I Need Your Help!

I've hit a brick wall... suffering from terrible writer's block most likely induced by the over-consumption of  red wine that I had with my lovely book club girls last night!

What would you like to see or read about here?

A real, live Jewish American Princess!

I've been spending the past few days transcribing my grandmother's fabulous stories for the memoir. In one chapter she talks about her own Grandmother, Jessie, after whom I was named. She was incredibly close to this grandmother. When La Jolie Grandmere moved to the United Kingdom she started to research our family history. She located my great great grandmother's birth certificate and even went to visit her grandmother's childhood home, Kingsgate Castle. The above photo shows the "house" when it was a single family home. Years ago it was turned into apartments.

From my grandmother's writings:

"Gramma spent part of her youth in a castle in Kent called "Kingsgate Castle." It is near Ramsgate on the English Channel. I went to see it one grey day. Although it has been made into apartments, it is well maintained and a handsome crenelated edifice, but alas has no towers. From the large terrace in back there is a perpendicular drop to the swirling, grey waters of the channel. It looked threatening. I wouldn't like to live like that."

I found the image of the castle easily on the internet. Gotta love modern technology! My mother is currently researching, locating old birth and death certificates of Jessie's parents to find out when exactly, and for how long they did live in Kingsgate.

I thought it was pretty fun and neat and wanted to share with you all!

And now when my husband accuses me of acting all Princess-y, I can tell him I have reason to!

Part 3 - From Prep School to Boston: Happy Endings

For those of you whom have yet to read the first two parts, you might want to skip down!
And now for the finale. (More is being written for the memoir.)

*****

The summer before my senior year turned out to be a really good one.

Almost as soon as I touched down in New York we packed up the car and headed for Newport. I spent my days swimming in the pool and playing tennis at The Tennis Hall of Fame where I had been taking lessons for years.

I took sailing lessons at the Ida Lewis Yacht club and made friends with two girls who were American but lived in London. The coincidence of it all! I put myself on a strict diet and between all the exercise and my very limited (500 calories a day) the pounds came flying off.

I was beginning to look and feel like me. I had a social life again and while my summer would never be what it was the year before – (Had it only been a year? It seemed as though decades had passed.) I started to get a little spring in my step again. I think I lost 25 or 30 pounds that summer. I still wasn’t quite as slim as I had been, but I was well on my way and almost there.

As the summer drew to a close we returned to New York to prepare for school. I was rather excited about it all. Mother had given me her credit cards so I could go shopping at Bloomingdale's and Macy’s and Lord & Taylor’s. I required a whole new wardrobe. Shopping was so very much fun! Packing to return to school in England was so very much fun. I was going to have a great year. I could tell!

The flight over was a vastly different experience from the one a year earlier. This time I had picked my room, my roommate and my dorm. Where last year everything had been so very out of my control, this year everything was within my control.


I could tell from the way La Jolie Grandmère greeted me that she was both pleased and proud of my progress. I cannot tell you how wonderful that made me feel!

She still talked about weight and calories and had a certain code. But this was how she was. She was always very careful regarding her own weight. While she adored fine food and ate only the best, she ate like a bird. She always claimed that she needed to keep her weight down so that her husband and chauffeur could better push her around in her wheel chair, though I am pretty certain that she would have eaten this way had she not been wheel chair bound. She was very conscientious about her weight, image and appearance.

This was how and who she was.

I was eager to get back to school and see my dorm and my friends. The girls were shocked and amazed at home I was able to transform myself so drastically. Compliments flowed like champagne on New Year’s Eve. Even the cold and crusty members of the faculty noticed and complimented and commended me. Everyone was eager to borrow my new clothes. How wonderful it was to be able to share clothes with my friends. How wonderful it was to be able to wear the same clothes and the same sizes!

I adapted a healthier lifestyle. The diet had gone by the wayside, but I had a decent control over what I was eating … I didn’t deny myself anything, I was just careful not to go too overboard. A few of the pounds came back on, but nothing too terrible. I was neither uncomfortable nor terribly concerned. I was having fun. This was my senior year, after all!

My friends and I played tennis in the late afternoons after classes were over. We’d grab a quite bite to eat at tea time and head out to the courts.

One day in late October or early November I had neglected to clear a ball that had landed near the net which resulted in my slipping on it and toppling over. My ankle swelled up immediately. I thought I was going to throw up and I couldn’t put any weight on it. I somehow got to the infirmary and was given crutches. The following day I go to experience the lovely British Health System and went to a doctor to have a good look at my ankle. He declared it a bad sprain and sent me on my way. No X-rays, no physical therapy no nothing.To this day I wonder if something had indeed broken.( It’s never been right and at the end of every day, especially the long ones, it blows up all over again.)

After that (and what would be the first of many ankle injuries) I led a more sedentary life once again. I began to eat again. And once again the weight returned. Somehow. I don’t remember the small warning signs I had had the year before, as this time it seemed to happen suddenly and over night. As though the very moment when my ankle went “crack” the weight piled back on. It was so maddening and disheartening. Once again I had lost all control. And of course with the weight gain come sadness and insecurity and the desire and need to have something fuel that vacancy… and food became again, my best friend.

I saw the disappointment again in the eyes of my mother and my grandmother. I didn’t know what would be done… what could be done. I was resolved to enjoying my last few months there and no one was going to discourage me. I was going to travel to Paris with my Art History class and see some sights in England.I also had to figure out this thing called College Applications.

Since I was the only American Border at the school I had no direction or guidance to help with my college applications. My Hewitt transcripts were mediocre at best and since I would not be taking my A-Level exams until the end of June I had no grades to supply with my applications. The whole thing was a sordid and lousy mess. I was absolutely positive that I would not be going to college anywhere. And I would be damned if I was going to have to end up repeating a year back home after all my hard work and efforts. After everything I had been through.

La Jolie Grandmère, of course, and Larry were incredibly well connected. I could go to Oxford University, they assured me, or RADA (The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts) since art and drama were my “things.” Why thank you ever so much Beautiful Grandmother, and as flattered and humbled and gracious as I am by the gesture of your offers, A) I could not get into Oxford University no matter how well connected you are and no matter how many colleges where Larry is a Fellow… no more than B) would I ever make it into the esteemed and reputable RADA on my own merits even with all your clout and pull. But really even if I could, I really just want to go home, back to the States.

And I was left in a panic.

Where would I go? What would I do? Without the guise of a guidance counselor I filled and submitted my own applications. I had brought some college books with me from home and decided to send applications to those places I liked the most. I really had no idea what I was doing! In the mail my replies were the same; thank you but no thank you… we cannot make any acceptances without proper transcripts. And since no one in the UK, it seemed, knew what to do with me or what a bloody transcript was, I wasn’t going anywhere.

One day my mother happened to be talking to a friend of hers, an artist also living in the city, who mentioned this small liberal arts women’s college in the tony Boston suburb of Chestnut Hill. My mother decided to call and inquire. They had a rolling admissions policy and liked what they saw of me on paper. Sight unseen I was accepted and would be attending college in Boston in the fall.

I was relieved that I had somewhere to go and was able to enjoy the rest of the year travelling across the country, across Europe and having fun.

While my years in England were certainly not my best, I did have some wonderful experiences and opportunities that I never would have otherwise had. This experience, pain and all, was, I would one day learn, instrumental in helping me to become the person I am today.

Without the bad one does not get to experience the good. My years in England were, perhaps, one great big juxtaposition.

The following September I was to start college in Boston where I would be a freshman, a member of the class of 1989. My grandmother was thrilled. I would love Boston, she told me. Chestnut Hill was a lovely town and her sister lived just down the road from what would be my school in a big beautiful home. Her husband, now retired, was a reputable and well loved doctor, who practiced at Brigham and Women’s Hospital and taught at Harvard. I should be sure to visit them!

I was a little wary about this new school and determined to transfer out immediately to the well known college on the other side of Route 9. What I did not expect, however, was to find what I did at that small school. I found life-long friends, security; warm, caring understanding teachers and faculty that would help set me on my way. In that small women’s college I truly found happiness.

And if I needed to scream and cry and complain I found people in whom I could trust to listen to me and offer me encouraging words of support. Of course I had my issues and battles and insecurities but I wasn’t fighting them alone.

For all that I did not have in England I had in Boston. I immediately recognized this and decided I need not transfer to a larger, more competitive, more popular school…

I needed what was there in front of me. I needed to join the school newspaper and the yearbook and the tennis team. I needed to have my Freshman English teacher praise me and put me in the advanced writing section. I needed to have my Personal Journalism teacher praise my essay about La Jolie Grandmère. (She begged me to publish it in the school paper, but I declined. It was too personal and I wasn’t ready to share the story.) I needed my friends and I needed the fact that they needed me.

I needed to be asked to join the student Government Association. I needed to stay out all night long on the weekends with my friends. I needed to meet these girls. I needed them in my life. I needed the laughter we shared and the memories we were busy creating. I needed that they made me feel good and special and smart. I needed the boyfriends… the good ones and the losers!

I needed to be able to The Boathouse Bar every night during the week and then decide to stay in the dorm scrap-booking on Saturday nights with my friend Cathy while everyone else went out… I needed to go to the parties at Harvard and BU and Babson and BC. I needed to go out for pizza in the middle of the night. I needed to do some things that might have gotten me into trouble had we gotten caught. I needed to goof off and completely forget about an exam… I needed to make honor roll. In short I needed everything that small school had to offer me.

Most of all I needed my girlfriends. All of them. My girls would stick with me through thick and thin. You girls all know who you are... You all know that after 20 years I love you each as much I loved you back then. We've gone off and disappeared for a while and had careers and babies and cancer and miscarriages and we've shared laughter and tears. And when we reconnect after not seeing each other for so long, it amazes me that we can pick right up from where we left off. So if my not so happy years across the Pond meant I would find you all... then each and every second over there there... the good, the bad, the ugly and the horrific were all so very well worth it!

This small, all women’s liberal arts college built me back up to where I once was, and then something else happened. Graduation! Suddenly all that self esteem and self confidence I had when I wore my black cap and robe dissolved the moment I had to enter the real world and compete with all the other recent college graduates vying for the same position.I was facing another great period of change and unknown in my life. How I hate change! How I still hate the unknown!

At 21 I did not have the confidence to boast that my abilities were superior. This would take time and age and maturity. Furthermore, even though I was newly equipped with a shiny new BA I had no idea what the hell I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

I went on interviews that had been set up by my parents and family friends. I had some really good opportunities with some of Boston’s leading corporations and financial institutions. In the end I turned them all down. I turned down opportunities that in retrospect I shouldn’t have. My insecurity was my greatest enemy… and I was young still. More than anything I was driven by an urge to follow my creative side as ridiculous as it may sound now.

That first year, after graduation, in Boston, was a difficult one and once again I felt as though I did not belong. Boston was a strange place to be at that point in my life. I was no longer one of the hundreds of thousands of college co-eds that called the city their home, and I was not yet part of the working crowd.

Late that spring I decided to bid my college town a fond farewell and pack up all my belongings and move into to my parents home in Newport for the summer where I had a job waiting for me at The Tennis Hall of Fame, a place as comfortable to me as my own home – a place I spent much of my time in my youth playing tennis, and worked during the summers while I was in college. I was thrilled to be back there.

It felt like home. When the tournaments were over I headed over to New Haven to work for a tennis event there. That event was so insignificant in my life but yet would set the path down which I would travel and pave the way to my future.

In light of it all, how could I harbor any regrets? Sure I had some bumps in the road but who doesn't? And if not for those bumps I would not have found the happiness that ensued...in my girlfriends...and in my life, in Boston and beyond.

Prep School across The Pond: Part 2

Note: This is Part 2 of my Prep School Across The Pond Memoir. If you haven't read the first part you may want to skip down to the next post and come back to this one. Both pieces are fairly long. They are edited (shortened) versions of those compiled for my memoirs.

*****

I saw the disappointment in my mother’s eyes when she greeted me at the airport. My father was there too, but he has a better poker face. I knew I didn’t look the same. I didn’t feel the same. But I was completely unexpected to find what stared back at me in the mirror. I was aghast and horrified with myself and by myself. How did I do this? I knew damn well how I had. All those afternoon “teas” stuffing myself with loaves of bread with butter and jam or Marmite. The walks to Waitrose to pick up packages of Smarties and Minstrels and crisps of all flavors. I hadn’t given a second thought to what I was putting in my mouth. Pure unadulterated emotional eating. I did not know what it was at the time. I knew that I ate because it felt good, even though I may not have liked how I felt after. And there it was, all that food staring back at me. Disgusting. I had no idea who that person was in the mirror. The bloated, puffy face, the shrunken, sunken in eyes. Those were not mine? I had big brown eyes and high cheekbones. My body became a soft blubbery blob. My once skinny legs were anything but. My stomach and arms and breasts belonged to someone else because surely they were not mine. I would stare at myself for hours and wonder what I had done to myself and why.

My mother was no help. Well-meaning perhaps, initially, she constantly and incessantly harped on me about what I was eating or not eating. I had never had a weight problem and so this was new to both of us. I am sure that neither one of us knew how to react. All I did know that was the constant badgering was not helping me. Did not help me.

I continued to seek food to comfort me. Now away from England I was not getting the comfort and encouragement I needed either. Mother was heartbroken and terribly disappointed over what had happened to me. Of course I was as well but could not speak of it. My petite and skinny mother now had a really fat daughter. This just doesn’t look good.

We never really had junk food at home but I would find things to comfort and console myself with. I would find the carbohydrates or walk to the store and load up and enjoy them at home while my parents were at work, with no one to bother me.

I didn’t call my friends to tell them I was home. I didn’t want to socialize with them. I didn’t want to see those same horrified stares and the looks of pity wondering what the hell I had done to myself. The girl who was so on top of the world and so sure of herself just months before had come spiraling and crashing down.

To further add insult to injury my mother told me that I had to complete my year abroad. I could return to my school in New York for my senior year, but I absolutely had to finish what I started. Heartbroken I remained on my own for the remainder of my Christmas vacation not wanting to do anything or see anyone. I would walk over to the Love’s store on 89^th and Madison and buy candy and magazines and Marlboro lights. I would read the magazines and stuff my face and smoke out my window. Funny thing to be a kid and in pain and not at all realize it.

I wonder, to this day, what would have happened had I not had to return to England. It’s hard not to. But we can’t go on wondering about all the “what ifs” now can we? That would not be beneficial and would serve no purpose.

So in the end, after a month, I had to pack up and go back to England.

Somehow I managed to pick myself up and make the most of my situation. The only setback was that Victoria, who had become my closest friend, who was also a new student, had chosen not to complete the year. At first I felt alone without her and I was indeed devastated, but I knew I couldn’t wallow in self-misery and mope around for the rest of the year. So I decided to pick myself up and dust myself off.

Luckily, with the semester break we also got new living arrangements.

I found a new room in a new dorm called Butler House which was just across the way. We had a new House Mother and the girls I lived with were truly my friends. I had a large bedroom that overlooked the main street below. Emma was my room-mate. She was pretty and funny and could be quite mischievous. In fact, we were all good friends at Butler House, having picked the dorm and the rooms so we could be together.

While I was homesick still, I was no longer the sad girl I had been the last semester. I continued to do well at school and enjoyed excursions in downtown Oxford and London.

I went to friend’s houses for the weekend and had friends over to La Jolie Grandmère’s house. I traveled a good bit of the country for my Art History class, and life was starting to look up again.

The only thing which would plague me was my weight which was still not under control. While I was not so much using food to fill a void, it was there all the time. And as you know when you stick your hand in to a bag of m&ms or potato chips it’s really hard to stop at just one!

Eating, as you know, is a necessary evil. One does it socially and one needs food to stay alive. While the food at school remained abysmally bad, because we had full kitchens in our dorms, we could cook and create.  I had no idea how to diet as I had never needed to in the past. My friends didn’t look at me or treat me any differently. For that I am now eternally thankful. As my struggle was a personal one, and would remain so for years, it was nice to know my friends could see past my layers.

Finally, at the end of the school year, I wore more smiles than sadness and I was beginning to feel settled and as though I belonged.

My mother had called Hewitt (my school in New York City) to get all the paperwork in order so that I could return for my senior year. Imagine my devastation when I learned that because I had missed out on my Junior Year and all the AP courses required to graduate into the 12^th grade and I would have to enter the 11^th grade. In essence, my year in England – where I had experienced an education so superior that one cannot even compare – did not count for anything and I would be held back a year.

The decision was entirely 100% my own. I would not be returning to school in Manhattan, but instead would finish up my A-Levels and return to England to finish up my studies.I did not make this decision hastily or with a light heart, but it was not one I regretted either. Perhaps the next year would be easier. I would no longer be the New Girl. I left that July happy to return home and sad that I would miss the girls whom I finally and truly considered to be my friends.

I was not as unhappy when I boarded the transatlantic TWA flight this time. I did have my Walkman with me and I played, once again, as I would do every time I neared home, played A Heart in New York as we sailed the smooth skies above the Hudson into home territory.

To be continued...

Prep School across The Pond: Part 1

Note: This post turned out dramatically differently than I had intended... what was to be lighthearted and filled with fun and fashion and some good old fashioned name dropping turned into something much more personal -- writing this evoked many raw emotions, and great period of personal pain and struggle that would last for several years. Many teenagers go through awkward times, but all these feelings of self doubt and uncertainty happened so very far away from home. I feel a little vulnerable and exposed but I am not going to change it. So here it is The first installment of my British Education. (It is long.)

I remember the cool air and the grey skies of that winter. The weather was milder than at home, but the lack of sunshine that week was a bit depressing. I dutifully visited all the schools and quite liked the co-ed school but was not as fond of the campus. I chose instead a posh school that had educated members of the Royal Family, Guinness family and celebrities for generations. I had not known this at the time. (But I am certain that this was the reason it was my grandmother’s favorite!) I remember visiting; and seeing girls smiling and laughing and being girls as they walked down the halls to their classes. I remember the roly poly Mrs. Johns who was the then Head of the School. It seemed to me, as I observed all around, a place I would fit in well. The girls were pretty (of course that matters to a 16 year old!) and reminded me of my friends at home.

Needless to say La Jolie Grandmère was delighted with my decision to spend a year in Europe and spend it with the “right” people.

I finished up the rest of the school year in New York without incident. I was not unhappy to leave until the summer was over.

I had had a fabulous summer – the best of my life thus far – working at the camp I had attended each summer of my youth in the Adirondack Mountains. I had found and fallen in love – My first real teen love! While we did break up at the end of the summer we remained friends and our friendship would last for years to come.

The end of that summer, for me, was filled with fear and dread. I had just come into my own. I had a wonderful group of fun and supportive friends. I had fallen in love. My self-esteem and confidence level was at an all-time high. I should have been able to move ahead with confidence and a sure foot. But I didn’t and it would be years, over 20, before I would I would have the same sense of self and confidence again.

September was fast approaching and I was packing for a new life in a new country – a journey I would be traveling, for the most part, alone without the security of friends and family, which for a 16 year old girl is hard and scary and crazy and bold, and a very grown-up thing to do.

I have never been one to embrace change. To this day I loathe it. I fear it. For a 16 year old to face such change and uncertainty is almost insurmountable. But I had committed to a year abroad and there was no turning back. My mother never let me quit which I suppose is a good thing because I am notoriously good at starting and stopping. To this day I am better at starting new projects than completing them.

So without turning back, across The Pond I flew once more. This time my parents were with me to bid me a fond farewell. On that plane my stomach lurched and churned. I suppose it was the first time I was actually fearful of flying. I wore my favorite outfit. It was one I knew I looked good in. I wore a pretty white blouse, my favorite Girbaud jeans (It was the 80s!) with a white sweater around my waist and a pair of navy ballet flats. I had my bag of tricks to keep me entertained. Paper and pens, of course, and my Sony Walkman my father had just given me for this trip. I had several tapes for listening but I am pretty sure I played the same one over and over again.

The Police had released their Synchronicity album earlier that year. We listened to it at school and at each other’s houses. The first song, I believe, to top the charts was Every Breath you Take and I remember how taken I had been with it. The Synchronicity album was one of those great works you never tired of. That summer, with my boyfriend and a friend of ours who lived in Quebec, we traveled to Montreal to see the Police in concert. It was amazing.

Everything about that summer, to me, was amazing. I adored the Police and listening to the music and the lyrics brought me back to a warm and safe place. I just couldn’t get enough of the songs.

We had arrived in England a few days before school was to begin. We would spend our days relaxing and shopping to for my room and bedding. And I would pick up a few more things for myself along the way. Most important was that I get over the jet lag before school started.

I don’t remember much about that week or the drive to school.

But once we got to school I remember the details vividly, as though it was just yesterday.

The school was gorgeous, brown red brick covered with ivy all. The old architecture was spectacular. The school was elegant, stately and warm. We arrived at the same time other young, pretty girls with beautiful British accents did… long hair flowing over their shoulders…big blue eyes and rosy cheeks eager to receive kisses from the friends they had not seen over the long summer. The girls wore their summer tans under their uniforms. Everyone seemed genuinely glad to be there. Everyone but me. I mustered all my strength to keep from busting into tears. This was not my school. I did not belong. We got my room assignment and climbed all the way up to Treetops, Lower 6th form.

We climbed what seemed to be (to me) the endless flights of stairs before we reached the top of the building in search of what would be my room. We followed the numbers on the doors and did not have to look far. My heart sank further. I mustered up more strength to fight back the tears. I didn’t have a room, I had a broom closet that someone had the bloody audacity to paint a pale pink so that one might actually for a nanosecond mistake it for a bedroom.

My bedroom, excuse me, my broom closet, was so small it did not have a closet in which to hang my clothes. A small make-shift amoire was jammed in. I didn’t have a proper desk, and the small table seemed like an exaggerated joke. This clearly was the room no one wanted. The room no one chose last spring when the girls got to pick out their rooms.

I’m sure my parents told me my room was adorable and used words of that nature. But these words didn’t help. Soon it was time for them to say their goodbyes and leave me in the godforsaken place where I did not belong. I kissed them and hugged them and closed my door and cried. And cried and cried and cried.

A short while later the dinner bell rang. I followed the girls down the stairs to the two refectories. I had no idea where to go or where to sit. There seemed to be no sort of a visible seating chart and no one to show me the ropes. I made my way into the larger of the two refectories where I was met by a tall stern woman with grey hair and tree trunks for legs. Like a bad character from a movie about a British Boarding School Mrs. Webb glared at me, then shouted “Where do you think you’re going?” More tears to control. I think my lips managed to quiver the fact that I didn’t know where to sit. It was a small enough school with very few new students, surely she could have used a kinder tone if not kinder words. There was to be no hand-holding at this school. I learned this on Day One.

I found my table and my seat which was near the head. We had assigned seats with a child or two represented from each form. Each person at the table had a duty, for example one child went to get the food, another served, another cleared, another fetched the desserts…

My First Supper, other than my Grand Entry, left no major marks on my memory. I do not remember what was served that night or whether I ate any of it. The food in general was pretty terrible British school food. There was always some sort of meat, vegetable and starch. There was salad that contained lettuce and tomatoes and some sort of a nasty yellow dressing -- and I use that term loosely -- that was thick, too thick to spread over your salad properly and had the unfortunate and unmistakable smell and texture of Miracle Whip. Aghhhhh…. And then there were desserts. They were sweet and rich and not terribly good but were perfect for filling a void.

At some point, over the next day or so, I made some friends. In the room next to me was Camilla. She had more hyphenated last names than Elizabeth Taylor would have had she strung all her married names together. That this girl was of pedigree was unquestionable. But she also had issues and I wonder how many other elite boarding schools she had been to and kicked out of. She didn’t last terribly long and after an afternoon with her I figured I had best stay away.

We had a Dorm Mother. She was an ugly, short, stout lady named Miss Willetts.She had short, chin length brown hair and bangs. She wore unflattering dresses, skirts and heavy cardigan sweaters and ugly, sensible shoes. She was a character and we loved to cause her distress. Smoking in the dorms was absolutely prohibited. Though we did it all the time. We’d cram as many girls as we could into the bathroom stalls and pass around a cigarette or two. It’s amazing she could not smell the smoke wafting out from under the door or hear the dozen or so girls piled on top of each other giggling and shhh-shing! Then we would carefully sneak out and sneak back into our rooms. Miss Willetts would then come out of her own room and smell the smoke wafting through the corridors, demanding to know who had had a smoke. Of course no one fessed up. Eventually we took to sneaking in the bathrooms and would run the water in the tub to better hide the sounds of our giggles.

St. Mary’s School Girls stood out in town. We would never be confused with the townies. We looked and talked differently and it was important, that if we were going to break a rule, like sneaking a cigarette, that we did it very discreetly. We hid behind bushes and trees and cars in the park, every so often running into a faculty member or gym teacher or such. This became a fascinating game for me. I had never been a rule breaker before.

Although I was starting to fit in and even acquire a bit of a British accent, I still missed home and my friends and New York. This place, on the other side of the vast ocean, was not my home and didn’t feel like my home.I saw my grandmother from time to time, but not very often. Thanksgiving felt cold and lonely. I went home for the weekend and my grandmother had gone to all sorts of measures to create a wonderful Thanksgiving for me. But it lacked the most important ingredient, being at home in the States. After all, wasn’t the holiday a celebration of surviving in a new country away from the English rule?

I began to find solace in food. Food and goodies began to fill a void. I began to turn to food in a way I hadn’t ever done before. I didn’t eat because I was hungry. I ate because I was bored or lonely or sad. I sought more comfort in food than I was getting in this foreign and cold land. I was being self-destructive and I could feel it. The clothes were getting tight. I was bloating and gaining weight rapidly. This upset me too and only did more to fuel the vicious eating cycle. Food was making me miserable and yet the food was the only thing that could comfort me, though I didn’t see this at the time.

Academically things were going well. In the English academic system, once you hit the 6th form you pick three (and up to five) areas of study. These areas of study are referred to as the A-Levels, Advanced Levels. One can only take her A-Levels after O-Levels (Ordinary Levels) have been completed and passed with a grade of B or higher. The grading system is much stricter than in the States. When taking these exams the actual tests are graded by special individuals who are part of the testing system and not by the school. The tests themselves are thorough and rigorous and it takes two years of study to learn and study for both the O-level and A-level exams. I had chosen to study Art, Art History and French and was thrilled to never have to look at another Math text book ever again!

My teachers were wonderful and interesting, especially my Art and Art History teachers. These may have been the only two teachers at the school who cared and gave a damn about me. They were lovely, loving, supportive and encouraging. And from these two women I learned more than I ever could imagine both personally and academically.

Mrs. Shallgosky was fun loving, fun, eccentric and an amazing teacher. She had grey hair that she wore in a chignon, she was both stylishly modern and classically hip. Mrs. Beckerleg was a very short, very round and not terribly attractive woman with a heart of pure gold. She wanted her students to succeed at school and at life. She loved all her students dearly. This was clear. These two teachers, their love of their subject, their love for their subjects and for their students may be the most important thing I brought home with me. These two teachers have a special place in my heart still, after all these years.

As the weather turned cooler and the days grew longer and darker my sadness did too. It was nearly time to go home. I couldn’t wait. I packed up all my belongings – all my possessions because I was certain that I would never return. I would stay at home in the city where I belonged.

On the airplane I was at peace and calm knowing that I had left that terrible place behind me. I sat on that airplane, my clothes uncomfortably tight knowing that as soon as I got home everything would be OK again and my clothes would once again fit. I had Simon and Garfunkel in my Walkman. The lyrics to A Heart in New York struck a chord and as I listened I cried…

New York -- to that tall skyline I come
Flyin' in from London to your door
New York -- lookin' down on Central Park
Where they say you should not wander after dark
New York -- like a scene from all those movies
But you're real enough to me, for there's a heart
A heart that lives in New York A heart in New York arose on the street
I write my song to that city heartbeat
A heart in New York -- the love in her eyes
An open door and a friend for the night New York -- you got money on your mind
And my words won't make a dime's worth of difference
So here's to you, New York There were no more perfect lyrics than the ones I was listening to… I listened to them, as I tend to do when I find that perfect song, over and over and over again.

I got off the airplane eager to see my parents and be home.
Everything would now be OK.

But it wouldn't be.

What's on your bedside table?

Image, Courtesy Pottery Barn

I need some good book recommendations, girls! Every time I've been in bookstores lately I've been wandering around aimlessly, picking up books and putting them back down. I can't seem to find anything! The last really good book I read was The Help. I adored it. Everything seems to pale by comparison.  I don't want anything too heavy or too in depth that I have to give much thought to. I want something light and entertaining, though well written and with substance. Suggestions? Anyone? I would love to hear what you all are reading!

Thanks!

A Day in New York City Aboard The USS Intrepid

My father is a history buff... always has been. Growing up we had two televisions, one was a small portable black and white set and the other a large colored one that was housed in my parents' bedroom. On Sundays we would all watch television together. Sometimes it was a family movie. Often it was a historical documentary. The World at War, The Winds of War and like titles were what my father preferred. Most of the content was lost on me, too young to fully understand war, the casualties, loss and the repercussions. But still because it was television and because it was on, I would hang out with my parents. They sat on their bed and I sat on the big comfy chair, ottoman pushed in and my made my home there. I would have my paper, coloring books and colored pencils with me to keep me company.


I was never a history buff myself. I'm sure it's because my teachers made it tellement boring. What I always needed and what was always lacking, in my opinion, was the human element. This is why when I finally began taking art history classes at prep school in England, my world opened up and changed. Through art, which tells the story by sharing the human component, I started to enjoy history. And now that I am older with children of my own I have a new love and new interest for the history of my country (and the world) and the men who have fought so hard to protect my country (and the world).

 Aboard the USS Intrepid looking out at the New York Skyline

Rebecca, above, on the massive flight deck of the USS Intrepid.

The view of the New York City Skyline from one of the decks way up in the "cockpit"
which is such a stark contrast to her days at sea...

Our past and past, present and future all before me... I sit and wonder and marvel at the view ahead... Fighter planes of the past resting regally on the flight deck of the massive USS Intrepid who came to rest and call New York Harbor her home...

As my husband tried to read about the history behind all these planes -- (I think there were roughly 24 on the flight deck, and more below in the belly of the ship) I couldn't as I had a very wandering, whiny Alexander to watch, I focused instead on the art and beauty of the aircraft themselves.

Does this plane not some Disney-esque appearance about it? I don't know... I see Dumbo-looking plane! The spout coming out of the top of the is how this plane refuels itself in mid-air. We saw quite a few aircraft with these in various places.

We witnessed American and world history first-hand yesterday. It was awesome and amazing. And incredibly eye-opening. With all that has been going on lately within our own government, with our future history sitting precariously on a ledge, everything about yesterday was such a juxtaposition... the old war ship and war planes that had worked so hard and have seen so much sitting idyllically and  peacefully in modern times... the old war ship and planes who fought in far lands and over vast oceans resting tranquilly in Manhattan's harbor...

Perhaps what struck me most was when we were in the belly of the USS Intrepid. I was listening to a grandfather (slightly younger than my own father) tell his grandson (about Rebecca's age) all about the chopper they were standing in front of...(pictured above)  How he flew it... How it felt to be inside the small aircraft and what it was like to fly it. 

We got to board the Concorde which has long been a dream of mine. Ever since I was a little girl these magnificent planes that graced the air with record speed have always fascinated me. My grandfather flew them when he was working in California and living in Europe. He always complained that they were small and cramped and not very comfortable at all. I never truly believed him. Until yesterday! This long, wide-winged bird has a cabin that is no wider than that of a small commuter plane! I was amazed. I was also struck by how small the window were on the outside, just a couple of inches in diameter. My husband thought this might have something to do with causing too much drag. As we went into the plane we did try to locate which seats we thought my grandfather might have sat in!

In the belly of the Intrepid is where the museum lies with various exhibits and interactive activities for the children, and more planes.

 

The USS Crawler, a submarine commissioned during the Cold War set out to sea in 1962. It housed 88 men including crew. I was amazed at how narrow and cramped everything was below. These men lived in tight quarters... and I only saw 2 toilets!

To the men and women of our country who have fought our World Wars, The Korean War, The Vietnam War, The Cold War and the wars of today... I humbly salute you!

To learn more about the Intrepid please visit their website: The Intrepid, Sea, Air and Space Museum

Is your glass half empty or half full?

I was reading an article about lucky people. Well, the article was not just about lucky people, but what makes some people lucky and others not. It all came down to attitude and how people looked at themselves and all surrounding them. I've never really considered myself particularly lucky or unlucky, but something about that article resonated in me. No matter what happens I now try to see the silver-lining in what otherwise might be a very dark and stormy cloud. I do think this helps to turn luck around.

I also believe in fate...Sure our futures are determined by our choices, whether good or bad, but sometimes something larger looms... Sometimes this larger thing appears as a coincidence. I think these coincidences are messages to hone in on and definitely signs of something larger. You have to pay attention to these...I tune into everything around me. I believe there are clues and signs everywhere.

I also believe in guardian angels. There have been too many times in my life where things should have gone wrong but haven't. There have been times when either fate has stepped in... Or somewhere someone was looking out for me. Does this ever happen to you?

Yesterday I was taking the children to the movies. I had my three plus Rebecca's friend in the car. We were low on gas, I knew, but judging by the message on the screen on the dash there was plenty to get to the movies and home. If we hadn't been pressed for time I would have stopped but we were running late to the movies and then I had to get Rebecca's friend right home afterwards. I knew we were close but I was not worried.

We made it to the movies in plenty of time, picked up our drinks and popcorn and situated ourselves in the theater where we met up with friends of Alexander's and Christopher's. We saw The Diary of  Wimpy Kid. My older two have read and loved the books. I knew after watching the trailers that Alexander would enjoy it too. It really was a family-friendly movie with something in it for everyone. It was good clean fun with a good message and enough booger humor for the boys. The girls and I laughed aloud... a lot!

(Click on any of the below pictures to order any of the books)













We all left the movie giggling and smiling and in good spirits. The car ride home was uneventful save for Alexander screaming at me that he was not going to go to the gas station. No biggie, I would take the car later. We got off the highway and turned on to the great big hill that takes us home. I noticed the car sputtering a bit which seemed odd and made a note that I would mention this to my husband. I took a left on to the road that takes us to our street and the car sputtered all the way home. We joked about it being the gas. I'd make the kids push me. They could get wet in the rain and I would stay dry and steer as they pushed! Perfectly Lazy Mother, right?! We took the left onto our street... more sputtering. Very strange indeed, I thought. And then we pull into the driveway and I put my foot on the accelerator and the car sputtered once and stopped. Dead in her tracks at the bottom of the driveway!

Sure I could have been bummed about the car dying... about the expense of it all... the inconvenience of it all. But I wasn't. I thought instead, that it was amusing. And then wondered if perhaps the gas gauge was not off... if perhaps we had run out of gas?

So I called my husband and told him what happened.

When he came home from work he filled the car with 2 gallons of gas that we had in the garage for the tractor. He also told me that he was annoyed with me for letting the car run out of gas... though I was pretty certain I hadn't. But the gas didn't help. Still the car would not start. Of course, I had to say "AHA! I told you so!"  Because... well, just because!

Lexus came and brought the SUV to the shop. Later on I got a call from them telling us what was wrong and that it would all be covered by our warranty. (Thank God!) But our rear brake pads are running low. (Not covered by warranty.) Since parts had to be ordered our car would have to remain with them a few days we'd get a loaner SUV. All was good.

After I got the call from Lexus last night I realized how incredibly lucky we truly were. And I am certain it was no mere stroke of luck that the car did not stall and die in the middle of the highway or in the middle of the busy hill leading to our home... but waited until we were safely past the stone pillars that stand at the bottom of the our driveway. This was no mere coincidence at all. It was good luck... It was, perhaps, fate... but mostly I feel that someone was up there watching out for us... and I know who that someone was...

Today the husband got a quote from Lexus to fix the brakes. $380. Then he had the brilliant idea of calling Toyota to learn that the very same brakes cost $250! Guess where we'll be having the brakes replaced?