical independence and am even working with a trainer to regain lost strength and stamina. The human body is truly remarkable in its ability to heal from a range of health challenges - another of the awesome reflections of this week.

Planning and attending a 50-year class reunion also provided some awesome moments. It’s truly remarkable how comforting it is to pick up connections with classmates one hasn’t seen for 50 years as if we just had 5th period English. Even though none of us could remember the words to our high school fight song, we were able to pluck episodes of adolescent pranks out of the ether.  

We also demonstrated to ourselves that some relationships supersede time and difference. Yes, our class reflects the nation at large with widely divergent views of the state of the country. Some see the impending doom of our nation while others see hopeful progress in our country’s direction. Despite that, we all seemed to relish what we had in common rather than any differences in our thinking. And we could all agree that the world, the nation, our hometown has changed dramatically since we graduated in 1974.

When we walked out of high school, none of us imagined the power of the Internet to both connect and divide. Heck – we were still using typewriters so had no concept of a computer, much less the powerful handheld devices that have replaced the need for newspapers, radio, TV, cameras, letters, and even princess phones.

The pace of that technological change has been matched by cultural change that has replaced sheer ignorance with broadening acceptance. Today we would be much more sensitive to the weird kid in class who was probably struggling with undiagnosed and little understood autism. And our gay friends are living in a society and world that largely supports their right to loving relationships as they choose. For me, these are awesome and welcome changes.

In the aw(e)ful category of this year is everything that began with and resulted from October 7th in Israel. So much devastation and destruction beginning with a massacre of civilians, leading to revenge and ongoing vengeful war. Added to Russia’s acquisitive desires beginning with Ukraine and tribal battles in African nations, it’s hard to find my role in repair amidst these struggles for survival and/or dominance.

I do defend Israel’s right to exist as a free democratic society. And that includes defending itself from Hamas, Hezbollah, and those radical Islamic groups set on its destruction. I also weep for Palestinian families living under the rule of radical regimes that are so focused on Israel’s destruction that they ignore the very real needs of their people. This is one of those world issues that will require a full measure of prayer this season.

And that’s how these Days of Awe will end – in the company of my religious community in meditation and prayer as we prepare to launch from this period of reflection into the year 5785, set on doing those actions we humans can take to repair what’s broken.

My Friend Sheree

Sheree Cooney helping me prep for a garage sale a decade ago.

My friend Sheree died this week. She wasn’t supposed to but she did. Of course, Sheree frequently did things she wasn’t supposed to do.

When they found her rather aggressive AML-type cancer a few years ago, she chose an equally aggressive treatment path that included a stem cell transplant, or BMT, that surprised her treating physicians with its ravages on her physical self. One of the most aggressive host versus graft diseases they had ever seen, they said. 
But in the manner of fiercely feisty women, Sheree persisted and recovered to go on and live with joyful purpose for a good while.

Sheree was like that. An energetic spark plug of a soul who was the 12th of her Finnish parents’ children born in Oulu, Wisconsin. When her mother died in her childhood, she was raised by an older sister until she finished her schooling and moved South and left of her family to the Twin Cities. 

That’s where she met Matt, the love of her life, and ended up living across the street from us in the neighborhood we landed in thirty-four years ago. 

In another of those happy accidents of life, we stumbled into Linden Hills of Minneapolis with two young children that matched the ages of several other families on the block. With the benefit of perspective, I now recognize the utter wonder of raising my children in the company of other supportive mothers, allowing me to share the joys, frustrations, and overwhelming heavy-lifting of parenting. So much information one can’t get from books. So much to learn by first making mistakes and then moving on. 

Sheree’s kids - the Cooney kids - were just a bit older than our batch. That meant they inspired awe in our children, and a certain level of fear in the parents. Would our kids be the fearless risk takers that jumped headlong into life like the Cooneys? 

That scary thought has mellowed with time as we now know all of our kids survived our learn-by-doing parenting. At the time, however, we mothers frequently gathered on a welcoming stoop or porch, pooling boxes of Kraft Mac & Cheese for the kids, while enjoying a G&T toast that the kids were all still alive. Low bar, I recognize, but one we greeted with relief after a week of juggling demanding schedules of activities and sports and school and camps and meals and all the tasks that can fit into a family’s life. 

Sheree had more energy than most of us. Good thing, too, because she gave that energy to her kids who arrived one after another until she and Matt knew they were outnumbered with three. 

Sheree was a fierce advocate for her children - for all our children, actually. She fed breakfast for all who showed up. She welcomed three year olds who showed up at her door to just have a chat. She made certain her daughter knew she could be anything she wanted to be. And fought to protect her boys from the vagaries of growing up with the evolving enticements of the early 1990s. 

And those battles she won. Her children are a testament to her fierce and protective love for them. In fact, all our neighborhood children share that testament of her love. Her broad array of family - the nieces and nephews, great nieces and nephews - all have stories of her care and kindness. 

I will miss her kindness. Her curiosity born out of love for her friends and family. “How are you doing? What are the kids doing? Tell me about your work, your life, your loves.” She was actually deeply interested in people, always open to new ideas, new ways of seeing things. 

And yes she had opinions. Those of us who had the privilege of driving her to appointments during the cancer battles heard about the driving of others. “She goes too fast. She drives too slow. He is a nervous driver.” 

I got tagged for being too slow until I told her I was going the speed limit only because of my precious cargo. That shut down the criticism. I think she liked being precious - and she was.  

When the cancer came back, because cancer is wickedly wily in that way, she tried to fight with the latest chemo. Daily appointments even through holiday weekends. She struggled through all the impacts of the toxins until her body stopped responding. Over the weekend, she chose to go and, surrounded by the love of family, she left. 

I’ll hold onto the happy memories. The joyful times. The privilege of raising my children alongside Sheree, my fierce and feisty friend in the core group of the Lovely Ladies of Linden Hills. 

Unpacking Fifty Plus Years

Thanks to Doug Wolfe for this photo - and the much-needed name tags. We’re minus two who gabbed too long to get here for the Golden Hour shot…

It has taken me longer than usual to unpack from our trip to Ohio to celebrate with dear childhood friends the fact we graduated from high school 50 years ago. And that unpacking has nothing to do with luggage or clothes.

Turns out the journey and the visit pulled deep memories from well beyond the halls of Malabar High School, back to teachers and events at Johnny Appleseed Junior High and Woodland Elementary School - and before that, nursery school in the church. 

After all this time, those memories bring along with them the ghosts of teachers and parents and friends long gone with a sense of comforting gratitude for their place and the gifts they shared along the way.

The reunion events drew a solid cohort back to our hometown from the East Coast, West Coast, South Coast, and even Germany. And the hometown contingent showed up as a welcoming force, offering tours of renewed landmarks. 

It was truly a gift that ever-talented Doug produced name tags with our high school photos to trigger recognition of once-familiar faces. With the cue of 50-year-old pictures, and a slight squint of the eyes, there they were again. Same smiles and laughs peeled away the years of absence. 

I learned that a number of my childhood friends carry trauma marks from our shared fourth grade teacher. With the perspective of time, I’m sure she was equally appalled at our general lack of decorum and respect for authority. I suppose that’s because we were coming of age in the mid-1960s - an era that generated the revolutionary change that continues to mark our life paths.

I learned we were also marked by deep admiration for those teachers who inspired lifelong passions in music and the arts, in athletics, and the sciences. There was deep reverence expressed for the good ones - the band and orchestra leader who provided both memories of great joyous moments and opportunities for organizational leadership that have marked many lives. The choir leader with high expectations that still inspire achievement. 

Many of us are retired from our professional pursuits at this point - but not all. Some are recognized for their exceptional expertise in fields ranging from geology, dentistry, the law, to the impacts of space exploration - and continue to be sought out for their advice and counsel. Others have made their mark on society by raising another generation (or two) of productive citizens contributing their talents to this ever-innovative world of ours. 

Some faces I haven’t seen for the full 50 years of absence - and was so grateful they were there. The former cello player who has pursued social equity as her life’s mission. The talented musician who leaned into his passion - and is living happily in Philadelphia. I loved seeing the compassionate and kind friend who has made his life in Germany and finally meeting the love of his life who drew him overseas those many years ago. 

I’m guessing most high school classes think of themselves as somewhat exceptional. We sure do. So many noted how remarkable it was that - with all of the deep divisions roiling life worldwide right now - we created an oasis of compassionate engagement, tapping into a shared history that put the elections on hold for the weekend.

We also may have been sobered by the display board of 43+ faces who have passed on from our class of 220-something - making all of us realize that life is too short not to hold on to the gratitude that we’re still here to laugh with and hug our childhood and our friends.

Collapsing Time

I’ve known these two for more than six decades - and they haven’t changed a bit!

I’ve worked with a group of brilliant networking scientists – some of whom actually were engaged in the background of internet development – who still speak with wonder at the collapse of distance and time brought on by the launch of the world wide web. Sure. The Internet did suddenly provide instantaneous links with humans anywhere on the globe – regardless of the time or space between.

But if you really want to experience the collapse of time and space, work with a bunch of high school friends on a 50-year high school reunion. Time peels away and we are all suddenly back in the halls of Malabar with all of the teenaged angst we experienced in the 1970s.

One person in our group, who can count, figured out last fall that our 50th was going to happen this year and gosh, wouldn’t it be nice to plan something special?

As that person in the gang who works most often with Google spreadsheets and Zoom meetings, I was drafted to keep us relatively organized. Despite my best efforts – including a hip replacement and follow-up Achilles snap – I failed to get out of the work. (Those McConnell twins are ruthless!)

We started planning last fall with a couple of zooms where we spent most of our time in a “do you remember…” fog of laughter. We finally got to planning and tried out a couple of SurveyMonkeys to see if we could figure out the best timing for most, and the general interest in gathering.

Turns out that the mere fact of surviving for 50 years following high school graduation may be enough of a reason to celebrate.

And here we are, less than a month from returning to our hometown and the memories are returning with the RSVPs. When I heard from Pam, I suddenly flashed back to the many hours I spent in the orchestra with only Mr. C separating my violin section from Pam and her cello.

Then there was Sue, who can’t come back, but we went to grade school together too – and that brought back Mrs. Lashey’s fifth grade class and the quilt we all made together. Oh, Rusty Kiser just couldn’t pull his knots through, much to Mrs. Lashey’s chagrin.

These flashbacks are a clear reminder that I still carry my childhood with me. No matter where I go or where we live, I carry Mansfield, my memories, and their impact along with me.

I launched from Mansfield with the singular drive to run away from living in the Midwest with a husband and two children. And here I am, living in Minneapolis with a husband and two grown children – still the Midwest, just slightly north-left of Ohio.

Turns out we are always who we are – and there is truly something comforting in knowing that, despite all of the changes in the 50 years since 1974.

Serendipity

Expanding our family - and only one of us wasn’t quite ready…

I’ve spent a lot of time recently thinking about serendipity and all of those times in my life when I was in just the right place at just the right time with just the right people for magic to happen. 

This deep dive into the wonder of serendipity began as we were celebrating my son’s marriage to a most wonderful young woman. As I looked about the room, I realized that if my husband had not been friends with Peter who was friends with a fellow from Chicago, then I never would have met him. 

My grad school roommate at the time was friends with the same Chicago fellow - and Mr. Chicago had arranged to meet up with a group in a chic DC bar. It was a classic 1980s D.C. gathering featuring a group of cocktail drinking 20 and 30 somethings, with the women trending towards the 20s and the men on the other end. I had joined my roommate because the bar was cool and I had my childhood friend, Dayna, visiting from out of town. 

As the evening rolled on, a cute man broke away from the crowd and went to the bar to order some food. His hamburger arrived, and Dayna and I sidled up to ask what he’d ordered. 

“A Lauren Bacall burger,” he said. 

To which my friend Dayna answered as only a girl from my hometown could, “Oh. Malabar Farm.”

“Malabar what?” said the normally introverted Jacques. “What are you talking about?” 

Dayna laughed and then proceeded to explain that Malabar Farm was where Humphrey Bogart married Lauren Bacall and was just outside of our hometown in Ohio. It was the home of writer Louis Bromfield who had come to know Bogart and Bacall and had offered up his home for their nuptials in 1945. 

And now, Dayna said, she was doing a project there, and gosh, wasn’t that all interesting, and by the way, how was that hamburger?

And that, my friends, is how I met the man who became my husband nearly 43 years ago. 

Without Peter, my roommate Kathleen, and Dayna - and the now-forgotten friend from Chicago - I never would have met Jacques, Ben would never have been born, and we wouldn’t have celebrated a wedding to the lovely Nellie last week. 

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

Leaves all came out while I was away…

We take so much for granted until it’s just not there, don’t we? Spending most of April and May away from home while recovering among my fellow aged was truly eye opening in so many ways.

This week, the final cast came off, replaced by a walking boot and the Achilles is back to work again. Kinda achy, honestly, but anything that just hangs around for six weeks with no work can get achy in this well-seasoned body of mine.

Having a walking boot means I can once more mount the steps of this old house of ours. I can walk about the house, and stand to prepare food. I can even garden – a bit – and generally return to this thing we call life.

I will admit that I miss some of my new friends from The Home. Lovely women and men with interesting life stories who are very much living dorm style among their peers. I brought this up with my college roommates since we’ve retained our weekly zoom meet ups beyond the pandemic.

After imagining how much fun we would all have, reliving our college years with the communal living escapades of our early 20s, we all realized we had a few years – maybe decades - to lean in to the fun we still have when we gather. None of us are ready to truly imagine leaving our home communities in Vermont, the Carolinas, Ohio, Minnesota, or Florida. Well, our Florida friend may be interested in moving away from the climate impacts on that state…

The college girls are all planning a trip to England in September – one I will miss as it coincides with my high school reunion – a Big One to celebrate 50 years since graduation. And that is something I truly look forward to experiencing.

So back to being home again – we move on, don’t we – leaving the experience of feeble dependency behind. And now to reengage in the exercises of my daily life – gatherings with friends, activities with the family, work – lots of work, and there’s always laundry.

Ah – sweet life!

Home Stretch Lessons

The final of three casts is on. The Achilles is healing, and I’ll be home in twelve days. 

What a strange period of time this has been - a month ago, I was in surgery to put that pesky tendon back in place, then off to a TCU, and now a more independent respite location where I can wheel myself about with the rest of the senior citizens.

One big lesson coming out of all of this is that yes, I’ve entered the realm of senior citizen hood. Should have figured that out when we first got discounts at the movie theater, but it appears I’ve been so in my head with the busyness of life that I missed the advent of this distinction. 

Turns out it’s not just the availability of senior discounts or access to a remarkable federal insurance program called Medicare, or to the deference paid by colleagues several decades younger than I am. It’s the stark recognition that physical bits one could pay scant attention to in earlier eras now require tending and maintenance. 

Here in this Home, I regularly take meals with my cohort of seniors, being regaled with stories from former lawyers, doctors, U professors, and moms who all seem to have chosen this location to be closer to their kids. From New York, Wisconsin, or North Dakota, they have chosen to complete their life journey in a place convenient for visits by their progeny. And it appears some of that progeny is better about returning the favor than others. 

Again - a moment to note how lucky I am that my family is already nearby and pops over to just drop in as I work to hold onto being among the most cognizant here as well. Time and dates do seem to flow together when one is outside of normal.

I actually enjoy my discussions over meals as the food is excellent. There’s an accomplished chef who turns out three meals a day that even Jacques finds so enjoyable that he’s timing his visits with the 5 pm dinner hour. 

But back to the maintenance issue. The other day I was sitting at a table with a couple of 88 year olds. One popped out of her chair to go get another glass of ice water from across the room, and came back to complete the story she had begun before thirst called her away. The other lovely lady could barely lift her fork to her mouth, required two hands to hold her glass to her lips, and enjoyed listening to, but unable to contribute to, the conversation about her. The difference in the impact of the years appears to be the regular focus on exercise and movement that characterizes the life of my spry 88 year old friend. 

This afternoon, I’ll roll down to the lounge for a memorial video of a revered former resident who died a couple of weeks ago. Catherine did yoga every morning, and played piano every afternoon for residents, and displayed a vibrant sense of humor and engagement in her surroundings. I learned that she had gone to the building’s beauty salon one morning to have her hair done and told the salon owner that she had been exceptionally tired that day and was planning a nap after her appointment. She went to sleep and passed on with lovely hair in place at 102 years old. 

And that’s the lesson I’m taking away from this six-week experience in enfeebled and senior living. Stay active - physically and mentally. Be engaged with your community of friends and family. 

And always, always choose the fun when wearing a cast - now featuring our NBA Timberwolves colors for the playoffs.