Category: family

Standing at the Edge

(“Standing at the Edge” appeared in November, 2021 on my old blog; it has been further edited and expanded.)

The series of aerial photos was of a property all too familiar. Seen “bird’s eye”, one might feel compelled to view the images dispassionately, but my emotions played some tricks on me. Nostalgia made me smile; regret made me sigh. 

In the mid 1980’s, Mom, Uncle Bob, and Aunt Marie bought a small house on a small lot high on Manomet Bluffs on the southeast coast of Massachusetts, technically not quite a part of Cape Cod, but close enough to feel a sturdy kinship. When you have expansive, breathtaking views of all of Cape Cod Bay, you shrug at the smallness of your staging ground. In any season, on any day — or night — a seascape can be called forth just by wishing it, just by facing east. 

While I can’t be 100% sure about Uncle Bob and Aunt Marie, I have no doubts that this little house was the one that Mom loved best. Inasmuch as every memory I have of Mom from that brief period in time presents someone who had found her deserved happiness, the photos I held in my hand were disturbing reminders — the tangible evidence — that their little house on the bluff (affectionately — and always with droll effect — called “Blind Man’s Bluff” because Uncle Bob was blind) was at great risk of tumbling into the sea. I shuffled the glossy photos one final time, lined them up neatly by smacking their lower edges on the table a couple times. I intended to put them away once more, but the decision to save them, I realized, was no decision at all, just kickin’ the can down the road. I instead went over to the trash barrel and tossed them all in, taking a moment to absorb what I was doing. Everyone knows how I hold onto the past. However, because I knew precisely why the aerial set of photos had been ordered in the first place, keeping them was a form of punishment.

The three siblings kept up the gambit for seven years, preferring to count their blessings. One of the first things they had done upon arrival was plant a tripod — with great ceremony — in the middle of the second floor living room; upon the stand they secured a telescope that faced the wall of windows, drawing toward their eye all the activity taking place directly east of them in Cape Cod Bay. One could not climb the open spiral staircase and enter the living room without responding to the beckoning telescope’s eyepiece. On more days than not, they had a clear view straight across to Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod. 

Each season offered a bounty of stimulating activities. Even when winter’s furious gales pinned the crag clingers inside their home, their curiosity about life on the Bay continued unabated. And each time air temperatures and weather patterns signaled seasonal change, the activity in, on, and around the water adjusted accordingly. 

With an abiding love of learning, the two sisters and one brother quickly taught themselves the habits of various marine birds, but they were especially interested in the great variety of fish species with which the Bay teemed — striped bass, bluefish (who always put on a spectacular display for those who closely monitored fishing activity,) mackerel, pollock, and — of course — cod. (The namesake species, however, was already in decline by then due to decades of over-fishing.) Whales, too, would occasionally wander into the Bay, getting slightly mixed up on their seasonal migration. Sometimes, they were simply in hot pursuit of prey further down the food chain who had lost their own way.

“Aha! You were right, Bob,” one or the other of the sisters would narrate as she leaned into the eyepiece, “Lucky Striker’s back. . . with his arm in a sling. Looks like he might have a deckhand today. Son, maybe?” Each chapter built on the one before, and it wasn’t long before they had fully imagined characters, backstories, and conflicts. By making it a daily habit, they came to know — in their own way — the regulars who plied the waters. Never knowing their real names, they nevertheless could identify them by their boats, and their habits. They could tell you, for example, exactly which lobster pot would be pulled next, and the next one after that. They knew which lobstermen took their time and which ones worked in a hurry, who was absent. . . and for how long. Because sound traveled whole and unimpeded up the face of the bluff, they could, as well, categorize the fishermen by their musical preferences. By and large solitary figures absorbed in their own endeavors, on occasion one captain might motor over to another to engage briefly in conversation. It wasn’t social; topics appeared serious. New industry regulations, perhaps?

The three cliff-dwellers followed with even greater interest the illegal drug smuggling operations, which were often interrupted by U.S. Customs or Coast Guard busts. On occasion, the aerial surveillance by helicopter and high-speed pursuits over water provided exciting entertainment. (Law enforcement was very busy in the waters of Cape Cod all through the 1980’s, first with their efforts to stanch the flow of Mexican marijuana into our country, and later with the Colombian cocaine trade.)  

I was recently told that the little house on Manomet Bluffs sits at the highest elevation in Plymouth County. It feels as if it could be true when you arrive there by automobile — steadily ascending the narrow shore road to its highest point. And it looks like it could be true if you’re out in the bay and you scan the coastline. Low growing trees — scrub pine, mainly — and lots of laurel line the undulating horizon. It’s not that high, for the record. (The highest elevation in the county is a short 4 miles inland.) “Indian Hill”, the particular summit on Manomet Bluffs to which the house is moored, shows on topographical maps as being 161’ above sea level; it is still impressively high up there, and gives you a heady experience when you stand at the edge and allow your eyes to abruptly travel down the sheer, mostly sandy face of the bluff. 

Follow the shoreline road directly south, and you descend toward sea level and the entry point to the beach. If it can be said that the dramatic, panoramic views from above encouraged big picture thinking, the beach below, in the lee of the bluff, offered an essential counterpoint; it allowed for close scrutiny. All activity at that level was hands-on; it was important to be able to hold things, turn them this way and that, feel all the contours and textures. And wonder about it, talk about it. Any visitor to Blind Man’s Bluff was entertained by a new story about a recently discovered treasure — what it was, where it was found, how they’d determined its keepsake value. The home thus became a vibrant museum with an ever-changing gallery of found marine treasures.   

As much as they loved that perch with its stunning views of the bay; where the ocean air was never still; where their daily ministrations were accompanied by the syncopated strains of sea gull squawks, fog horns, and the low vibrations of boat motors; and where they could cheerfully practice their “5:00 somewhere” (or was it 4:00?) outlook on life; they knew it was only a matter of time before their back yard collapsed into the Atlantic. In the back of their minds, they must have known that their small-scale measures — ecologically sound as they might have been — were inadequate; the salubrious, composted slurry that they mixed up daily in their kitchen and cast over the edge of the bluff was no doubt seasoned with a fervent sense of wishful thinking, maybe even swathed in a wry prayer to the Blessed Virgin Mary. It’s not hard to imagine them examining closely, but with diminishing hope, for signs that their vegetable concoction had taken literal hold of the unstable bluff. After exhausting the ordinary slate of homeowner remedies designed to arrest the advance of the ocean (in your desperation irrationality can be forgiven), with hearts heavy but minds clear, they sold their little piece of heaven. 

~

I live ninety miles north of Manomet Bluffs, also on the coast, but, because I’m an especially cautious person — and a worrier — not right on the water. Several times a week (particularly in the off-season) I take my dogs to Salisbury Beach State Reservation, two miles away. When the cold weather creeps into our region, usually by the end of October, I have a selfish expectation that “The Rez” will — as ever — revert to the quiet sanctuary that encourages private thought and a solitary appreciation of its natural gifts. One lap around the empty campground with a slight detour out to the boat launch where Black Rock Creek meets the Merrimack River gives me just enough time to rearrange my scattered thoughts, and, of course, set my world to rights once more. My two dogs, likewise, lean into the activity, responding to the invigorating qualities of The Rez. They’re eager (more so than I) to sprint along the seawall and cavort at river’s edge, maybe even lap at the briny water (which, of course, they’ll promptly throw up). The further away from the parking lot we move, the more immersed we become in our own pursuits. 

So, on one particular morning, I almost don’t notice the low grumbling sound from across the river. Looking over to Plum Island on the opposite bank of the Merrimack, I can just make out the bobbing motion of a large piece of machinery as it excavates sand. Large excavators on a barrier beach attract a fair amount of attention, attention that often billows in clouds of controversy. Right now, a handful of dark figures stands motionless at the edge of the dune; no doubt, islanders filled with equal measures of curiosity and apprehension, apprehension being a sentiment they find impossible to shake these days. For people with homes either directly on the ocean or at the mouth of the Merrimack River (Plum Island, like Salisbury Beach, sits at the very confluence of the Atlantic Ocean and the Merrimack River), weather forecasts are tidings to be followed closely and parsed, their sources carefully vetted.


The Merrimack River is always spoken of in terms of its ability to bounce back from adversity, the “Resilient Merrimack”, it’s often called. Surging, cascading, and gliding along its 117-mile course, it supplies over half a million people with drinking water, all the way up into central New Hampshire.  Many of the cities throughout the Merrimack Valley, in fact, owe their very existence to this river. Follow the river inland and you pass through Haverhill, Lawrence, Lowell, on into New Hampshire and cities such as Nashua, Manchester, Hooksett, Concord, Franklin. None of these cities would have endured without the empowering waters of the Merrimack.

As I’m squinting to see what’s happening on Plum Island, I remember that the meteorologists warned of a one-two punch with astronomically high tides and a storm well out to sea, but still near enough to menace the coast. Curious, I steer the dogs back the other way toward the beach on the ocean side, but before I’ve rounded the first dune, I already notice how the familiar contours of the sand near the tall north jetty have been altered. This happens regularly, however; aggressive tidal action shifts the sand wildly, sometimes completely covering the jetty, only to move it back to its original place after a few more tides. When I pass the dune with my two dogs, I’m brought up short by the scene before me — lobster traps and buoys, giant mounds of rockweed, random lumps of wood, and even an orange traffic cone and a 5-gallon plastic bucket litter the sand. Looking north along the length of the beach, I consider that all the debris ranging out in front of me is an amalgamation of things that were ripped from the shore and others that were hurled at it, all comingling and implying a savagery that unnerves. And this one wasn’t even a direct hit. Deep gouges have been carved by the punishing waves. In both the near distance and far, I see stairways — the fragile threads that connect homes with their coveted spots on the beach — dangling well above the sand. And along that same ribbon of churned sand, a different set of dark figures surveys the damage.

None of this suggests a new pattern, it should be noted. Almost forty years ago, and ninety miles south of here, my mom and her two siblings were watching with a similar sense of foreboding as each storm pummeled their segment of the coast. And just like then, it serves to underscore that Mother Nature enjoys a lopsided advantage in her enduring battle with mankind. 

When you fall in love with the place you adopt as your home, whether that be on the ocean or a river or nestled deep in a glacial valley surrounded by gentle hills, you pay attention to physical changes. . . and you worry, or at least you should worry. Inasmuch as we’d like to rely on our planet’s adaptability, by continuing to invoke divine intervention (and if not that, then the ministrations of local, state, and even federal government), we fail to perceive the “use by” date; in other words, we risk everything by failing to heed environmental warnings. As that series of aerial photos of Manomet Bluffs made so clear, it’s sometimes too painful, too upsetting, too real to pull back and see the big picture. Just one more roll of the die, you say as you blow on the pair and then uncurl your fingers, almost too afraid to watch as the cubes rock on their edges and settle into place. 

In October of 2020, Plum Island homeowners on the north end of the island coordinated an effort to establish a barricade using one-ton “Super Sacks”, enormous plastic bags filled with sand. It ended badly for them. If you’ve never before seen one of these Super Sacks, up close it is reassuringly enormous, and that’s just one. Imagine hundreds stacked shoulder to shoulder, an entrenched defensive army bracing against a formidable adversary, one whose tactics are not easily discerned. Less than a year later, the bags had been shredded, and the ocean — as if exacting bounty — reclaimed its sand. It was hard for Plum Islanders not to notice Poseidon’s hand in all of it; he has a way of making his point about man’s puniness.

Plum Island homeowners, I learned, in yet another effort to disrupt the sustained assault by the ocean, obtained a consequential legal dispensation that they hope, once again, will buy time until a more permanent solution rescues them from this never-ending crisis. Maybe those dark figures separated from me by a narrow band of water are bowing their heads in silent supplication as the big equipment erects a new barrier. The current scheme utilizes giant rocks and stitched-together coir bags, immobilized by wood pilings driven deep into the sand. The wood pilings, in particular, get me to thinking. After seeing past efforts fail, is there greater confidence that by digging deeper into the ground, the ocean will be vanquished? And, how deep is deep enough to be able to get a firm grip on what each is hoping to hold onto?

As someone who has lived on the Atlantic coast for nearly five decades, it is impossible to ignore the effects of global warming and consequent sea level rise, and with that, soil erosion. I started to pay closer attention, in particular, as more and more investigative reports focused on Greenland’s dramatic ice sheet melt. I was puzzled, initially. In what way does the accelerated melt have to do with the Gulf of Maine’s waters or the shift in the Gulf Stream? Why was — and is — that so important to all of us who live on the coast of Massachusetts? It seems important to make the complex connection between that ongoing event and the changes that I’ve been noting on my dog walks. 

One can easily get lost in the seemingly endless chain of cause and effect. Did it all start with the industrial era? Or even earlier? If later, the weight of our own behaviors, and the decisions and choices that we have made could drag us under as we shift the narrative to one of culpability. Ah, if only we could continue to shrug it off as a temporary (but entirely fixable) ecosystem imbalance. It’s inevitable, we might even say; it will right itself over time.  My restive spirit strains to see the ultimate good that can be achieved through either complacency or — worse — makeshift (and myopic) remedies that at best provide transitory relief. 

I perceive the escalation of despair among those most directly affected by coastal erosion, and am sympathetic to their urgent pleas for deliverance. With each storm that sweeps through, the force that the homeowners use to press their palms together in impassioned appeal increases; their anguish spreads deeper. A good many of them are third and fourth generation homeowners of cottages that have long ceased to be merely seasonal. How hard it must be for them to imagine forfeiture, both of a lifestyle and a family’s legacy. It is not for me to pass judgment on beach homeowners’ determination to save their property. If I lived eye-to-eye with the ocean, I would want to do the same. 

To everyone’s surprise, Manomet Bluffs and the little house that roosts at its edge, keeping a wary eye on storms that swoop across Cape Cod Bay, continue to stand sentinel at the retreating margin of our east coast. While stoically resisting the relentless pounding of the Atlantic Ocean, the escarpment is ever so gradually surrendering its tenuous grasp. . . one delicate clump of soil at a time. There is no denying, however that vegetation still stubbornly clings to the unstable surface. It makes one wonder if that composted admixture being poured from above decades earlier did work some magic after all. It’s very mystifying; we can’t make sense of it. With no promising sign that the current trend of coastal erosion will reverse itself (in fact, the data make abundantly clear that ocean storms are becoming more intense and more frequent, and that sea levels are steadily rising at an ever-increasing rate); we nevertheless see it as a reminder of nature’s fighting spirit, its persistent quest to self-heal. It gives us hope. 

There’s no easy answer, no easy fix, and it’s quite possible that at some point in our lives, we will all find ourselves standing at the edge of a cliff. Teetering thus, we might — even unwittingly — concede the pragmatic value of the long view. Maybe it’ll be the only one that helps make sense of it all, given that “it” varies from one person to the next. By making periodic small adjustments to the telescope’s lens, we keep the horizon always in focus, accordingly opening ourselves to more promising prospects and ultimately a deeper understanding of nature’s plan and where we stand — and where we hope to stand — in relationship to it. 

EPILOGUE

My late husband always traveled with a pair of binoculars in his car. Even without them, he was a keen observer of the landscape. After he passed away, I made a new carrying case for the binoculars, and placed them within easy reach in my own car. What I soon discovered was that I was viewing my surroundings differently. Instead of being drawn to disparate elements, my eyes began to seek the horizon and the defining margins of the diverse landscapes. Open fields; gently rising hills; wide meadows; long, flat stretches of marshland; and, of course, every body of water — their vast size and beauty held a jumble of earnest flora and fauna and all the sacred secrets of life, detectable only by raising the binoculars to my eyes. It affirmed for me the mysterious and magnificent design of the natural world, with all its harmonious parts. 

My best and humble advice, therefore, is to invest in a decent pair of binoculars and keep them near you wherever you travel. It is always in an unexpected and thrilling instant that they come in handy, as happened to me only yesterday when I spied a bald eagle traveling south above the saltmarsh. En route to its deep winter fishing ground close to the mouth of the Merrimack, it flew right above me. Although it seemed not to have noticed my presence, nor — more importantly — potential quarry in the form of two small dogs, I was confident that long before I had caught sight of him, he had already sized up the situation. For me, the sight was reassuring, as it always is, for it reminded me that there are still parts of nature that perform in the expected ways. Tracing the path of the majestic bird with my binoculars as it veered west to head upriver, I was filled with gratitude, my mind at peace. 

And I get it now, why people cling fiercely and stubbornly, even desperately to a piece of unstable earth. It may be an epic provocation of Poseidon or other gods and goddesses of nature, and/or a wild and audacious calculation of risk and reward, but when I reflect back on my mom’s seven-year experience living on a high bluff at the fragile edge of our continent, I realize that each of us defines our own life expectations — our aspirations and our personal limits. We make our own calculations of risk and reward, and live according to those terms. For seven very full years, my mom and her siblings wove together a tapestry of rich experiences, ones that could fuel vivid, life-affirming memories. Who can say why some of us feel more strongly the siren call to the sea? There’s a clear difference between someone who lives right there — and craves an intimate connection — and someone like me, who can breathe in the sweet/salty, intoxicating sea air, but then walk away. . . my needs thus slaked.

So, why only seven years? It can be imagined that every beachfront property owner whose home and acreage are threatened by erosion worries about the next big storm. When you reach a tipping point, when your anxiety becomes unendurable and clarity of mind brings acceptance that no amount of composted slurry will cement that dissolving bluff, it’s time to draw the curtain. The house on Manomet Bluff was never intended to be the “forever” home anyway, at least for my mom. It was more a very long-term vacation home or an experiment in risky real estate. What the three siblings agreed on was that they never wanted to be in a position of coerced surrender, whether through managed retreat regulations or — God forbid — a massive collapse of their section of the bluff. 

In the end, they walked away with an overflowing chest of exciting memories. There was no regret, even though the next home that Mom and Aunt Marie bought together was an unfussy, modest cottage in Yarmouth. Midway between Sagamore Bridge and the Cape’s “elbow”, their new home stood in a tidy, safe neighborhood where there was predictability and a tranquil sameness to their days. As Mom explained it to me in an end-of-summer card, back in 1993; “we certainly love living here. It’s a world of different considerations — all of them better except that view.” For the rest of their lives, one or the other sister would on occasion abruptly pause in whatever activity she was engaged in. The sewing machine would cease its rhythmic hum, the paintbrush would hover short of the canvas, the scrit-scrit of the trowel would become silenced in the soil as one sister would be conveyed by remembrance to Manomet Bluffs. With a far-away look on her face, she’d muse, “Oh, but that view!” And the other sister, with that same far-away look, would respond, “Mmm, that view!” In the comfortable silence that ensued, they were each turning over a remembered moment from that earlier time.

Bowie and Mona Exploit Mommy’s Shower Time

It cannot be said that the few minutes I stand beneath the shower head and feel the warm water cascading over my body are a sublime escape from the ordinary stresses of daily life. With two dogs lounging on my bed, too much can go wrong. And they know it. Although, from their perspective, so much can go right.

I heard the thump and knew precisely what was going on. Bowie had obviously not been thwarted in his quest for a good read by the framed picture I placed in front of the stack of books on my nightstand. It’s a teetering tower, and my boy intuits how much I like those things. The way I cuddle them, and calmly sigh with satisfaction when I arrange myself every night for a few minutes of pleasurable, pre-sleep distraction. How can she like those things? They don’t even do anything, he must think.

At the same time that I shrieked, “Leave it,” I stemmed the delightful aquatic cascade and stepped out of the tub, simultaneously reaching for a towel. Before I had even toweled off, I tugged the door open and squinted toward my bed, where Bowie appeared to be lying innocently. Mona looked up from her position next to the bed, innocent as well. My eyes without glasses in front of them are pretty useless, but I could just make out the small, blurry, rectangular shape next to Bowie.

Seeing that neither dog was engaging in criminal behavior in that particular moment, I took the time to towel myself off and put my glasses on. Still naked, I examined my teetering tower of books, trying to assess if any others had been tampered with. I suspected that there was one missing. You should be forgiven for daring to vividly imagine my body next contorting to see — and then reach — beneath my bed for my latest literary victim, which was lying just out of reach. It struck me how much it resembled a sunken shipwreck, its back broken and with parts of its cover surrounding it like spilled treasure.

Using the softball bat that I keep under my bed (for defense against home invaders*), I was able to sweep the book toward me. I then stood and held up the victim of this most recent misdemeanor. Bowie looked straight ahead, avoiding my gaze, while Mona looked up at me with angelic eyes. Both waited to see what stern words Mommy was going to say.

It was one of those moments where I favored the high road. I had no choice but to give both Bowie and Mona the “BOD”. As exculpatory evidence, the book lying next to Bowie was still intact — no chew marks, no sheared off pieces. The book I had retrieved from under the bed — the real casualty — was closer to Mona. But, how could I not place greater weight on a suspect’s reputational cache?

After a silent few seconds, I concluded the matter with a simple, You guys get a pass this time. At the sound of “you guys” both pairs of ears perked up. They only ever hear it followed by things that are wonderful, such as, You guys want to go for a walk? or, You guys hungry? The crime was already in the past, as far as they were concerned. With a renewed bounce in their step, both headed with great anticipation for my bedroom door. I decided I should probably return my weapon beneath the bed. . . and get dressed before taking them for a walk.

* * *

*I don’t have plans to ever keep a gun in my nightstand or under the mattress, but considering all the scary TV series I watch, I often am anxious when I head up to bed at night. Hence, I logically keep a softball bat beneath my bed. In a conversation once with my younger daughter, she asked, “Do you even know how you would use it in the moment?” I demonstrated my flawless batting stance and swing, a holdover from my early days of softball play. “Nope, that won’t work,” she offered with great certainty and finality. Apparently, for my weapon to have even the most remote chance of inflicting harm on a home invader (on the order of a “slight bruise” most likely), I’d have to choke up, really choke up, much more than I ever did when I played softball. It would feel so unnatural; could I even do it?

Kitchen Counter — Smooth As a Baby’s Bottom

Do you ever have those kitchen frenzies, when all you want to do is find a purpose for every small appliance and tool you own? Make it worth the ongoing expenditure for a “well-equipped” kitchen? I just emerged from the rubble of one of those two-day frenzies. My kitchen is once again sparkling from all the granite polish I applied.

As I ran my hand over the surface of one of my counters, I was reminded of a conversation I had decades ago with a fellow teacher. Donna and I were assigned the same study hall in the cafeteria. After having taken attendance, which daily required nothing less than a seasoned teacher’s lusty bellowing to get everyone’s attention in an enormous space with the worst kind of acoustics, we would settle comfortably into casual conversation. One day, I described to Donna the kitchen plans for our new home. I was excited to be able to dream about all the counter space, something we lacked abysmally in our tiny first home. Donna pointed out how satisfying she found it whenever her counters had just been polished, “Oooh, there’s nothing compares. Smooth as a baby’s bottom.” Ever since, that’s exactly what I say, too, whenever I’ve polished my counters and run my hand over them.

There’s great usefulness for gadgets such as — and these are all items I currently own — the Instant Pot, the air fryer, the bread maker, the waffle maker, two sizes of choppers, the food processor, the ice cream maker, crockpot, and the Kitchen Aid mixer. I could part with just about all of them with the exception of the KA mixer, whose value I’ve only come to know and appreciate in recent years. Reflecting on this vast array of helpful kitchen tools, I’m struck with a sense of embarrassment — what would Mom think of all of it?

Mom was the most amazing cook. (Who doesn’t think their mother was “the most amazing cook”? Probably no one. Wait, that’s not true. My late husband George withheld praise where it concerned his own mother’s cooking, which, come to think of it, was probably the key reason why he married me. He was completely blown away by the meals Mom made for her brood.) She learned her trade in the dietary sciences program at Framingham State College when she attended from 1939 to 1943. She was one of those people who can skillfully crack an egg with one hand or swish ingredients around a skillet and then toss them expertly in the air to flip them all over at once. At the time, it escaped us entirely that she had a genuine understanding of the science behind cooking. (Alton Brown gets that, and who doesn’t love Alton Brown?)

In those years of living on Titicut Hill, I only ever learned how to make tapioca pudding and hot milk sponge cake. . . because I loved to eat those two confections more than just about anything. . . except Chocolate Town Special Cake (which I left to Nana Morrissey to present me with each year on my birthday).

My sister Margaret became the better cook. . . much better cook. Mom loved that she had a real protege to whom she could bequeath her store of knowledge, but that doesn’t mean that she, oh, let’s say, “enjoyed” when Margaret was in charge of the stove. My daughter Megan has a similar approach. “How is it possible,” I often wonder, “that there is whipped cream speckling the refrigerator door?” Or, “Egg yolk inside the gadget drawer?” It must be a culinary phenomenon, this combination of “good cook/creator of kitchen messes”.

One year, as a teacher at Triton Regional High School, I mentored a new “foods program” teacher. You can imagine the perks of that assignment. Oh, Nadine, don’t trouble yourself to come to my room — I’ll come to YOU! As often as I was on the tummy tantalizing receiving end of class exercises, I never tired of watching Nadine conduct her demos for the students. All the movements were well-practiced, and I saw Mom in every one. How she would tilt a bowl slightly — a cold, metal one, of course — and grab the whisk in the middle of the handle — not the end — before whipping, and not round and round, but rather across and back, how she broke up ground beef in the skillet with a fork, lickety split and with all the ferocity of a professional hurler, how she folded in a dob of egg whites before delicately folding in the rest. I’m quite sure that other structured food science programs all teach in the same way and have done so for generations, but I learned that Nadine, too, had completed the same program at Framingham State College. The familiarity of the scene always warmed my heart.

Now having recovered from my two-day frenzy, and having run my hand across the glassy surface of my counters — once again “smooth as a baby’s bottom” — I can’t help but ponder my need for all the kitchen gadgets. Mom likely would have challenged, “Other than a stove, you only need a skillet, a dutch oven, a mixer, a casserole dish, and maybe a good set of mixing bowls, one metal spatula, one rubber spatula, a wooden spoon, . . . and a wire whisk, of course.

You Know You’re in Portland

It has taken me too long, I realize, but I’m beginning to get a feel for Portland, Oregon and just generally the Pacific Northwest. There’s much still to be learned about the region, but I embrace the challenge. I had the use of my daughter and son-in-law’s car during my most recent week-long visit to Portland, which — among other things — allowed me to immerse myself more fully in the experience, make me feel (almost) like a Portlander. I thrilled, for example, that I was able to conduct a highly nuanced, scientific comparison; grocery stores and bakeries were my test subjects. The comparisons with New England are inevitable.

Example of a Portland truck “in fine fettle”

Each day found me, as well, doing daily strolls around the University Park neighborhood where I was staying, presenting me with delightful opportunities for discovery (despite invariably drizzly weather conditions). Keep in mind, my friends, I’m a country girl, so part of the challenge is learning how to navigate (comfortably) in a major city.

Observation #1: Once you understand that homeowners have the responsibility for the upkeep of the space directly in front of their houses in between the sidewalk and the street, you can’t help but observe how those intervals are tended. It becomes readily obvious which homeowners chafe at the responsibility and which ones view their assigned space as an artist’s canvas.

Observation #2: Skill in parallel parking is essential, as is threading the needle to manage the gap between the street and one’s driveway (if there is one), inevitably crowded by at least half a dozen cars parked impossibly close. Every night when I left my daughter and son-in-law’s house to head back to my rented apartment, I recited an impassioned dear Lord, please let me get out of here safely without hitting one of those cars. (Truth is, my appeal to the Good Lord sounded more like: The fuck’s wrong with people?! Why can’t they give you some fuckin’ room?! Fuckin’ dickheads!) By the end of my visit, however, I had learned the calculation well enough so that I didn’t have to apply the brakes countless times, and my exit took fewer than ten minutes. The memory makes me smile.

Observation #3: You can buy avocados and actually have faith that they’ll be perfectly ripe, and taste as one would hope an avocado should taste, not like cardboard or wallpaper paste, which is how avocados purchased in New England generally taste. (I’m only imagining what cardboard and wallpaper paste taste like. At least I think I am. There may have been a period in my childhood when I “experimented” with things not customarily earmarked for human consumption.) When I was unable to find nectarines, I asked one of the stockers at New Seasons if they had any. He replied, “No, they’re not in season; we won’t have them for a couple months.” Not in season! When has that ever stopped our Market Baskets and Stop & Shops from making attractive arrangements of imported, tasteless, out-of-season fruits and vegetables?

Observation #4: Through either peer pressure or inheritance, Portlanders eventually own an old truck. Said truck must be installed permanently on the street or as a yard ornament. They run the gamut of eras (70’s through 90’s, mostly) and can be found in various conditions, from the worst state of decrepitude to the most pristine. Walking through the neighborhood, I could easily distinguish between “proud truck owner” and “embarrassed owner of an albatross”.

So ubiquitous are these trucks, that over time they lose their sense of novelty. Through transmogrification they become part of the urban landscape. Until recently, for example, a little red Toyota truck sat mute and motionless in front of my daughter and son-in-law’s house. No one could say when it first appeared, and no one knew who owned it — everyone imagined that it belonged to some one else. Only when it became the casualty in a hit-and-run accident by an RV “behaving in a suspicious manner”, was one of the neighbors moved to call the city’s traffic division. The city promptly arrived to tow it away. The uncharacteristic speed and alacrity with which the city responded led all the neighbors to conclude that the little red Toyota truck must have been a victim of some high jinks and ultimate abandonment. Accounts such as these produce only desultory shrugs of the shoulder. It’s a Portland thing.

I’ll be back in Portland in May. At that time, just as we in New England will think to cheerily recite, “Mother’s Day, plant away”; bursts of color will already be everywhere. The spaces between the sidewalk and the street will once again be showcasing the creative talents of spade-wielding Portland homeowners, (or vexing the more reluctant stewards of the inter-spaces).

I’m very much looking forward to more opportunities to expand my understanding of the region.

A Special Valentine

I’ve known since 1976 that Hallmark’s most corny greeting cards were tailor-made for the man who would become my husband. Even before I said, “I do”, George was flattering me with the lamest commercially-made messages that have ever been created. I learned early on that if there was an occasion for it, he would send me one, the bigger the better. He especially loved to surprise me with cards that did more than supply thoughtful phrases. Pop-up cards were his favorite.

George never needed an excuse to remind me how much he loved me. It meant that over the course of forty years I accrued a trove of sentimental heartfelt messages of love. I’ve saved a lot of them, and this one I’ve had for at least two decades.

the classic Hallmark pop-up, a favorite style

William Clark Did Not Reward York with Freedom. . . at Least Not for Several Years

sculpture base at U. of Portland

Yes, it’s a pile of rocks. I came upon it while walking around the University of Portland campus one day this past week. Each day of my week-long Portland stay began with a walk around my University Park neighborhood before I headed over to my daughter’s house to hang with my new grandson. Anomalies always inspire curiosity.

To the uninitiated (such as myself), one of the first things you notice when you visit Portland is the abundance of memorials to Merriwether Lewis and William Clark and other reminders of the Lewis and Clark Expedition and the Corps of Discovery. Until my daughter moved to the Pacific Northwest ten years ago, there was really little substance to my understanding of that stage of what many of us call “American history”. (And of course, that understanding had been shaped by a K-12 Eurocentric curriculum.) If you asked me to explain what I recalled about the whole Lewis and Clark thing, I’d probably say something like, “One of them was Merriwether, and they wore buckskin outfits and traversed wide swathes of wilderness in our country’s vast interior, forded wrathful rivers, came upon hostile Indians — whom they either subdued or befriended if there was something to be gained through such exploitation — and they eventually arrived at the Pacific Ocean, whereupon they exclaimed, ‘We have thus succeeded in manifesting destiny.'” (My lack of genuine understanding is shameful.)

Multnomah River (aka Willamette R.) from bluff at U. of Portland

For a little over thirty years (from 1988 to June of 2020), the north campus of the U. of Portland held a bronze sculpture of William Clark, his black slave York*, and an unidentified Native American who had served as Clark’s guide. The sculpture showed a reverential Clark peering into the distance and pointing, with York and the Native American following his gaze. No matter that “Seekseekqua” (the object of Clark’s interest) was well-known to the Native bands who populated the area — and had been for thousands of years, Clark had “discovered” Oregon Country’s second highest mountain, which he pronounced should henceforth be called Mt. Jefferson.

In the wake of the murder of George Floyd at the hands of the Minneapolis police, social media got busy by providing lists of potential “targets” for those wishing to express their frustration through acts of protest. When the University of Portland’s sculpture appeared on one of the protest lists, authorities removed first York’s figure, and then a day later, the Clark and Native American figures. What remains now is a pile of rocks, a list of original donors for the funding of the 1988 sculpture, and a very interesting interpretation of events. Read it yourself here:

In my mind, what is lost by the removal of the sculpture is the opportunity to supply a more accurate depiction and analysis of events and a more authentic statement about its symbolism. The sculpture should be returned. The plaque that accompanies it, however, should be refashioned to echo the historical truth.

*Like most sons of plantation owners, as a boy, William had been given a black slave — similar in age — who would serve as a companion and valet. Because York was not only trustworthy, but showed exceptional promise as a wilderness “survivalist”, he was deemed a creditable candidate for the cross-country Corps of Discovery. It didn’t hurt that he was tall and powerfully built, a reassuring presence in the expedition’s camp. Despite York’s contributions to the enterprise, he was not rewarded with manumission (release from slavery) for several years. (The record is unclear as to precisely when it happened, just that it is likely to have occurred before 1832, nearly two decades after the expedition.)

Read about York here.

Source:

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/york-explored-west-lewis-and-clark-his-freedom-wouldnt-come-until-decades-later-180968427/

The Alden Graveyard

High on a hill above the Taunton River in the south section of Bridgewater, Massachusetts sits the tiny, 19th century Alden Graveyard. It also goes by the name of Great Woods Graveyard, which I suspect was a name given in later times, although the name pays homage to the tall, straight white pine trees that were harvested over time for use in the region’s boat-building industry. (The graveyard’s earliest identification on Plymouth County deed transfers had it simply as a “burial lot”.) The graveyard is surrounded by a low, lichen-textured, New England-style stone wall, the kind that was constructed with “two-handers” (boulders that required two hands to carry.) The graveyard had a single, u-shaped carriage drive that would deposit “attendees” at the door of the centrally located Alden tomb. 

The high perch where the graveyard sits is surrounded on three sides by rolling, terraced fields. We knew it as “Titicut Hill”, but there was also a brief and casual reference to another name — “Hill of Sorrow” — because a sachem’s daughter was murdered there, so Mom once claimed. I grew up next to the Alden Graveyard. The lot of land upon which our little home sat was owned in the early 1800’s by the Deacon Asael and his wife Sarah (Alden) Shaw. It was either Sarah’s two brothers — Solomon and Amasa — or, more likely, her father, Solomon, who — along with his son, Amasa — donated one acre of bordering land in the late 1700s for use as a “burying lot”. 

It pains me to admit how much time my siblings and I spent playing among the headstones and upon the central tomb (and — as a fitting punishment — knee-deep in poison ivy that naturally loved the stone walls). If you stood on top of the earth-covered tomb, which in appearance resembled a hobbit home, and faced southwest, you had a sweeping view of rolling, terraced fields.* Beyond the fields, you could see the silvery thread of the Taunton River. Ok, so I want to believe that, but it’s a lie that I had so thoroughly convinced myself of. Bob — and my four other brothers — assure me that you couldn’t see the Taunton.**  It suggests that the forest was working at its own regeneration, spreading outward from the banks to reclaim what it had lost in the prior centuries. 

It can be expected that colonial era graveyards — with their utter lack of adornment — don’t excite interest beyond the occasional visitor. Visitors who, like me, enjoy musing about the somber and strenuous lives of 18th and 19thcentury New Englanders. They’re quiet, reflective places. That is, unless you’re a young girl who allows herself to be talked into entering the tomb. I will never forget the day I foolishly stepped into that dark, dank, silent space. There had to have been an insanely attractive reward offered by one of my brothers. Most likely Chris. I do recall descending at least one or two of the granite steps. (That must have been one of the conditions for my reward.) The heavy metal door was pulled shut and I was alone in the tomb, or “alone” only in the sense that I was the sole breathing person in a room that also housed dead bodies. I pounded and screamed for hours. Once again, that part is untrue. I think I pounded and screamed for five seconds. . . which seemed an interminably long time.

When the fields on the far side of the graveyard were covered with snow, the whole Alden Square neighborhood took to toboggans and skis and saucers and Flexible Flyers for hours of outdoor sledding. Alternatively, and when we needed a more immediate rush, we’d dash over to the graveyard; from the tomb’s summit, we’d either roll our bodies down (doable at any time of year) or — when snow cover allowed — steer our sleds along a twisting path, avoiding (as best we could) the headstones, much as skiers do on alpine courses. Like, very short courses. . . maybe 15-meter. (For those readers who are at this moment cringing, I promise that, as an adult, I’m much more respectful. . . and not as idiotic where it concerns personal safety, but I doubt your thought process ventured so far as to reflect on the hazards to personal well-being.)

For me, it wasn’t all about play, however. I came to know the families who slept quietly there, and would read and re-read the inscriptions and epitaphs. The earliest known owners of our home made that graveyard their final resting place. The Deacon Asael Shaw is truly “rest[ing] from his labors”, having lived to the surprising age of 92. And “resting place” really does have fulsome meaning, for 18th and 19th century folk believed that admission through the pearly gates could only be secured by presentation of a notarized form vouching for a life of hard work, sacrifice, misery, and really plain and uncomfortable “waring appearill”. (I love to insert that expression whenever possible.) 

My fascination with graveyards, as you can imagine, has been a natural outgrowth from having been next-door neighbor to the bones and spirits of colonial era yeomen and the like. I intend to continue cultivating my interest when opportunity permits — if you’ve ever driven with me, you’ll no doubt have seen my head pivot when I spot a tiny graveyard. I only occasionally, however, will respond to the tug to stop and walk around. Maybe it’s because of the residual sense of terror it inspires — what if someone were to shut me in another tomb? Or, maybe it’s because I am too fearful of the day that my own flesh will mingle with the dust. I don’t want to rush things.

~

*By the way, it didn’t pay to take in the north view from Titicut Hill. All those red-brick buildings with bars covering the windows were a disturbing reminder that ours was generally known to the rest of the town as the “prison neighborhood”.

** Bob, bless his little heart, allows me to save face by qualifying his statement; it was possible that one could see the flood waters that would occasionally breach the banks and travel as far as the pigeon coops.

Attaching Value to Objects

On a shelf in my garage sit a clunky set of headphones and a 1980’s era Sony Walkman that no longer serve any purpose. I can’t bring myself to part with them, though. They belonged to my husband, and he wore them (for over three decades) every time he cut our acre of lawn. His Sony Walkman would be holstered on his belt, and each week of the cutting season, a different cassette would whirl reel to reel, pleasantly mixing with the muffled engine sound outside his head. When he exhausted the playlist options — it wouldn’t have taken long — the cycle would repeat. Long after cassette tapes fell from favor, George stuck to his habit. I look at his headphones and the memories mushroom up and fill me with nostalgia.

In my retirement, I begin most days with some type of inspirational or thought-provoking article. This morning I ended up on the Smithsonian Magazine website, as I often do when I want to explore topics that are historical or scientific in nature. In January I posted about NFT’s (“non-fungible tokens”), so it was natural that I would be interested in a bizarre stunt pulled by a self-styled philanthropist who has hitched his star to the potential profitability of NFT’s.

Martin Mobarak is the founder and CEO of Frida.nft who, in July, had high hopes of blazing new trails in the world of priceless art collection. . . in the virtual sense. Attired in a sequined blazer festooned on the back with the face of Frida, he made a showy display involving martini glass, blue rubbing alcohol, and lit match. He thus irrevocably “transformed” an authentic (and irreplaceable) drawing done by Frida Kahlo in the 1940’s, a sketch entitled “Fantasmones Siniestros”. Its estimated value is. . . was. . . ten million dollars. But was it real? And what if it wasn’t? While the extravagant spectacle received little attention at the time, Mobarak’s impulsivity has now landed him in a heap of trouble.

On the one hand, if the drawing was indeed authentic, Mobarak faces criminal charges. (According to a statement made by the Mexican government in September, “The deliberate destruction of an artistic monument constitutes a crime in terms of the federal law on archaeological, artistic and historical monuments and zones.”) If the drawing that was permanently “transformed” was a reproduction, he is in violation of copyright laws. Lastly, he may be guilty of deception and fraud. No bueno, in any scenario.

I’m straining not to react with pure disgust. Who in their right mind burns a Frida Kahlo work? It seemed important that I venture down the rabbit hole, in this case by mining the annals of Martin Mobarak, flashy businessman from Mexico, currently home-based in Miami. The quick and dirty synopsis looks like this: fisherman in the Bering Sea, prospector (silver mine), developer of an internet service in Alaska, food service provider as well as aviation services in Florida, a B&B in Mexico. One has to admire his enterprising nature and sheer pluck. And I do. . . admire that.

After I sifted through the layer of news about the current Mobarak-Kahlo controversy, I was able to temper my feelings about the permanent loss of priceless art. Built into the scheme is a charitable offshoot. Inasmuch as the endeavor was to enrich Mobarak (in his wildest, non fungible dreams), 30% of proceeds are — or were — intended to benefit charity. The causes about which he feels most passionate are rare childhood diseases and abuse of women. On the surface it would seem that careful and deliberate thought went into his charitable choices, more so than the hastily-planned “transformation” event, which was likened to “the ice bucket challenge, but with fire” (according to Gabrielle Pelicci, who helped him plan the risky stunt).

In the end, the Kahlo NFT’s have not been selling — the intent had been to fractionalize the ten million dollar iconic work into 10,000 NFT’s. That didn’t even come close to happening. Apparently, the “Fantasmones Siniestros” sketch is nothing more than a few unrecognizable flakes of ashy residue, reducing Mobarak’s speculative move to a tragedy, one that — but for his ego (and a sense of desperation) — was completely avoidable.

Perhaps my sense of alarm is so great because I haven’t bought into the idea that we now fully exist in a sphere where things of value can be digitally “memorialized”. When I recently digitalized several hundred family photos (including daguerrotypes, tintypes, cartes de visite, cabinet cards, and — additionally — all manner of photographs from the 20th century) and made them available for family to view on Flickr, it very much occurred to me that the digital images will ever fail to evoke the same emotion that the physical ones do. When I hold in my hand the ambrotype of my great-grandfather, I’m better able to imagine the moment in which the photo was taken. I imagine, even, the thought process behind my great-great-grandmother’s decision to have the picture taken in the first place. The high school portrait of my dad, still sitting in its frame, presents an opportunity to reflect on, not just his life, but his parents’ as well, even the society into which he was born. The portrait would have hung on one of the walls in their home on Warner Street, Medford (“on the Somerville line”), later in their home at Wolcott Park; it would have kept the wallpaper underneath it bright and light as all around it faded and became dingy. Of course I only knew my father as an adult, a parent, never as a seventeen year old. At seventeen he had yet to confront the real obstacles that life predictably serves up. And he had yet to be judged harshly — or, in fact, be coaxed himself to judge, for example, the sobering calculus that would result in 7.5 million American service men and women being sent overseas to safeguard democracy in the 1940s. Dad’s face is smooth and unlined; he looks serious, but innocence and vulnerability can be read in his dark eyes.

We have a habit of needing to attach a monetary value to all that we own. I can’t do that with some of my possessions. In many cases, to do so would miss the essential point. Value so often resides in the stories that objects hold and the historical moments they beseech us to preserve.

Is it unwise of me to think that NFT’s are a fad, that their popularity will eventually fade? Are we too deep into a world that is virtual that we’ve lost reverence for all things tangible? George may have defied the march of technological advancement, but even he was alert enough to know that his headphones and Sony Walkman had passed from being “cutting edge” to being quaint, outdated. And an 8″ x 10″ grayscale, monochromatic high school portrait in a simple 1930’s frame will only ever hold sentimental value. What, then, will NFT’s be replaced by? I wonder.

It would grieve me to think that any of us are okay with destroying an original, as Martin Mobarak did, in order to inflate the value of its representative equivalent. Moreover, let’s never lose sight of why we strive to preserve objects of value (such as a Sony Walkman or a family portrait), or — of greater consequence — why we place our treasured artifacts (important documents such as the Declaration of Independence, priceless works of art, etc) in museums. They trumpet our achievements and our trials — in short, our story. As authentic artifacts, they evoke curiosity and emotion, and sustain interest much more effectively than any cryptographic asset can possibly do.

Maybe that’s why Mobarak’s scheme failed.

Sources of Information:

Pantry Thief

I want to say I’m ten or eleven years old, but, no, it’s 1969 and I’m thirteen years old. I should know better, but I give in to temptation nevertheless. I’ve hopped onto our washing machine, careful not to let my bare toes “clunk” into its frontside. Crouching-standing on top of the washing machine, I reach with my right hand to push aside the line of forward-facing common dwellers, solid-feeling containers of flour and neglected items long past their ”use by” date. They stand sentry on the top shelf, alert now, positioned to conceal the treasure sitting somewhere behind. Unseeing, my expectant fingers caper across one or two unfamiliar shapes before encountering the familiar smooth surface — my brain’s pleasure center lights up. With both hands now cradling my prize, I sit back down on the washing machine and quietly lift the cover on the bakery box. I’m smug in the knowledge that I have found it before anyone else. I’m sure others have already searched. 

Aunt Ginny’s wedding was yesterday, thus bringing to conclusion a well-seasoned (decades-long) engagement. Jimmy’s a sweetheart, and we don’t mind adding “Uncle” to his name. My three older brothers and I stood stiff and awkward in our “best attire”, clothing that hung on us as uncomfortably as hair shirts. It wasn’t just the clothing — we don’t do formal very well. Give us rolling fields, ponds to swim in or skate on, sunshine, and fresh air. Especially, give Kevin hard-packed lanes across those fields so he can race a car — better still, if pursued by patrol cars supplied by the nearby prison. Let us brawl. But dressy and solemn are not our jam. 

We spectated in silence through the church ceremony, standing when others stood, kneeling, too, genuflecting just a beat late, yet casual enough to suggest we do it all the time. I cried in the church. I was thinking about my younger (and only) sister, Margaret, who should have been there — she had a new dress, too, but she was in a hospital (trying to remember who she was and who she belonged to, after a really bad car accident). We maintained our silent observation throughout the reception, bewildered by the tender father-daughter dance. Our grandfather, whom we all call “Gama” (rhymeswithllama), is still in deep grief, adrift alone. His Anastasia, our Nana, died last year. 

We all noticed the white bakery box that came home with us. No discussion. We are all in silent competition. Bakery boxes never come into our house. With no thought to dignify the act with fork or plate, I dip my fingers into the delicious cake. Inches of creamy and smooth white frosting give way to moist cake. My fingers — rapacious little grubbers — clutch mounds of cake and frosting. I shove the sweet, spongy confection in my mouth in helpless desperation. It’s as good as I had hoped. And well worth any punishment by Dad — or expressions of disappointment by Mom — when I’m found out. Wary of being discovered, I replace the cover and return the bakery box to the high shelf, arranging for its concealment once more. I will see you later, I promise, as I leap to the pantry floor.

Grandparents

Some might call it morbid, but I’ve always been fascinated by dead people. . . and nearly dead people, which is how I viewed my dad’s parents when I was growing up. In truth, they weren’t (much) older than my mom’s parents, but where there was liveliness and humor and tenderness on the one side — all obvious signs that Papa Joe and Nana May (my mom’s parents) were of this world, Nana Morrissey and her perpetually scowling partner Gama were stern, dull, and disapproving. I grew up believing that Nana May and Papa Joe were the kinds of grandparents that one could more easily love and want to be around, to nestle (maybe) in their laps, and that Nana M and Gama were unhappy people who were born old and whose only concern was that we children not touch any of the fragile furnishings (and they were ALL fragile) in their tiny, old-fashioned home that perched — cramped and awkward — on a rocky ledge uphill from the Mystic Valley Parkway in Medford. As a child, how freely one could run around and get dirty, maybe even break things (and each other) were immensely important activities, and our degree of freedom to do so defined how we adjudged the character of our four grandparents. It was unfair and shortsighted, but that’s how children are.

Recently I acquired (from that same tiny house on the rocky ledge) a cache of archival collections and loose photos that belonged to my ancient Aunt Ginny, my dad’s only sibling. She lived to 103 years old and displayed an enduring reverence for “the family record”, maybe a by-product of her long career as an attorney. Taken together, the photos tell a story that I never knew, one that upends (in a most meaningful way) my conclusions about my Medford grandparents.

“Circus Day” (May 3, 1959)

“Circus Day” in May 1959 was one of those occasions for which there are several photos of Kevin, Tom, Chris, and me. We’re all spit-polish, scrubby-clean top to bottom, ready for Aunt Ginny to widen our country-dwelling horizons by treating us to The Greatest Show on Earth, an annual extravaganza held at Boston Garden. Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus was 88 years old in 1959. I was a little over three years old, the baby of the family. (For nearly five years I was able to enjoy that vaunted status until the second half of the family began to arrive.)  In at least three of the snapshots, I’m leaning cozily into my Nana M and she’s got a protective (one might say “loving”) arm around me. To me, the gesture looks natural. As an adult with a lifetime of opportunity to reshape the narrative, could I really have had it all wrong? Were Nana M. and Gama just a typical couple of a certain age and time period, grandparents whose lives ran parallel to but distant from our other set? 

And so I begin to remember things. 

My favorite birthday cake is — and always has been — “Hershey’s Chocolate Town Special Cake” with “7-Minute (Boiled) Frosting”. Although I can’t remember how established it was as a tradition, Nana M. began making it for me for my birthday when I was very young. Each year when she presented it, I was dazzled by its exquisite, snow-white beauty and, of course, would be nearly insensible with joy as I shoveled it into my mouth. Whenever I make the same cake, I use Nana M’s magnificent creation as my benchmark, striving to achieve a rich, moist cake texture and swirly snowdrift frosting perfection that I recall her cakes having. And I can’t help but conclude that she made that cake. . . for me. . .  with love and pride. 

It seems that I never knew my Medford grandparents at all.