Black Swans

 

Photo by Anthony on Pexels

"Rara avis in terris nigroque simillima cygno.” 

                                                –Juvenal, 2^nd century AD

 

(Translation: “A bird as rare upon the earth as a black swan.")

 

Ah, Juvenal! Our esteemed Roman writer friend was certain that black swans did not exist, mostly because no one in Europe had ever seen one. This belief continued unchallenged for centuries-until 1697, when a Dutch explorer in Australia encountered—wait for it—a black swan.

 

Nowadays, a “black swan” refers to a significant world event that happens without warning, but which in hindsight should have been predictable. Prime examples include World War One, 9/11, and the economic crash of 2008. All of these happenings caught the world flat-footed. All of these have since been picked apart and deemed “inevitable.”

 

To recap the criteria: rare occurrences, with immense impacts, that in retrospect are thought to have been predictable.

 

With those qualities in mind, here’s a selection from my personal bevy of black swans! 

 

MARRIAGE, 1977

If my Dad hadn’t taken a job in Atlanta, bringing the fam down South before my junior year of high school, Steve and I could not possibly have met, much less gotten quickly engaged (I was 17!) and married. The odds of Stevo bumping into me in Duxbury, MA otherwise were just about zero. Major impact on the world? Of course: Sheridan, Evan, Rose, Patrick and Julie! Should have been expected? Yes, if I had been aware of my incipient bipolar disorder, a hallmark symptom of which is “impulsive behavior.” 

 

TORN ROTATOR CUFF, 2013 

Those who know me recognize the rarity of this situation. I was doing a service project with my church youth group, and some misguided soul gave me a shovel and asked me to help make a dirt pile. The idea was to dig, then fling the gathered soil upwards as the dirt pile grew ever taller. My usual volunteer role was “sidelines cheerleader,” but that fateful day I attempted the dig/fling, only to feel immediate, searing pain. This “sports injury” had a huge impact on my world for many, many months, especially whenever I tried to put on a sweater—and the impact continues (I haven’t shoveled anything since, and never will). Rare? Life-changing? Inevitable? Yup!

 

DISAPPEARANCE OF MY FAVORITE YOGURT, 2024

During the past few months, I noticed that the star of my daily breakfast, Dannon Light and Fit Yogurt (vanilla) was getting harder to locate. At this writing, the only store where I can reliably still find it is Walmart, a place I RARELY frequent. I now travel there every few weeks to stock up. What is happening?? This is without question the best tasting yogurt ever created!!! How will I ever find something as delicious and artificially-sweetened as my magical elixir? Looking back, though, I notice that Dannon GREEK Yogurt has been making inroads for quite some time. It was bound to happen, I guess, but I wasn’t ready. “All Greek to me” is, sadly, my future.

 

I have other black swans I could share (NOT including that creepy Natalie Portman movie), but I’m at my 500 word limit, so I’ll leave you with this final thought:

 

Honk.

                                  

(Am I a) Coastal Grandma?

 

It's a coast. I'm a grandma. Perfect, no?

 

I’m not generally a trend-setter; instead, I’m usually a trend-ender (the second I hop on board, everyone else evacuates). But once in a blue moon, a trend emerges that catches me at just the perfect time—a trend so “me” that by rights I should be a veritable walking billboard for it.

 

Speaking of course about the “coastal grandma” phenomenon. I first heard about CGs from a swanky fashion mag, which ran a splashy feature a while back. I guess it was inevitable, with our aging, rather self-involved population, that grandparenting would become a chic and glamorous thing. I mean, Katie Couric is a grandma! So are Goldie Hawn, Jane Seymour, Catherine Deneuve and Gladys Knight (Gladys has 17 grandPips)! 

 

These lovely ladies of a certain age do not have the “look” sported by my two personal grandmas (a look which included big flowered aprons, sturdy orthopedic shoes, and purses filled with tissues and butterscotch Lifesavers). No, today’s grannies are impeccably attired with garb from Chicos, Coldwater Creek, Talbots and Ann Taylor. Many of them make judicious use of Botox and other fillers; some proudly go “au naturel” (these are mostly the winners of the genetic lottery). The goal is to appear to be 40 at age 70 (and, I suppose, to appear 80 at age 110), to be mistaken for the au pair when out and about with their grand-offspring.

 

So where does the “coastal” part come in?

 

Think: “I have a beach house.”

 

Think: “My beach house is NOT a one-week rental with a broken screen door, rusted outdoor shower stall and sandy floors. My beach house does NOT overlook Highway One, and is not 10 miles away from the beach.”

 

Think: “My beach house, which I own, is decorated to the hilt with pricey ceiling fans, elegant and matchy-matchy rattan and linen furniture, and has a deck overlooking the ocean. My beach house looks like no one has ever worn flip flops or a wet bathing suit in it.”

 

So, do these coastal grandmerès stay away from the actual beach? No, they do venture outdoors from time to time, but always protected by big sunhats, bigger sunglasses, and biggest globs of sunscreen. After paddleboarding or sailing their Sunfish, they recline at the shoreline to catch the sunset and sip a tasteful cocktail.

 

Do I sound envious? Well, I am, a bit. I would dearly love to treat my whole gang to dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants, to trot around Europe with little Aiden and Peter. And it would be just “grand” to afford the top anti-aging serums, and to get highlights for my hair (my current “highlights” are the many gray streaks that always crop up between appointments).

 

As it is, I clearly don’t belong in a group where everyone looks just like Diane Keaton in First Wives Club. Alas, I am a “coastal grandma” in name only. Sigh.

 

Maybe I’ll launch an offshoot of the CG trend, one that truly reflects my reality.

 

I’ll call it “Costco Grandma.”

now THAT'S how a grandma looks, I used to think
(photo by Danie Franco on Unsplash)

Bells Are Winging

Pa, Nana and the Easter Goofballs

 

 

The boys had a terrific Easter, complete with two egg hunts (at church and in our backyard) and a big Easter basket. Mister E. Bunny was scarcely mentioned by either of our goody recipients. I think it’s because at their ages (Peter is 7 ½ and Aiden is almost 10), belief in a giant, candy distributing rabbit is becoming a bit strained. At least for the Seyfrieds, faith in the bun and the tooth fairy (we named ours Dentina) are the first to go, with Santa still hanging on for just a few more years. 

We had company for dinner, Ya-Jhu’s best friend Mike (who has become a good friend of ours). Mike is also a classical composer; his partner Don is a doctor. They live in center city Philly, and they own a house in the French countryside. Anyway, Mike and I were chatting about Easter in France, and he mentioned that over there, while there are sweets aplenty, the chocolate eggs are NOT distributed by some cwazy wabbit. Instead, the treats are brought by flying bells (les cloches volantes). Naturellement!

 

What? That’s nutty as the bunny! you may say.  Not so fast! The legend has it that, since church bells are silent between Maundy Thursday and early Easter morning, it means that the bells have sprouted wings and flown to Rome. They carry with them the grief of everyone who mourns Jesus' death. The bells then return from the Vatican to France Sunday dawn, now laden with candy, which they scatter around outdoors. After that task is completed, they peal joyously once more, a signal for the faithful flock to head to church to celebrate Christ’s Resurrection. 

 

I like this version for two reasons (or three, if you count that I’m a real Francophile in general).  For one, the whole shebang is triggered by actual happenings (church bells that stop ringing). I honestly have no clue why a huge cottontail suddenly hops into action over here. Then there’s the bells-as-grief-bearers part. It’s a melodious symbol that I find extremely comforting. I love the image of beautiful bells winging their way to Italy with their (our) burdens, and coming back Easter morning, light and singing and joyfully leaving chocolate for us. 

 

I doubt a fanciful story about flying bells would get much traction in the USA; we are much too conditioned to spread the word about Peter (not SAINT Peter) Rabbit. Also, Easter in America has a distinctly non-religious connotation, in addition to its spiritual significance, and I think that’s fine. Spring is a wonderful thing to celebrate, however we do it (Easter began, after all, as a pagan observance). I don’t need magical bunnies bearing calories, to rejoice at the welcome rebirth in nature. And I certainly don’t conflate my personal religious observance with egg hunts and the like—just as I don’t mix Santa up with Baby Jesus. I understand the difference, of course.

 

I hope that everyone had a lovely Easter (sacred, secular). Ooh, la la!

at Notre Dame April 2016 (before the fire)

The Pregnant Pause That Refreshes

photo by Tim Wildsmith on Unsplash

Reading Scripture, I am struck by the word “Selah,” that appears sometimes during a psalm. Is “Selah” a secret code? The name of David’s copy editor? Another word for “Amen”? Or “Hooray! Nicely written!” Is it just a nonsense word written once accidentally, and then repeated out of ignorance (like the story of the woman always cutting down the ham for her roasting pan because her grandma had had a small pan)?

Turns out, most Bible scholars believe that “Selah” means “pause,” and was likely an instruction to the reader (singer, back in the day) to take a break at that point. Just think! Even in ancient times people had to be reminded to slow down once in a while. 

 

How about the famous Coca Cola slogan “The pause that refreshes?” Used for 40 years, this catchy phrase encapsulated the thirst-quenching aspect of the popular beverage, and also that slight caffeine jolt which propelled the happy imbiber on with the day. I hope the ad person who came up with this gem was well compensated! Maybe with a lifetime supply of Coke (capital C😊)!

 

Then there’s the term “pregnant pause.” I love this one, because I imagine someone stopping to think--for nine whole months. But really, it’s defined as a pause filled with meaning. (“Do you love me?” Bob asked Becky. There was a pregnant pause. “Nope!” she finally responded.) I sometimes made use of a “pregnant pause” onstage to add drama to my soliloquies (though actually they were to cover, until I remembered my next line.)

 

I was talking with an author friend recently about that charming phenomenon called “writer’s block.” This brain freeze can occur at any point in a writing career, and it is NO fun. No matter how much you’ve written, you suddenly feel incapable of scribbling another word. Your supply of super ideas is totally depleted (and even the so-so ideas have left the building). Realistically, the afflicted writer knows that this is a temporary issue. Someday the log jam will break, and the words will flow once more. But the block, while it lasts, is terrifying. 

 

We’ve both experienced writer’s block, this friend and me, and while we talked, it came to me that we should think of these times as “pauses,” and not “blocks.” Just catching our creative breaths, a refreshing break in the action. Since we both have children, I thought we might frame these as not just pauses but “pregnant” pauses. We remember that, while it seems we are just getting fatter, expectant moms are also doing the very important work of growing babies. When the time is right, we deliver. Could we think of writer’s block that way? A necessary interval, during which we can feed our inspiration with reading and nature walks and conversation? 

 

I haven’t written a humor piece in months. But I’m not panicking! My pregnant pause will end someday, and I’ll produce another bouncing baby comedy essay!

 

Meanwhile, I’m off to grab a Coke.

 

Selah.

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels

Gig Economics

photo by Erik McLean on Unsplash

Lately I’ve been hearing more and more about the “gig economy.” At first I thought the term referred to bargain bands (“Tonight’s economy performance by The Tightwads will consist of one song. There is a two-drink minimum. Enjoy!”) But I soon learned that the gigs (also known as side hustles) refer to the extra jobs folks are taking to help make ends meet nowadays. We have orthopedic surgeons moonlighting as Lyft drivers! Tech CEOs picking up bonus cash as Instacart shoppers! Kardashians delivering pizzas! 

Oh wait. I guess those folks are doing just fine without second jobs, aren’t they?

 

But for the rest of us, it’s very tempting to work side gigs to pay those pesky bills. Mind you, this is actually just a re-brand of something that’s been going on forever—actors waiting tables, waiters picking up acting jobs, etc. You’d think after all this time that there’d be a few more options, though…I mean, not everyone can (or should) Door Dash. 

 

Never fear! I spent the past 20 minutes deep in thought, and have come up with an exhaustive and exhausting list of part-time pursuits that aren’t yet, but should be, real things. I figure, if enough of us are interested, somebody (not me) might create these wonderful opportunities for getting ahead/or at least not falling farther behind! Here we go:

 

DRIVING TEST TAKER: I’m a FINE driver, but I struggled some to pass the test back in the day. That grumpy DMV employee made me so nervous that I almost hit an orange cone (or three) before we left the parking lot. I would have paid $$$ if someone could have taken the test in my stead, passed with flying colors, and then just handed me the license! Win/win! 

 

HIGH SCHOOL REUNION STAND-IN: MY 50th is coming up in the fall, and I am doing my darnedest to look like only it’s my 10th. But alas, all the diet and exercise on earth won’t turn back the clock quite that far. Solution? Hire a 28-year-old who looks just enough like me to fool my more gullible classmates! I’d be happy to spend time prepping her about the classic Terry Jacks song “Seasons in the Sun,” and Watergate.

 

PATIENT PLAYMATE FOR YOUNG CHILDREN: When my brood was small, while I loved them dearly, I dreaded playing Legos with them—not to mention the endless loop of knock-knock jokes and games of “Uncle Wiggly.” I didn’t need a babysitter (I wasn’t GOING anywhere), I just needed someone who really enjoyed (or pretended convincingly to enjoy) kiddie playtime now and then. 

 

There are so many other possibilities…

SORTA "DENTIST" WHO MAKES HOUSE CALLS AND NEVER FINDS A CAVITY

PERFECT EXCUSER FOR MISSING WORK (“Hello, Boss? I’m Elise’s dead grandpa and she needs to be at the cemetery today!”)

SMALL TALKER AT PARTIES (gigger who would connect via earbud and then whisper clever conversational topics and bons mots). 

 

C’mon gang! Let’s put on our thinking caps and make those side hustles FUN!

The Secret Ingredient

AKA the show with the beef jerky sticks

There’s a running gag in our production of Puss in Boots (written by Stevo) that always delights the audiences. The special stew that Puss the Cat serves the King so that his master can win the princess's hand, contains a secret ingredient: “honey-coated, licorice-flavored beef jerky sticks.”

 

Our young audiences may roar with laughter, but for me, I fail to see the humor. Because I have a reputation for seeking out some pretty unusual seasonings for my own dishes. Mind you, I don’t invent these concoctions (I remain pretty recipe-bound, even after all these years). But when I peruse cookbooks or culinary websites or blogs, I MAY decide to make a Mexican street corn salad, but I DEFINITELY will whip up the version that calls for tajin (a lime-spice blend). This will, of course, necessitate ordering a bottle of the stuff which, after its maiden voyage, will languish in the back of the cabinet for years past its use-by date. The same fate has befallen everything from tamarind paste to wood-ear mushrooms to galangal (which I think is an unusual Thai seasoning…it’s so old now that I’m afraid to open the container). 

 

This weird predilection goes way back. As a young child, I would avidly read my Nana Cunningham’s Gourmet magazines, and my Grandma Berrigan’s old recipe books. Neither of these wonderful women were fancy cooks (in Nana’s case, she wasn’t even an OK cook), so I don’t know why these publications found their way into their homes. But I would scan the instructions for roast wild boar and candied violets (not in the same dish!) and daydream about serving these items to cheers from the assembled diners in my imaginary dwelling some future day. 

 

Practically speaking, I have no business shelling out so much moolah for stuff that most dishes could easily do without—especially when the stuff has such limited usefulness. Rose recently made preserved lemons for an appetizer recipe, which turned out wonderfully—but left her with a large amount of extra lemons. She asked me if I had any ideas about what to do with them, so I typed “recipes using preserved lemon” into the old Google search bar. Wonder of wonders! There are, if not a ton, at least SOME other dishes where one is encouraged to toss in a P.L.!

 

This successful foray was a lightbulb moment for me: I too can Google oddball ingredients I’ve bought! I too can discover other ways to use them up before they expire! It’s been a seismic shift in my thinking. Now, before ordering achote powder or naranja agria (sour orange juice) to add to my bulging pantry, I go through said pantry first. I pull out, say, the ras el hanout. Can I marinate chicken in this? Stir it into biscuit dough? Maybe!

Looking forward to world travels with all the money I’ll be saving. I’ll surely bring home suitcases full of local specialties (maybe even honey-coated licorice-flavored beef jerky sticks). 

Old habits die hard. 

a tiny sampling of my odd food purchases (I wasn't kidding!)

Owl Be Seeing You

Awwww. (Owlet photo by Jesse Cason on Unsplash)

I didn’t hear much about Flaco the Coop-Flown Owl, until the poor bird met his tragic end. For those similarly unaware, about a year ago, Flaco, a rare Eurasian Eagle Owl living in captivity in the Central Park Zoo in Manhattan, was suddenly liberated by a vandal who shredded his enclosure. 

What followed was a gritty Streets of New York story—the spunky and resourceful Flaco, making his way in the big bad city. Crowds would gather whenever there was an owl-sighting. There were cheers when he learned to hunt and catch prey (NYC rats, what else?) For a solid year, Flaco flew free, amid hopes that he could survive long-term in the “wild.”

 

Alas, our majestic feathered friend was no match for the urban landscape. Flaco was killed flying into the side of a building. That dramatic demise could be the subject of a folk song (“The Owl That Almost Could”), right? Where are Peter, Paul and Mary when you need them?

 

Flaco’s story brings up some questions. Is it inhumane to cage wild creatures in zoos? Are we destroying their animal instincts? Flaco never asked to be a celebrity; he was just doing his best to stay alive in very difficult circumstances. What did this owl, the very symbol of wisdom after all, think of the humans who gaped and gawked and snapped photos as he flew from tree to tree? Since he’s dead, plus we don’t speak owl, we will never know. 

 

I am a big owl fan, though I rarely spot them in nature—I’m much more likely to see a Temple (University) Owl, than the actual bird. Even back in the old days when I was a rather nocturnal young adult, I never saw one IRL. Of course, I was much more Disco Denizen than Nature Girl, so unless an owl decided to sneak into the bar with a fake ID, the odds of our paths crossing were low. 

 

I do know that owls fly without making a peep, their massive wings gliding along, utterly silent, in order to surprise their prey. I do know that their heads can swivel almost completely around (they have fixed eye sockets, and have to turn to see things). 

A recent thrill for me was a woods walk I took near Seattle at dusk, with Evan and some of his friends. We spied TWO huge and beautiful white owls, in two different trees, and then spent a good 10 minutes gaping and gawking (as humans tend to do). We were waiting for their moment of flight, and were not disappointed when at last they alit, soaring soundlessly through the air. 

 

The debate about zoos and other man-made habitats rages on. While modern zoos make much more of an effort to give the animals space, they are still trapped. But they are also protected from harm (Flaco’s “liberator” notwithstanding). 

 

All I know is, I’m glad that, for one brief shining year, Flaco the Owl had a glorious taste of freedom.