The Newburyport Blog

Newburyport et. al (”et. al”=abrr Latin, et. alii=”and others”), “two steps forward and one step back.”

“Two steps forward and one step back,” according to Wikipedia, “Is a catchphrase reflecting on an anecdote about a frog trying to climb out of a water well; for every two steps the frog climbs, it falls back by one step, making its progress arduous.”

George loves this. George being one of the political consultants to the Newburyport Blog. Finally, after all this time a reference to “frogs.”

George extremely happy that frogs are once again being “taken seriously” on the Newburyport Blog.

George, btw, has been lobbying for his own “Fan Page” on Facebook, as the consultant to the Newburyport Blog. (I might just do it, to show him that his “fans” are most likely froggy few and far between.)

And for this “Liberal Democrat,” the election for the Massachusetts Senate seat is most definitely “one step back.” (A lot more than “one” step.)

And in my funk, (I am most definitely in a funk about the result of the Massachusetts special election), I’m thinking that the “two steps forward and one step back,” applies to almost every political attempt at progress, whether it is from a Liberal, Democrat, Republican, Progressive, Conservative, Rightwing, Independent, whatever point of view.

It’s just how stuff works. The Democrats made huge history, giant leap forward, with the election of an Afro-American president. In the cyclical nature of things, at least “one” step backwards probably could have been expected.

And in Newburyport, MA, the election of 2007 ushered in one of the most “progressive” Newburyport City Councils that I have ever seen. The mantra was for “hang on to your hats,” “full speed ahead” with a progressive agenda.

Election 2009, for a myriad of reasons, a progressive Newburyport Council, not so much. And why this should surprise me? It should not. In Newburyport, it has been my observation, that from whatever point of view, the path is never linear, it always seems to me to be, “two steps forward, one step back.”

One of the things that I think Mother Nature definitely got right, is as the days grow shorter, and the sun is low in the sky, to make sure that the leaves fall from the trees, thereby letting in lots more light.

And in Newburyport, there comes a time in the fall when I am actually glad to see the last of the, by then, translucent, often yellow leaves float down to earth, letting oh, so much more light shine through into my dwelling, as the winter time frame for light becomes more and more undersized.

And there is always a point, sometime in the fall, when the light changes. It is a subtle change, but the hue is different.

And in the winter morning, as the sun rises later in the sky, the light touches the tips of the now leafless trees, and ignites them in a yellow-crimson light, that makes them luminous, and they glow in a way, that they never glow any other time of year.

And my discovery, as I sit in a reading chair one Sunday afternoon, after a Newburyport snow storm. The sun as it goes down around 4:30, lights up the now retreating clouds. And my neighbor’s 3rd floor windows facing West, hidden by trees in the summer, becomes an astonishing deep pink, yellow, blue color.

The windows are so bright that I wonder if my neighbors have done over their third floor, or gotten some exotic light fixture. But the color of their windows slowly changes to a dark and penetrating purple and then finally fades to black.

No, it is not a new decor, but a spectacular Newburyport winter light show, for free, put on by none other than Mother Nature.

I’ve lived here in Newburyport, MA a year shy of 3 decades now. Not to brag, but Newburyport City Councilor, Tom O’Brien, called me “an almost native.” May seem weird, but this really and truly is a big, huge compliment (I’m actually not kidding here).

And driving on Rt. 1A after a New England snow storm, one could always tell when one was entering a new town because of how the roadway was plowed. And for 3 decades, Newburyport, in the roadway being plowed department, has always stuck out, not in a good way. Definitely in the not as well plowed department. And after 3 decades, I’m beginning to think it’s just a Newburyport systemic thing.

I have found over the years, that calling the Newburyport Department of Public Works (DPW) and requesting better plowing on my street has worked wonders. At one point, I even sent them a “thank you” note, which they promptly pinned to their bulletin board. I think that they said that it was to boost moral, and that it might have been the only thank you note that they, the Newburyport DPW, had ever received.

During this recent snow storm, the first of January 2010, I called to say that the plowing job on my street was the worst I had seen in 13 years. The foreman (I believe that’s who it was) showed up on my street within about 15 minutes, and we had a very nice chat. Really, it was very nice.

Apparently, in its hope to do a good plowing job last year, the plows got too close to people’s property, and lawns and driveways were damaged (I believe that this was the gist of the informed information that I received). So this year to compensate, the folks (a lot of new folks apparently) were told to be very careful, the result being, plowing very far away from the Newburyport curbs.

I explained to the gentleman from the DPW who came for a visit, and the very nice and patient lady who answers the phone at the Newburyport DPW, that my neighbors and I were snow-blowing and shoveling our street, which, I was pretty sure was not the goal. They agreed.

When the plow returned to our street to finish up the job, it did one spectacular job. And I was impressed. So a big thank you from me to our Newburyport DPW.

I see my neighbor all the way down our Newburyport street. He has a day-glow orange winter hat on. I want one.

My neighbors, a lovely young family, have two dogs, which are technically “hunting dogs.” I never thought that they (the dogs and my neighbors) actually went hunting, but they do.

I find out this missing piece of information when I start my quiz about the nifty orange day-glow winter hat. (I have memories, which I share, of Marisa Tormei’s character in the movie “My Cousin Vinny,” when she laments about the cute little baby deer out prancing around, and then “BAM”), but no, they don’t hunt deer, just tiny little birds, sometimes. And no, they are not like Dick Cheney, they have never shot anyone in the face.

But the hat, I love the hat. During Newburyport winters, often the only safe place, or navigatable place, to walk when there is a lot of snow and ice, is in the middle of the street. And I tend to blend in with the surrounding, no red coats, at least not yet, for moi. And the bright day-glow orange hat would most definitely “stick out.”

I tell my neighbors that I too would like to look like a day-glow orange pumpkin head, and much to my delight, right before Christmas, they appear at my door, with a hat in hand.

On Christmas day, my son, who is now old enough to be beyond the “I am so embarrassed, you’ve got to be kidding me, you’re wearing a day-glow orange hat” phase, and I walk along the narrow car filled street of Newburyport’s historic district.

As a distracted holiday mother with a cell phone, and a busily driving teenager wiz by, my son nods his head in agreement. “Good idea Mom, I definitely get this one now.”

We pass some well known fellow walkers, who do not recognize me in my new day-glow paraphernalia. But when they are aware of who the mysterious person is, who is underneath the orange day-glow winter hat, they want one of those hats too.

So readers of the Newburyport Blog, who know me from my different walking routes, if you see a brightly colored, orange, day-glow pumpkin head moving along the street–c’est moi.

I will admit that I was hoping that I would turn up some fellow Newburyport and Massachusetts North Shore gluten free/Celiacs (see earlier entries) by writing about the subject on the Newburyport Blog.

And voila, so far someone local who makes gluten free cookies and a fellow Newburyport Celiac has contacted me. Thank you! But according to the statistics, 1 in 133 people have Celiac disease, there have to be a whole lot more folks out there–and I could sure use your help.

One of the things that I have discovered, is that although gluten free awareness is spreading by leaps and bounds, my experience of being told to go on a gluten free diet (no wheat, barley or rye) immediately, which is life altering and overwhelming, and then pretty much left hanging with no recommended support system, is by and large the norm.

From what I can make out, Beth Israel Hospital has a research and Celiac center in Boston, and Children’s Hospital in Boston has support for families with Celiac disease, but Massachusetts appears to be lacking behind many, many states in Celiac support. (And for a state full of cutting edge medical stuff, this seems odd.)

And I think our health care system doesn’t help much either. In researching why in the world my health insurance could possibly go up 37% in one year, I discovered that doctors will only be paid for office visits, not phone calls, much less emails. One of my doctors that I have known for years, recently told me that he now has to become a “businessman,” seeing as many patients as possible in a day, instead of spending the time talking with them, making sure that he knows them, and helping them with individual problem solving approaches, because otherwise he will go out of business. Discouraging to say the least.

And because Celiac is just beginning to be researched, it appears that a person would be “lucky” just to be diagnosed, but having a “Celiac team” to help figure out how to adjust to this weird thing, in most cases seems elusive.

I’m all for having a Newburyport or Massachusetts North Shore Gluten Free/Celiac support group. I’m sure there are a whole lot of people beside me who could use one too. And although there are no “comments” on the Newburyport Blog (see many earlier entries), I do have a contact email–info (AT) marybakerart.com.

I begin to figure out how to eat at home with this gluten free, Celiac thing (see earlier entries), but what about my beloved, in a pinch or not even in a pinch, Newburyport take-out restaurant.

I go to my first line of take-out defense, Chinese–Szechuan Taste on Pleasant Street. On one of my Newburyport walks I stop by during a non-busy afternoon time. I look at the soy sauce on the table, it contains “wheat, ” ie gluten. I am too discouraged to ask about how they prepare the actual food. I will come back at another time.

My next stop is my beloved Purple Onion on Inn Street. One of my favorites, their “Roast Beef Sandwich on Multigrain Bread” is obviously out, but what about their “Garlicky Saute Chicken” over rice? I talk to the owner who graciously goes and checks the labels on their tamari sauce–it contains wheat/gluten. I am crestfallen. I will return at a later date and we will check the ingredients in their guacamole, shredded cheese (yes this can contain gluten to prevent caking–good grief), hot sauce and sour cream. Too many labels in one spot for me today.

And I think “Ah hah,” Newburyport, a city that is cuisinewise diverse, has two Indian restaurants, Indian food being naturally gluten free using rice and bean based flours (who knew I would know about this sort of thing two months ago??). I go over to Pleasant Street again, enter the small, beautiful park, Tracy Place and go into Jewel In The Crown restaurant. I explain my predicament and the response is “Not to worry, no wheat.” I tell them that they have now become my new best friend, and I have found my first celiac take-out place. Whew.

And when I go to Jewel In The Crown restaurant for lunch the next day, they could not be more gracious, and are very patient in repeating the phrase that now makes me so happy: “No wheat.” And I look forward to eating every item on their menu, something I would never have done before being told to go on the gluten free diet from Hell. My celiac slump feels slightly less slump like as I try my first dish, “Chicken Saag,” in an introduction to a brand new cuisine. And I am so taken with chicken saag, that I go home to my trusty computer to find a recipe for this incredible gluten free dish and add it to my now beginning celiac repertoire.

PS. Not Your Average Joe’s restaurant in Newburyport has a gluten free menu. I tried their grilled chicken breast, garlic mashed potatoes and roasted green beans, and it was great. It was also very nice to walk into a place and no have to explain this “weird” thing, and to have them completely understand.

Watch the larger YouTube video here

A shameless promotion of my son, Hal Fickett (see many earlier entries), a native Newburyporter, actually born here, a graduate of Newburyport High School, and his new YouTube music video.

One of my great treats this warm season of 2009 has been a Sunday stroll down Federal Street to the Farmers’ Market at the Tannery in Newburyport, MA (see earlier entry). And my discovery of “the pie guy,” who is actually Cape Ann Pies www.capeannpies.com.

Both my grandfather and my grandmother on my Dad’s side migrated from Canada, and one of the favorite family traditions was pie, specifically apple pie, for breakfast. Good apple pie is hard to find, especially after the Baker Canadian version, and I found great apple pie, by the slice no less, from Cape Ann Pies right here in Newburyport, at our very own Farmers’ Market. Eureka.

If I had known that the slice of apple pie that I had in August was to be my very last slice of apple pie, I would have held a wake, I love apple pie that much. And as a result of the diet from hell, the gluten free diet thing (see previous post), apple pie–nevermore.

I stopped my Sunday ritual of heading down towards the mighty Merrimac River in search of apple pie. I could have gone down for all the zillions of “healthy” stuff, organic vegetable and fruits, etc at Newburyport’s Farmers’ Market–that would have been an obvious thing to do. But the thought of “no more pie” had me in Farmers’ Market avoidance.

But one beautiful Sunday in September I walked to downtown Newburyport, down historic State Street and along winding Water Street, full of its historic architecture, and, yes, there at the Tannery was the Farmers’ Market, teaming with its vendors and their customers.

Crossing the street, I made my way to “the pie guy.” I wanted him to know that I was no longer one of his regulars, not because I didn’t love his apple pie, but because of this “gluten thing,” and my apple pie mourning. And sure enough, he had a piece of apple pie set aside, all wrapped up, hoping that I would “come back.” It was a good thing that I had my sun glasses on, because otherwise he would have seen my eyes well up in tears.

When I told him about the gluten free, no more pie, bread or muffins, fun stuff, his response was, “No, it’s a lie!”

“No, this Celiac stuff actually makes sense,” says myself. And I tell him if he ever comes up with a gluten free pie to let me know ASAP. He tells me that he has tried, and we both say at the same time, “It tastes like garbage.”

Next year, or maybe by the time the Newburyport Farmers’ Market comes to its seasonal close, I will march down and scoop up all the naturally, obviously, remarkable gluten free veggies and fruit. But at the moment, since apple pie was one of my “guilty pleasures” and carrots etc. are not, I may need a little more time to grieve the passing of the “loving apple pie and eating it” years.

I open my mailbox, weeks ago, possibly now months ago, checking on when my last posting would be on the Newburyport Blog. There is a fat letter from my doctor. I cannot imagine what it could possibly be. Results from a lab test long since forgotten by moi. Apparently my body is silently destroying itself, ironically because of “comfort foods,” bread, cookies, pasta, crackers–stuff that contains something called “gluten.” I am immediately to go on something called a “gluten free diet.” Accompanying the lab results is a xeroxed list of all the things that are now “verboten.”

I, who always thought I was lucky enough to be born with the “skinny gene,” (see previous post on “shapewear”) actually have something called Celiac, a very unfortunate version of the “skinny gene.” And I who have never had to go on a diet in my life, now get to go on the diet from hell, from this point forth and forevermore, as long as I get to live. Apparently it is the only “cure” for Celiac disease, something that is nowhere close to being on my radar screen.

I immediately sit down to my trusty computer and look up “gluten free” and “Celiac.” Viola, it turns out that one of the grocery stores in Newburyport, MA carries a whole “gluten free” section. I immediately drive North from my abode, and low and behold, there it is, gluten free bread, cookies–I say to myself, “I’ll start with those.” One taste of these gluten free “treats,” out they go, $$ down the garbage hole. (Apparently I am far from alone in this initial outing and response.) I cannot bring myself to go from soft, fluffy bread and crunchy crackers to stuff that has the consistency of sand.

The Newburyport Blog has taught me how to research, and research I do, for weeks, now going on months. My initial research shows that gluten appears to be everywhere, chicken broth, soy sauce, liquorish, cereals, sunscreen, make-up, toothpaste, pudding, gravy, hot cocoa, just to name a few. And I am overwhelmed.

However, it also appears that I not only have a “wicked smart” doctor who has picked up this once possibility, but there is also now a budding gluten free awareness in the USA, and the beginnings of a huge gluten free industry, even as hospitals madly do research in this under-researched item.

And weeks, yes, maybe months after receiving “the letter,” I am not only grateful that this weird thing is not something much, much worse, like a “three months to live” sort of thing, and I am coming out of shock enough to once again post something on the Newburyport Blog.

Editor’s Note:  As a way of processing all of this, I’ve started a Celiac, Gluten-Free blog, The Year of Eating Weirdly–Celiac Surprise.

One of the things that fascinates me is what really happens in life, and what happens to make things happen, what are the “politics” of the situation, not what is on the surface. Not gossip and innuendo, but the reality behind the veneer.

And in the reporting business, this is almost an impossible thing to accomplish. Advertisers want their veneer kept in place, so that they can sell their product, so that they can make a living. Who is going to buy anything if they know the “real” story behind a company, no matter if it’s probably the story behind almost every average company. Nobody’s perfect, no company, institution, municipality is perfect. There is always a story, and it’s usually a pretty interesting story because the reality is usually so universal.

And like it or hate it, it is what was at the heart of what Tom Ryan did in his political journal of 11 years, the Undertoad, and whether I agreed with Mr. Ryan or not, I was fascinated that here was someone who was interested in the underbelly of Newburyport, MA, not a fluffy outside. Policy and politics were part of it. But exploring what was really going on, from Mr. Ryan’s point of view, was at the heart of the journal.

And I miss it. I know so much stuff about what is happening and making stuff happen in Newburyport, because people talk and I listen, that keeping it to myself makes me itch. But floating it out there, what good would it do me, except make me feel less itchy.

One of the things that I really enjoy are the emails that I get from people wanting to know what the “true” story is. It’s usually from someone who is thinking of or planning to move here. They could be interested about the landfill, the wind turbine, the parking situation, just to name a few things, and they seem to trust a blogger from Newburyport over the realtor that is selling them the product.

And I always email back, and give them my opinion, just my opinion, and if applicable, who else to talk to get a fuller picture. So thank you all of you out there in Web Land, I am honored and touched that you would think of contacting me, and I have enjoyed our exchanges. I love my home town of Newburyport, MA, but I know that it is not perfect, and I know that knowing the reality about Newburyport helps people make wiser and more informed decisions. Just the way knowing the reality or getting a fuller picture about just about anything helps us make wiser decisions in this lifetime.

Because of the financial melt down starting in September 2008, which effects folks in Newburyport, MA too, I find myself watching the business channel on TV. Believe me this is something new. Five months ago I wouldn’t have been caught dead watching the business channel on my Newburyport Television.

Apparently even the business channel on TV needs to liven things up, and there are gorgeous celebrities. The “hook” on this particular business segment, is how they got to look so spectacular.

They got to look so spectacular because they wear “shapewear.” The business channel can also now show semi unclothed gorgeous females. Sex, business–ever thus.

Having gotten stupid lucky and got the skinny gene, plus doing sit-ups and crunches every night for the last 18 years, not out of virtue, but to avoid massive back pain from years of painting gorgeous paintings, I’ve only accumulated mild midriff-bulge (see earlier entry), and I have obviously been oblivious to “shapewear,” which has been around, I gather, for quite a while.

From what I can make out watching the business TV channel, shapewear came into it’s own around the year 2002. And as I recall that was when former President Bush was at his zenith. I ponder whether this is a coincidence or not.

I’ve had this theory, which will not be completely popular with many readers of the Newburyport Blog, but my theory is that with the first election of President Bush, we as a nation regressed back to the 1950’s. (I’m hoping with our new president, President Obama, that we really and truly are coming out of those dark ages.)

And as I recall, in the 1950’s I watched my mother’s compatriots cram themselves into awful looking girdles, delighted that they looked so slim, despite, what seemed to me to be excruciating agony.

Now I haven’t gone out and test driven a shapewear product, yet, so I have no idea if they even cause excruciating pain or even mild discomfort. And yes, I now realized that almost all of the rest of the world knows about shapewear, tummy control, thigh control, butt control, lots of body stuff control, except moi, since apparently I just came off the planet Pluto last night, where there is no shapewear, tummy control, etc.

But I find it interesting that at the beginning of the 21st century, a form of girdle has come back into fashion. And I wonder, ponder what this says about our culture and society at large.

I look out my window as the sun rises, and sure enough, my ice-phobic neurotic Newburyport nightmare has come about.

All that Newburyport rain at 10:30 last night, has frozen in a flash, and it’s a skating rink out there.

I debate whether it’s too early to call what must be one exhausted Newburyport Department of Public Works (DPW), but decide finally that I will either get a recording, or an exhausted Newburyport DPW person, but what do I have to lose, except an encounter with a totally exasperated and exhausted Newburyport DPW person. I decide to chance it.

I get a downright cheery sounding soul on the other end of the phone, who promises that the sand folks will come once again to our Newburyport neighborhood. I am relieved by this empathic response.

Examining the situation outside as the sun rises, I come to the conclusion that this is not black ice, that is a thin layer of slippery stuff, but instead, that this is gray ice, a thick layer of slippery stuff. My skeptical self doubts that it will melt in the next decade. The sun is barely slivered over the roof tops in my neighborhood, and I have already worked myself up into a total early morning dither.

I tell myself, “What a wuss. There are people without power for days, if not weeks because of really, really bad ice, and I am dithering about grey ice. And this wussiness is from a person, who sort of got to a semi-professional ice skating status. The jumps and twirls weren’t much, but they were still jumps and twirls on ice.”

And I tell myself that I used to literally sail onto the ice (of course I had ice skates on), but I would always pay attention to the fact that I was on ice, slippery stuff, and not somewhere else less slick.

So plan A) is in place. I put on my boots, bought at my favorite Newburyport boot shoe store up near the Newburyport grocery stores, at the other end of our small New England seacoast city. Boots that would make Nanook of the North proud. Pay major attention to where my feet are, scatter salt about hither and yon, and try to remember my former confident and carefree ice skating days.

As most of you already know, but probably most of you don’t really care, George Cushing of Frog Pond, the political consultant to the Newburyport Blog, is pissed at me because he thinks the “new look” makes him look yucky.

I’m a sucker for frogs who feel sorry for themselves, and actually George has a point, he could look better. Also, in exploring my inner geek, I’m also falling in love with Photoshop all over again. So, I decided (not just for George, but also for my paintings that are on the World Wide Web) to see what I could come up with Photoshop frame-wise, to make him look just a little spiffier.

Placating frogs. Yup, that’s what we do over here at the Newburyport Blog.

A friend of mine has a wonderful reminder for me when my brain is all aflutter, and the itty-bitty committee up there is whirling around in my head and has me either way far away in the future, or way back in the past. They ask me, “Mary, where are your feet?” And I look down and realize that my feet are right here in the present.

The question, “Mary where are your feet,” is especially apt during this icy Newburyport, New England winter moment that has come upon us. No matter how enthusiastic the shoveling, snow-blowing or plowing, in Newburyport, New England, ice is us.

And as I go for my walk, I take very literally the words, “Mary, where are your feet.” I try and make sure that they are definitely not on the slipper mine-fields of all those icy patches.

I hear more terrible tales of folks slipping on the New England, Newburyport ice, and elsewhere in New England, breaking or spraining stuff, especially the infamous bracing yourself while slipping on the ice and spraining or breaking the non-dominant wrist thing.

You have my condolences. It really and truly is awful.

I did the infamous brace yourself while falling and do major damage to your wrist thing a few winters ago. It’s amazing what I could not do with only one hand. I was flabbergasted how much I took that non-dominant appendage for granted.

A friend of mine who is a wonderful and kind human being, plus a licensed OT (occupational therapist) who nurtures some lucky, lucky children in the Massachusetts public school system, came up with one particular trick. I was told to use my toes. And yes, I sat on the floor, grabbing whatever it was that I would have grabbed with my non-dominant appendage, and grabbed the object in question with my toes. And God bless my friend the OT, the toe grabbing thing actually worked.

And boy have I ever been major careful since that incident. I spot a patch of ice, which seems to be all surrounding these days, and immediately go into the ancient human being shuffling mode. I figure better to go into the ancient human being shuffling mode, than spend a good amount of time again A) in distress and B) sitting on the floor, clutching stuff with my toes.

I find at the Newburyport Library, which is one of my favorite places in all of Newburyport, and somehow makes paying my property taxes less painful, a small, and what looks like a treasure chest of a section. I decide to keep the “call number” of this treasure chest of a section, a big fat secret, and not to share it with anyone, not even any of the librarians that work at the Newburyport Library in Newburyport, MA.

I impulsively dub this section the, “Everything is going to be all right, really and truly, at least I hope so, ” section of the Newburyport Library, in Newburyport, MA. I spot a book by Stephen Colbert, so I know this finite area contains humorous stuff. Humor being something that I could use a heaping dose of in these scary and uncertain economic times.

And I spot an old friend (my mother used to say, semi rolling her eyes, “Books are our friends”), “Lost in the Cosmos, the Last Self-Help Book,” by Walker Percy, which I snatch from the shelf, as if it might be snatched from my hands, and usher it downstairs to the beautiful granite topped checkout center, before scurrying home with my new found treasure.

And that night I sit down in the comfiest chair possible and start to read, once again, Walker Percy’s “Lost in the Cosmos.”

By page two I no longer smile in anticipation, but begin to frown. By page four I turn back to the copyright page to find out when this book had actually been written–1983, a while ago. By page eight I call it quits.

The book no longer seems like a witty commentary on the society in which we live. It seems bitter, angry and confused about the direction that society is taking. I am beginning to understand a) why “irony” has been getting such a bad name lately and b) why this book has been sitting on the shelf and does not have a long waiting list instead.

I wonder out loud to myself if it could be possible that we as a culture could have actually outgrown an angry 1980’s ironic phase?

And I think about our almost president to be Obama. Over and over again the one thing people seem to agree on, and still seem to agree on, is that here is a man that does not appear to be angry, when in fact, many think he should be.

And last night as I flip through the channels looking for the latest inaugural news, on one of the cable channels I come across someone who says that they think that it is “ironic” that our new president will be inaugurated the day after Martin Luther King Day.

I think to myself that I in fact I do not think that this is “ironic” at all, now that I am coming to the conclusion that it may be possible that “irony” may indeed be going out of fashion.

Instead I think of it as what a wise friend of mine calls “God’s pinky.” Possibly that this “coincidence” could be the god of my understanding indicating that electing the first African American president is a very good thing.

A milestone of sorts. The first one of my friend’s children got married.

I cried through the entire ceremony, and wished for them what a friend of mine once referred to as, “the normal mess of a marriage.” That they would defy the odds, and make it until death do them part.

From what was said, it appeared that there had been discussion about the difficulties of marriage, which was an improvement on my own take–that marriage would be some sort of fairytale, and with no effort on anyone’s part, everyone would live happily ever after, no problemo. Obviously, the issue of realistic expectations had been addressed in a more concrete way.

And as I listen to the folks of Obama Land, the chit chat is that expectations are way too high, for the incoming president, and could we please bring them way, way down.

Although, no matter how much I try to bring my expectations way, way down, as far as Obama Land is concerned, somehow, when I’m not looking, they sneak back up there to a soaring pinnacle.

And I imagine that on Tuesday, January 20, 2009, during the inauguration of our new president that I (along with so much of the nation, and much of the world) will find myself beyond teary.

I really do realize that fairy tales are not possible, although having the first African American president, would have been so improbably not too long ago, that it feels somewhat mythic to me.

My hope as we arrive at Obama Land on Tuesday, is, not only for our new president but for our national as well, to that have wisdom, patience, intelligence, savvy, perseverance and a great big huge heaping dose of the biggest luck that the universe can possibly offer. Realistic? no, but I desperately want much more than the normal mess of politics, and much more than the normal mess of a presidency.

Having talked to various young men and women in their early to mid twenties, in Newburyport and elsewhere, I am beginning to think that the early to mid twenties thing may be as difficult in its own way as the teenage years thing.

I have two wonderful Newburyport neighbors who are somewhere in their late thirties and early forties, closer to, and therefore with better memories of, the age of the twenty age thing than moi.

They tell me that it is a teetering transition time between adulthood and childhood (I naively thought this took place at 18) and it’s best to throw them to the wolves.

My son seems to agree with the throwing to the wolves thing, at least when it comes to the female member of the parenting part. I am all in agreement, with the great hope that the journey to adulthood thing, not only has been set into motion, but is chugging down the adulthood path at some sort of consistent regularity.

However, it is not necessarily easy to have gone intensely down the parenting highway at a good clip for a good couple of decades, get off at a 30 mile an hour thoroughfare, Newburyport or elsewhere, and be able to actually slow down. The brakes get quite a workout. I am, however, more than ready to enjoy the scenery.

Others who are older than my Newburyport neighbors, with children who are in their 30’s and 40’s tell me a different story. They look at me with either a smile or a frown, and tell me, “They never really leave home.”

And at least for me, while my parents were alive, that was indeed true. I might not have actually been present at their actual dwelling or in contact at that actual moment, but there was always a sense of “home,” one that, yes, might have evolved over the years, but still, in whatever shape it took, existed in a very tangible way. And I didn’t comprehend that I had stood on that foundation, with both obliviousness and confidence, until that foundation was no longer there.

I was in New York (City) visiting my Dad and had lunch with him at his favorite eating lunch haunt in Mid-Manhattan.

It was one of those gorgeous New York spring days, and I walked back to where my Dad lived. And, as usual, when visiting my father, I was dressed in my “New York best.”

And I found as I walked North, I turned heads.

When my father got home that evening from work (yes, in his eighties, almost to ninety, my father worked, and loved to work), I told him that walking home I had “turned heads.”

He looked at me with that beady, quizzical look of his as if to say “Beany (he used to call me “Beany”), you are a woman of a “certain age,” and women of a certain age simply don’t’ turn heads.”

But I’d say to him, “No, Dad, really.”

When I was down visiting in New York one Christmas, when it was one of those blessed Christmases when it was actually warm outside, my son and I took a cab to his quintessential New York walk-up apartment near 42nd street, to bring back some of the Christmas presents that he had received. And we walked back to where my Dad lived, winding our way though a ridiculously packed Rockefeller Center.

Bakers don’t walk in New York, they stride. And yes, I was dressed up in my New York finest. And my son, who was also striding along side me, would say things like, “Mom, did you see that guy, he was trying to pick you up, and he was half your age!”

He recounted this amazing occurrence to my father when we arrived back at my father’s dwelling. My Dad gave him the same beady, quizzical look. And my son said to him, “No, Poppy, it’s true, really, the guy was half her age.”

When my Dad was ill and dying, I didn’t do any striding around New York City. It was more sort of stumbling blindly. And I noticed something–I sure as hell didn’t turn any heads.

It was as if in my grief, I had become invisible, or if not invisible, then sending out a grief aura, that folks in New York would like to avoid.

I thought of the old saying that goes something like, “When you smile the world smiles with you, when you cry, you cry alone.” (Of course this is not true everywhere, people in other parts of the country actually do respond with empathy to grief.)

And I came up with my own version of the old saying. It goes like this: “When you stride confidently in New York City, no matter how old you are, you turn heads. When you stumble in grief, you become as invisible as the ghost of the loved one that you mourn.”

I walk. That’s what I do. Some people ski. I walk.

I have my Newburyport route, so when it’s time to take a break, I don’t even have to think about it. Set myself on Newburyport walking-autopilot, and off I go.

People ask me, “You walk everyday, how much?”

And I say, “Two miles.”

And invariably they say, “That’s not enough.”

And then I think to myself (I never, ever say it out loud, I’m far, far too polite), “Look at me and look at you. Who’s in better shape. I don’t even have midriff-bulge (yet).”

When I was pregnant, my father announced to me one day, that after my pregnancy, I would get the dreaded midriff-bulge, and that it would never, ever go away.

It’s been a few decades since I last gave birth, and I look into the mirror and go, “Do you have mid-drift-bulge yet? Is this mid-drift bulge?” And after all these years, I’ve decided that my father was wrong. I only have, decades later, a very mild case of the midriff-bulge thing.

Actually, as an entire family, we never got the dreaded obesity gene thing. No, we all eat like birds, and when something goes wrong, we end up not having any appetite, and lose tons of weight, as well as any mild midriff-bulge thing that we might have actually acquired along the way, instead of the other way around.

People, who don’t have this very fortunate gene, always look at us and say things like, “You look so gaunt.”

And I want to say something like (but I never, ever do, I’m far, far too polite), “Don’t you wish sister.” or “Don’t you wish you dope. You have the midriff-bulge gene, and you’re just jealous as all get-out. You’re dying to look gaunt.” (No pun intended.)

But instead, I just smile, and say what a friend of mine calls the “Cheerio prayer.” I say “Oh.”

And then I sometimes, if it’s me that’s been told I look, “So gaunt,” I add, “I guess it’s from those two miles of Newburyport walking.”

Icicles are supposed to be beautiful, sort of like living chandeliers, but I have a vague remembrance of once being told that as far as Newburyport houses go, icicles are bad, bad, bad.

I’m not sure if this is true, but it actually makes sense to me, so I’ve decided it is true.

This is one of the reasons I use my trusty roof-rake (see previous post), so, among other reasons, I don’t have the dreaded (all though I’m not sure why) Newburyport icicle thing.

I stand out in my Newburyport driveway, look at my Newburyport roof, and despite having used my trusty Newburyport roof-rake, I still have icicles. This is a mystery. But I’ve decided that although slightly menacing and dagger like, they also so sort of do look like drippy little chandeliers about to bring down my roof gutters, so I decide to enjoy them, or as my son would say, “Mom, just forget about it–put it on the shelf.”

On the shelf, the icicle thing goes, that is until I go for my walk. Then I start noticing icicles all over my neighborhood.

And on one house the icicles look as if they are blowing sideways. I’m not kidding, not up and down icicles, but sideways icicles.

I stand in the middle of the road (it’s a rarely traveled, Newburyport one way street road) and examine this ambiguity. “Could it be that this particular Newburyport house is close to the water, and the icicles actual are blowing in the wind,” I think to myself.

But as I walk back to my dwelling, I actually find crooked icicles dangling here and there. And gasp, when I get back to my own house, I notice that I actually have one angled icicle. One angled icicle among many, many long nifty straight ones.

Now this really is inscrutable.

I suppose I could visit the World Wide Web and learn about this icicle mystery one day. But for now, I’ve just decided to take my son’s wise advice, and really and truly put the icicle thing “on the shelf,” and accept this odd icicle anomaly.