A Time to Every Purpose

So, it’s 4:30AM and here I am, writing this blog post.  For nearly a week, I have been trying to put pieces together into something coherent and meaningful.  But the words will not behave.

It’s not writer’s block, exactly.  Do I write about the joy of libraries?  About my favorite childhood authors?  About the need for more female protagonists in children’s books?  Or do I write about my idiosyncratic appraisal clients, such as the one who left a bag of figs dangling from my mailbox just yesterday?  Do I “cheat” and fall back on a piece about my bad “car karma,” including Migo’s first ride in a tow truck last week?  I have plenty of material.  My little notebook is full of paragraphs going in a variety of directions. 

Which is, perhaps, a reflection of the rest of my life. Since I have come home (and been blessed to realize that Cape May is home), my life has been exuberantly full.  I have a pleasantly nagging backlog of appraisal work.  When I can’t DIY in This Old House, I have been trying to corral the “Cape Maybe” contractors that gave Carol the title for her second novel.  Then, time for line dancing class, fitness class, even Migo’s obedience class.  Time to catch up with friends.  Time to feed my “Amazon Prime” addiction.  I have been giving my life 16 to 18 hour days, and I have no trouble falling asleep!

And I still write every day.  Journal, Facebook, garrulous texts…in addition to appraisal reports and my notebook musings.  I notice that my voice is starting to change, and I wonder where that will take me.

Because my return to "Kansas" has also made me keenly aware of time. I see the winter months not too far ahead of me, both literally and figuratively, and realize I may be moving much more slowly then.   I am still a bit scattered, getting it all back together, but I do have direction. 

So, when I awoke and embraced this morning’s gift of time, I found myself thinking of The Byrds’ “Turn, Turn, Turn.”   

I believe the pieces will come together in their good time.

Beach Bucket List

          

 It started as a conversation with my friend, Lorraine.  She has never been to White House Subs!  How could Lorraine, who has lived at “the Shore” longer than I have, miss out on such a gastronomic icon? She got me thinking…

 

            I guess we all have our faves, our secret haunts.  Sure, AAA, AARP, GWCOC, and all the other tourist-driven organizations promote “must see” standards from Atlantic City to Cape May.  But there are so many out-of-the way treasures to delight locals and visitors alike.  Here is an even dozen of my favorites.  Feel free to add these to your beach bucket list.  And share your favorites!

          1.     White House Subs, 2301 Arctic Avenue, Atlantic City, NJ

If you love subs (aka hoagies) or if you just love nostalgia, you gotta stop at White House Subs.  The freshest rolls, the most decadent meats, the throw-back (opened1946) ambiance:  you can't beat it.  Don't just take my word for it, though.  Celebrities from Frank Sinatra to Mr. T, along with myriad Miss Americas, have eaten here.  Their photos adorn the walls, to prove it!

          2.    Oyster Creek Inn, 41 N. Oyster Creek Road, Leeds Point, NJ

This restaurant’s location may keep it a local secret: in the pine barrens, down a dark, wooded two-lane road.  But this is great seafood.  Think cracking crabs on sheets of brown paper. Live music. “Down Jersey” atmosphere.  Don’t let the remote locale and the stories of the Jersey Devil intimidate you. 

3.    Crabby’s Suds and Seafood, 1413 Route 50, Belcoville, NJ

Another seafood sensation off the beaten path.  Unless your beaten path is Route 50 en route to the Shore.  More great crabs.  More "Down Jersey" atmosphere.  Different all-you-can-eat specials every week night.  Go. Now.

4.    “Show Us Your Shoes” Parade, Atlantic City, NJ

So you know this post isn’t just about food, I’ve included this “can’t miss.”  This time, it’s a parade!  You may not have the time or inclination to attend the Miss America Pageant (though you really should, since it’s back in AC, which needs all the help it can get right now).  But you really do need to take in the “Show Us Your Shoes” Parade, along the Atlantic City Boardwalk the night before the pageant. Lovely young women ride in luxury cars and, when encouraged by the crowd, lift high their shoes, which are decorated to show off their state or their pageant platforms (ha!).  If you want a seat, you must by a ticket.  But part of the fun is standing along the Boardwalk as the sun goes down…and that’s free.

5.    First Night, Ocean City, NJ

I am delighted to say that I attended the first “First Night” in Ocean City and

have returned numerous times.  Ocean City offers a family-oriented, alcohol-free extravaganza on New Year’s Eve that just gets better every year. From big band soundsto the Ocean City Pops, from face-painting to fireworks, the party starts at dusk and goes past midnight.  Buttons are required, at a manageable fee.  Happy New Year!

6.    Airport Diner, 2602 Bay Avenue, Ocean City, NJ

Did you know Ocean City has an airport?  It’s right next to the golf course.  And the airport has a great little diner.  If you want a classic diner breakfast or a hearty diner lunch (comfort food recommended), the Airport Diner is the place. And you might even see a plane or two land while you dine.

7.    Mildred’s Restaurant,  Ocean Drive and Prescott Road, Strathmere, NJ

Okay, so a lot of this is about food.  Well, that’s what you do on vacation – go out to eat, right?  When you’re going, be sure you get to Mildred’s in Strathmere.  Of course, you have to know where Strathmere is:  just go to Sea Isle and head north on Ocean Drive, or go to Ocean City and head south and over the Ocean Drive bridge.  Mildred’s is on the beach, across from the trailer park, and offers great homemade pasta and real South Jersey Shore atmosphere. 

           8.    Leaming's Run Gardens, 1845 N. Route 9, Cape May Court House, NJ

On Route 9, north of the zoo, before you get to Dennis Township:  Leaming's Run Gardens is an oasis of serenity in the hectic summer season. Themed gardens, rainbows of color, a small colonial farm, alcoves and benches for sitting and thinking…or just sitting.  Locals lunch here.

(But you can also visit the gardens' evil twin, “Screaming Run,” for a haunted walk, October 25 or 26 at 7PM.  Tickets required).

 

9.    Doo Wop Back to the Fifties Tour, Wildwood, NJ

Yeah, I’m partial to this one.  As a former tour guide, I insist you take this tour.  The Wildwoods have the highest concentration of Mid-Century Architecture in the USA.  If tourists from France, Germany, England and Australia can write home about it, you ought to, too.  You'll see the Wildwoods in a whole new light:  neon.

10.  NJ State Firefighters’ Convention Parade

As the locals know, every September the New Jersey Firefighters hold their convention in Wildwood.  And every Saturday of that convention, they hold a REALLY BIG parade. With a WHOLE LOT of fire engines.  And LOTS OF SIRENS.  And FLASHING LIGHTS.  Go.  Once. Just to say you did it.  And bring the kids.  Or anyone who loves fire engines.

 

11.  West Cape May Community Christmas Parade

Speaking of fire engines…another parade to see at least once is the West Cape May Community Christmas Parade.  Your best bet is to know someone who lives along the parade route (think warmth, beverages, potty breaks), because this can often be a long parade.  Lots of local talent, marching bands, and fire engines. Did I mention, LOTS of fire engines?

          12.  Counter Dining at The Lobster House

I think we all know The Lobster House.  Have waited in line.  Have dined on the deck or sipped drinks on the ship.  But the counter!  Elbow-to-elbow dining with the locals, chatty waitresses, busy busboys, and the same great food.  Year-round, too.

 

Okay, that’s my short list.  I could have added the West Cape May Lima Bean Festival (lima bean ice cream, anyone?), Sunset Beach Grille, Lucy the Elephant in Margate.  So many faves, so little space.

What’s on your beach bucket list?

Embracing the "F" Word

Word on the internet is that certain female celebrities –Shailene Woodley, Taylor Swift, and Katy Perry, to name a few – are shying away from the “F” word.  I missed the TIME articles which dealt with the issue directly – and Shailene Woodley specifically – but I have been following the chatter in various blog posts.  Even AOL deigned to give the subject a tile or two.

So, I’ve been thinking:  how often do I use the “F” word?   When did I start? How do I feel about all the controversy?

I have never heard my mother use the “F” word.  I don’t think I ever heard my Aunt Renee use it, either, but I know she encouraged her daughters to use it.  I think the rest of my family is pretty evenly divided on the subject.

I believe I began using the “F” word in high school.  A few of my teachers at Girls’ High encouraged it.  I know I never would have been admitted to LaSalle College without the “F” word.  I owe my career, my credit score, and even my mortgage to the “F” word.

I am pretty sure Hillary Clinton embraces the “F” word, although I can’t recall if I have ever heard her use it in public.   






And, while Sarah Palin would rather be caught dead than caught using the “F” word, she could never have been a Vice Presidential candidate without it.

My gynecologist, my veterinarian, my family doctor – whether they realize it or not, they most likely owe their choice of professions to the “F” word.

 So I find myself feeling fairly distressed when young women with power blanch at the “F” word – the very wellspring from which their power emanates – as if it really were the “F” word.  Because it means that those of us who have embraced the “F” word may not have gotten the word out well enough.

Yes, it is disheartening: Shailene Woodley,Taylor Swift and Katy Perry are frightened of the “F” word. 

But there is good news, too: 

I understand Beyonce’, Natalie Portman, and Amy Poehler have no problem with it at all.

By  now, I hope you have guessed that I am not writing about the “F” word here. If you have been following the fallout from the TIME articles, you know the “F” word I mean:

feminism

By one definition:  the social, political and economic equality of the sexes.

Not a bad word at all.

Intangible Spirit

      June 18, 2014 marked 40 years since I received my diploma from my high school alma mater. Literally translated, alma mater means “nourishing/kind mother.” During my years at Philadelphia High School for Girls, I am not sure I would have necessarily agreed with that translation.

                In a happy coincidence, the June 21 issue of the Philadelphia Inquirer carried a heartwarming story of Imani Bullock.  Ms. Bullock is the fifth generation of women to graduate in white dress and red flowers:  as her mother, great-grandmother, and two great-aunts before her.  Ms. Bullock is a graduate of the current class, 258.  Because Girls’ High once graduated classes in both January and June, alums usually refer to their class number rather than their year to avoid confusion.  Not without some drama.  At a recent Career Day, I told the roomful of bright young women that I was Class  of 218.  Their response:  a collective gasp.  But I digress…

                While it took me 20 years before I truly appreciated the “intangible spirit” that I carried with me into the world on June 18, 1974, Ms. Bullock apparently has a clue. I quote her quote from the Inquirer:

We just have a family filled with strong women who strive for academic excellence.

I know she was speaking of her own family, but I can’t help thinking she included her extended Girls’ High family, as well.

                I admit I was closer to middle age when I began to understand what Imani Bullock already knows.  My National Merit Scholarship to La Salle, my commitment to mentoring other women, my ability to overcome obstacles:  I came to realize my alma mater deserved some of the credit. I started attending reunions.  And annual alumnae luncheons.  And presenting at Career Day (to this day, only 10% of appraisers who hold my advanced designation are women).  For me, it was a way to reconnect with those strong women at a time when I was starting my own business in a mostly male environment.  The only real asset I had at the time was myself.

                Now, add another 20 years. My 40^th reunion luncheon (and I almost didn’t go, but the lure of Gloria Allred, 204,  was too much to resist).  Once again, I reconnected with friends and hung on to every word of gutsy Gloria, our luncheon speaker.  A healthy dose of that intangible spirit reminded me that I’ve been a Girls’ High Girl all along.

The author with Gloria Allred

                Oh, I’m no Gloria Allred, Esquire.  In fact, Gloria Allred might not have become Gloria Allred as we know her today.  During her presentation, Ms. Allred candidly admitted she tried to transfer out of Girls’ High. She didn’t think she had the right stuff.  Imagine!

                And I’m no Judith Rodin (first woman President of the University of Pennsylvania).  I’m no Constance Clayton (first woman and first African-American Superintendent of Philadelphia Schools).  I’m no Julie Gold, a fellow 218 alum and songwriter whose credits include “From a Distance,” that Bette Midler hit.  I’m not even Patricia Giorgio Fox, Deputy Police Commissioner for the City of Philadelphia.  But I am proud to count myself among them.  And proud they count me, too.

                Any of us who have grown up in Philadelphia have seen incredible changes to our alma maters.  Schools closing, both public and parochial.  Budget cuts decimating programs and faculty.  Resources dwindling.  Girls' High is no exception: loss of guidance counselors, woefully outdated lab equipment.  I feel fortunate that those marble halls are still open to embrace young women like Imani Bullock. And, I hope, her daughters.

At my alma mater, the misson statement is:

To provide learning experiences in a safe, nurturing environment that prepare our students for success in college and leadership in their chosen fields. We do this by challenging the intellect, embracing diversity, celebrating leadership, honoring ethical behavior and encouraging participation in the extracurricular program.

                Right now, in the School District of Philadelphia, the average cost to educate one student is $12,351. 

That is quite a bargain for a Girls’ High Girl.

 

Check out the link below to hear the alma mater of the Philadelphia High School for Girls.

http://webgui.phila.k12.pa.us/schools/g/girlshigh/media/school-song-253.mp3

 

 

A Few Minutes Channeling Andy Rooney (January 14, 1919 - November 4, 2011)

  

      Is it just me, or is there something incongruous about using the terms “Daylight Saving Time” and “snowstorm” in the same sentence? As I write this, the March snow has tapered off to flurries and the weather forecast promises temperatures in the 50s by midweek. The first day of spring is only a few days away.
     It isn’t the snow I mind so much. It’s Daylight Saving Time. Thanks to Congress, that bastion of efficiency, Daylight Saving Time now starts at a time of year when no one in their right mind wants to be outside even when the days are short! Arizona and Hawaii, where the weather is congenial all year long, don’t have Daylight Saving Time. Why are the rest of us subjected to it?
     I did a little research. Up until January 4, 1974, Daylight Saving Time was optional. Some states opted for it, others not. In Pennsylvania, where I grew up, Daylight Saving Time was the first harbinger of summer: set the clocks ahead, decorate the bikes for the Memorial Day parade, close the school books. In that order. Thanks to President Nixon, Daylight Saving Time became a national event, setting the clocks ahead on January 6, 1974. As a teenager who walked to school in the pitch dark that year, to me, that was Nixon’s impeachable offense.
     In 2005, Congress established Daylight Saving Time as it is today: giving us the benefit of longer daylight hours at the end of the day…to shovel the snow!

                                                            **********

     And while I am not so much in favor of saving daylight hours, I am in favor of saving money. So I clip coupons. Recently, I had a “buy one/get one” coupon for Nutella. Do you know Nutella? I had no clue.
     However, I had seen the television advertisements. Conscientious mother spreads Nutella on whole grain bread for ruddy youngsters. Healthy stuff, right?
     So, I got my BOGO Nutella and my whole grain bread. As I slid the knife into the jar, I was startled at the consistency. I was thinking peanut butter, but this was more like…?
     I spread the dark, creamy substance on my toasty bread and took a bite.
     I hate to tell you, folks: to me, this tastes like icing.(The first ingredient is sugar.)
    When did we start eating icing on our toast for breakfast? When did icing become a healthy food? To make matters worse, Hershey has come out with a similar product, trading on its brand name recognition.
     To think, I used to feel guilty licking the bowl!

                                                             **********
     Speaking of being clueless, is it now proper to pronounce silent consonants?
     I have given up protesting “off-ten.”
     But what really makes my ears go “ouch” is the current trend by a variety of local newscasters and radio announcers to mispronounce (I guess) that lovely Midwestern state of Illi-noise.
     This abuse of language makes me so mad, I just want to pack up my ve-hick-le and ride off into the sunset.

      Which, I know, is an hour later.

 (My apologies to the late Mr. Rooney, my favorite, if sometimes acerbic, curmudgeon.)

February Is the Cruelest Month

February 2014.   

            A nor’easter is churning the back bays and thrashing through the tree branches.  A robust 35-mph wind is singing in the electrical wires outside my bedroom window.  Migo, my dog, is buried beneath the covers.  Friends in PA, MD and NH are buried beneath snow and ice.

            But I guess I should be grateful that I woke up today.  I still have all my underwear.  I still have a roof over my head.  There are no parakeets in my oven.  My house has not been burgled. My car has not been stolen.

            Of course, the month isn’t over.  I still have a healthy respect for Murphy’s Law:

           

            Nothing is as easy as it looks.

            Everything takes longer than you think.

            Whatever can go wrong, will.

            All of the above happens to me in February.

            Actually, like its weather, February for me is really a month of extremes.  I met one of the loves of my life in February, at Cardinal Dougherty High School’s Valentine Dance.  Although we eventually went our separate ways, he probably saved my life that night:  the very next day I had the courage to break up with a very abusive young man.

            But February is also the month when my sisters and I awoke to discover we had no underwear.  I can still remember all of the Fox girls popping out of our bedrooms simultaneously and shrieking, “ Mo-om, I don’t have any underwear!”  My mother’s skepticism sent my sister Diane and I to check the laundry in the basement, where we discovered to our horror that the basement window had been broken and the door left ajar.  We learned later that a disturbed adolescent boy in the neighborhood had perpetrated his personal panty raid on all of the families with teenage girls.  But that was a small matter:  on that same day the following February, I didn’t even have a home!

            February brings nasty weather, blizzards, and other natural disasters.  I was 22 when my roommate (for whom I had innocently advertised in the Philadelphia Inquirer) decided to stop taking her medication and had a bipolar manifestation, which included her attempt to put my parakeet in the oven. While that incident eventually engendered my compassion for such illnesses, at the time I was only scared to death.  Yet, that same week, the CYO play I directed came in First Runner Up at the diocesan competition.  See what I mean about extremes?

            Because February – Valentine’s Day to be exact – is also when I was matched with my Little Sister, Rosie, through Big Sisters of Philadelphia.  Over 30 years later, we are still sisters (Happy Anniversary, Rosie!).

            Of course, February was the month when my house was burgled.  Lucky for me, Walnut, my German shepherd mix,  met the burglar at the top of the stairs and sent him out the back door.  With nothing to show for his effort but an obsolete pocket calculator.

            In an attempt to avoid the month’s cosmic mood swings, I have often vacationed in February.  Or tried to. I returned home one year to find my car had been stolen from the airport parking lot.  Then there was the year I decided to spend the entire month of February in Hawaii under the naïve assumption that the Furies wouldn’t find me there.  However, that January  I broke up with the man with whom I had made the plans.  Because both of us were too stubborn to forego the trip,  we spent a month in Hawaii barely speaking to each other.  Does that trump the February vacations I spent traveling with another boyfriend…and his mother?

            So, as I watch the trees throw fits outside my window, I accept the fact that, in February, nothing that happens will surprise me.

            Now, if you will excuse me, I think I will join Migo under the covers.  I am just grateful it's not a Leap Year!

(Top photo courtesy of Getty Images:  "Car-maggedon"  coined by KYW newsradio broadcaster for 100-car pile-up on PA Turnpike 2/14/14)