Swooning

Pleasant(ville) Parades

I have no idea how we got to Pleasantville that night, maybe we rented a car, maybe we took the train, no clue. We were invited by a guy I worked with…“come up for a picnic and to watch the Fireman’s Parade, good small-town Americana fun”. Young snotty city girl that I was, it seemed pretty far to travel for a hotdog and some firetrucks, we lived between Bellevue and Beth Israel Hospitals, I had plenty of sirens in my life…but my boss was going, so we went. That parade changed our lives. It was standing on the corner of Bedford and Sunnyside that Greg turned to me and said, I could live here.

The Pleasantville Fireman’s Parade is a thing movies are made of… people lining the main street, Victorian porches decorated in red, white, and blue streamers. Meats grilling. Kids screaming. Marching bands, antique fire trucks, and bug spray. Local politicians leading the parade, waving at the crowds then rushing back to their families. After-parties for participating county volunteer fire departments that make you wonder, how on earth do these people get home in one piece?

Many moons, a marriage, and two kids later, we bought a home in Pleasantville. Our dear friends had just moved into the apartment next-door, our kids were like siblings. They thought it would be good to cut a hole in the shared wall, so they could crawl back and forth with ease…we did not disagree. Moving would be tough, our kids loved the city. The playgrounds, the grit, the sirens…sirens, that was it…we would introduce them to the suburbs via the Fireman’s Parade. The perfect first glimpse of Pleasantville. Jacob was immediately convinced, “Yaycob’s house?”, now to be honest, we did not mention that the parade happened once a year…we just went with it.

This year there is no Fireman’s Parade. No neighbors along the path opening their homes for huge gatherings, no kids waving flags, squirting water guns, or tears over popped balloons. No barbecues, or baseball throws in the backyard once the parade is over. None of it.

In this year of no…no graduations, no proms, no large celebrations…our High School seniors were the stars of their own car parade, on the same main street route they watched the fire trucks as kids. Cars decorated, streamers flying, kids hanging out sunroofs, parents taking videos. Strangers out in full force…social distancing…supporting them with home-made signs of congratulations. We all stepped it up, we clapped, we cheered, we smiled. It was joyous…we once again were experiencing joy.

After that amazing experience I was looking forward to my little guy’s elementary school graduation parade…but he was not into it. Too much noise, too much waiting in line, not his thing, until it was! He decided to join in the car parade around the HS circle, it would be short, sweet, and age appropriate. Greg made a sign for him (Go Sean Go, referencing the classic, Go Dog Go) and we were ready to scream and wave our arms like crazy. First time around…he waved to us from the car window. Second and final time around he blew my mind. My little guy, who hates loud, who is not so into big events, my little guy was standing…half his body out the sun roof…smiling, waving, dancing, and feeling. Feeling. So. Much. More. Joy than he would have sitting in the hot sun waiting for his turn to take a piece of paper from his teacher. Swoon.

The parade went by and all of my sadness at missing out on our final this and our last that faded away. That moment when our eyes connected, and that smile appeared and we were us… perfection.

A Sprinkle of Summer

As the school year ends with a fizzle…kids have been home since March, bedtimes are already pushing the limit, there is joyous squealing from neighborhood backyards at 11pm… I think about my summers.

Fire Island, The Douglaston Club. The Dock. Skateboarding down the hill. Straight down the hill. Giving up skateboarding but having the scar on my knee to this day. Diving lessons and swim team. Rosy cheeks and sunburnt shoulders. Mr Softee (grumpy) and The Good Humor Man (sweet). Playing S.P.U.D. with the paddy wagon of shame, crawling through people’s legs, on asphalt with bare knees. Lunching on French fries and ketchup, purchased with a fresh book of club tickets…from the cute boy at the snack bar. Walking around “the point” (fun fact: we lived on a peninsula, rumored to have inspired East Egg in The Great Gatsby). Babysitting. Tennis: playing it, watching it, living it. Cards, Spit and Rummy 500. Towels: to dry us off, to sit on, to wear. The smell of salt from the ocean and chlorine from the pool washing off sun-kissed skin. Playing in sprinklers, stepping on bees. Water balloons and cap guns. Summer birthdays. Fireflies in jars with hole-punched lids, glowing, dying. 4th of July community relay races, ribbons of many colors. Fireworks with even more colors. The water ballet. Summer.

I grew up in Queens, on the Little Neck Bay. I grew up in summer heaven. I had no idea how special it was. We only know what we live. I just assumed every kid spent summer days going from the country club two blocks from home to their beach house on Fire Island, then back again. That was just normal. I know now, it is beyond…not normal.

I also lived through the Son of Sam…the Summer of Sam. We watched the headlines in the paper each morning. The Post, already dramatic and hysterical, outdid itself day after day. We read hoping for clues, hoping it would be over soon. My sister and her friends had to be in by dark, he was targeting girls with long hair in Queens, he killed a couple right across the bay. I never admitted it, but I liked having her home. I liked family time.

Summer was the NYC blackout, our family was at the movie The Deep. We drove home in the dark, slowly, no traffic lights, no lights at all. Then we sat in the dark at the breakfast room table, worrying about our restaurant in Times Square, when Bryant Park was a drug den, 42nd Street was peep shows and prostitutes. The morning papers showed the city being overtaken by looters. Dad would go in and check the damage, no cell phones, we just waited, hoping he would get home ok. Hoping the store survived. Waiting for the screen door to slam.

During the Kavanaugh hearings, Christine Blasey Ford brought up the summer parties they used to attend. She was asked specifics. Where was the party, who was attending, what, where, who, when. And she described what so many privileged teens did every summer during the 80s…we just were, and we just went from house to house. If the parents were oblivious or out…that’s were you could find us, kegs, cases, us. We learned a lot of social skills this way, no social media meant that not every bad decision we made was recorded. We made mistakes. I remember listening to the hearings and screaming at the tv…JUST ADMIT IT. You did it. You did it because you were a horny teenager who was an asshole. It was a different time when horrible behavior was somehow acceptable. Admit you are sorry. Say you are so so so sorry. We lived those summers. We know those summers. We probably have things we regret from those summers.

I think about this coming summer, sad that people will not be able to have all the experiences they wanted, that it will not be perfect. But then I look at my brain spill of summer memories and I see it is not only good stuff I hold dear…there are some really hard moments in there, some scary moments, some things that one would wish away…except I don’t. I love all of my memories because they make me who I am. The hard ones have shaped my spirit and the delicious ones have given me joy that I want to spread. Summers of growth make us appreciate the summers of fun. May we all grow in leaps and bounds this summer, may we look back and be proud of how we made a difficult situation better. Happy Summer.

Who Are We?

Today FB memories informed me that over the years on June 12th I have… experienced my son’s last day of HS and his prom, had a very bad case of poison ivy, mourned for Orlando, and submerged my iPhone in water. The best memory was from ten years ago today…when we went to my brother’s hardcore reunion show at ABC No Rio.

I had seen his band Bad Trip play in the 90s at Wetlands and CBGBs. CBs while pregnant with Jacob, who jumped in my belly as soon as they started to play. My dad in light blue linen pants and white Izod, chain smoking by the back bar, and mom insisting on being in the mosh pit up front, until a neighborhood kid explained “Mrs. Muench, you will die if you stand there”. Fun times, but not really where I was in my life; it was more a window into his.

10 years ago today, Bad Trip played their reunion show. No longer kids, they were a clinical psychologist, a criminal defense attorney, and business people…adults. Sold out, fans turned away…it was packed. Matt and Kim of Matt and Kim selling t-shirts in the way back, ’cause that’s what friends do. “Kids” from the neighborhood, grown up, with graying hair and growing bellies, there to relive the joy of youth. Young fans who had discovered them on the internet, overwhelmed with getting the chance to see them perform live. With no actual stage to jump off, they brought in a trampoline, because what is a hardcore show without some stage diving? I might add that crowd surfing is more difficult when you are pushing 40…for both the performer and the fans. My brother’s 4 and 7 year old children watching him sing and work the room, his body being passed back and forth above their heads. In awe. Olivia perched on a 6 ft amp, capturing every moment on film, securing the memories forever. Jacob, 14 years outside my womb, standing on his own, speechless. Could one’s uncle possibly be this cool? A wall of adults protecting the kids from the mosh pit of screaming, slamming, joyous fans…singing every lyric of every song. Hardcore family fun.

The special thing about that day was watching the band seamlessly go back to their youth. To a time when their bandmates and fans were their family. They traveled the world together, literally all over the world, they had each other’s backs. They fought with each other, they protected each other, and they mourned the loss of friends…like a family. The reunion show allowed them to relive it…and to show their new families who they once were.

Who are we? I am the 3 year-old bossy angel in the Christmas pageant, the dancer and gymnast, the struggling student, the designer, the volunteer, the friend, wife, parent, daughter, crafter…or am I the writer?

Who aren’t we…we are not the people you see on social media, we are not the people you see after one interaction, we are not the people who made mistakes when we were young, we are not stagnant.

Our kids receiving the gift of seeing their old silly uncle…take control of a jam packed club full of screaming fans was magical. They were introduced to a different Uncle Fred. He taught them that each person has many versions, many lives, many chances to be anyone they want to be.

Thank you Bad Trip… that was one of the best days ever.

Crowd surfing, his wife Jodi’s hand at the left, her other hand holds their 4 year old. Photo by Olivia Nemec.

Without Shame

I wanted to write about parades today. My little town just had a kick-ass HS graduation car parade… glorious, joyous, everything good. But, we are in unprecedented times, and when people are hurting parade talk can wait.

My mom was a secretary in advertising in the early 1960s. She was 5.7 and very thin, think Audrey Hepburn. She wore a girdle, every, single, day…full length, breasts to above the knee. Why? Because if you didn’t “you were sending a message” that you were one of “those girls”. When my mom was pregnant with me she was in the elevator with one of her superiors, he looked at her breasts and told her she was pregnant. He had been admiring them for years and knew they were bigger. Me Too happened 60 years later.

When Me Too exploded men walked around a bit nervous…had they touched a waist or left their hand on a woman’s shoulder too long? Was that hello kiss at the neighborhood BBQ ok, was that hug too tight? Would they be called out on inappropriately looking at someones breasts instead of their eyes. There was a bit of a panic. Guys listened to woman after woman, girl after girl, coming forward with their stories. They had no idea how their actions had effected women and many of them were horrified. That was good.

Right now many people in my little town are nervous. They have that same deer in the headlights look that men had at the beginning of Me Too. People of color are calling out those who have treated them poorly, naming those who have used racist language, exposing bullies and bad local cops. People are telling their stories of being the other, showing unimaginable photos, videos, and posts…both present and past. They are exposing the cruel, racist, evil they have lived. And the neighborhood watches, and listens, and reaches out…and holds their breath, just like the men did. And hopefully we listen and learn, because that would be good.

When I agreed to be a Girl Scout Leader I wanted to share an important piece of advice. You will remember your actions, you will remember who you were cruel to, you will remember the look in their eyes when you treated them poorly. Think before you do. Think before you act. I remember being a bystander while a friend was bullied…I will never forget her eyes…looking at me, hoping I would defend her. I didn’t, I was weak, I was 12, I was stupid. My goal was to educate the girls, so they could avoid feeling that shame for the rest of their lives…I failed. Some of them were exceptionally sophisticated bullies, I saw it with my own eyes. They will live with the shame, I could not save them.

So now we white people listen, we support, we act, we apologize. We hope. We hope that this movement will allow people of color to have their voices heard. We hope that they understand that we are learning and growing and want change.

There will always be bullies…sad insecure souls who build themselves up by putting others down. They will always exist. But but but…if we call them out, and if we support those who need us to have their backs, we not only make the outcast feel loved…we will love ourselves, with out shame.

The Other

Taking a risk here, I expect backlash because that is how it goes these days. We forget that we all have experiences that are valid, we all have opinions. If you don’t like mine, feel free to create a blog, I will read it and respect your willingness to be exposed and true to yourself.

I have been thinking a lot about being “the other”, I decided to go way back and really think about it…

Sitting in classrooms from K-12 knowing others could read so easily, so fluently, so gracefully…not me, waiting for my turn to read aloud was torture. Being picked for kickball, standing in shame, how long would it take for the captain to look back and forth at the line of kids, past me, why did they always take so long? Watching all of the kids leave for CCD, why did they have Sunday school on Wednesdays? Why did the school day stop when they left? Why did certain kids have so many pairs of jeans, I get that the pocket had a different design, but how did that work, how did they get new clothes every single weekend? At art school I realized that kids actually had art at their high schools, not an old lady with tenure doing her makeup at the desk yelling da-rawwww go, da-rawww sumthin…these kids had ceramics, life drawing, and printing presses… they were at art school to continue learning, not to start. It was all fascinating how different I was from so many people. The other.

Being the other can really hurt. I will never forget failing my interview with the priest of the Catholic Church my boyfriend’s family attended…he was willing to forgive me for not being Catholic (after all, everyone cannot be that lucky at birth), but he was completely floored to hear that as an Armenian, I was not Armenian Orthodox. What on earth? How could my parents go so wrong, I was so close to being in the top tier of heaven (not the penthouse like Catholics, but high up there) and my parents blew it. How could I fit in with his family if I was not one of them? Sigh. The other.

A friend told me this story. She was working for a big company that is kind of WASPy, and the hip twenty somethings were getting ready to leave for the long Thanksgiving weekend, one turned to her and innocently said “what do you do for Thanksgiving”…like Jewish people didn’t know of this unique and fantastical holiday. My friend was angry but also frozen, how do you teach someone that clueless about religion and American History in just 30 seconds of pleasantries. My mom tells the story of meeting my 100% German grandma, my grandma (so white she was transparent) looked at my Armenian (with a summer tan) mom and with out an ounce of shame said, “a schvatza”. Look it up. Not nice. The other.

I fit in pretty well with different groups. I pass. Due to my own swarthy summer skin color and my commitment to volunteering while working full time, I hear what people say about the other. When visiting Italy, Mexico, and Guatemala people assume I speak the language. I am treated better, at least until I speak. When at a client recap meeting, the guy who complains about the amount of “breeders” at the event the night before. Hmmmm, I was at that opening, I just noticed a bunch of families. When with working moms, they talk about “those women at home all day, doing nothing but volunteering” (when in fact their very children are benefitting from the work these women do). When with my PTA crew they complain about “the working moms, who do nothing”. How can everyone be doing nothing? How can everyone be the other?

Lately I hear old timers from our town talking about the newbies, “those Brooklyn people”, “nobody home with the kids, they eat all organic, maybe if they just ate normal they could raise their own kids”, “they walk, e-ver-y where, what we need is parking”…it is hysterical since the people making these comments just made cajoodles of money by selling their homes to “those people”.

The other.

So… after rehashing my existence of being the other…not being smart enough, talented enough, Catholic enough, stay at home parent enough, PTA hating enough, Pleasantville enough…I realized I am so f*cking lucky.

I am crazy lucky, because 99.99% of the time I am very comfortable. I am just another hardworking, business owning, wife, friend, volunteer, mom in suburbia. I do not worry that my son will be murdered for running, driving, breathing. I do not fear being pulled over by authority when I am in the wrong, and I have mouthed off to authority without being harmed (other than punished by my parents) when I was in the right. I walk into stores and I am not followed. I attended college and it was not assumed I was on a scholarship. I can go birding and not have the world shocked that I have a hobby. I wake up every day with the promise that it can just be another day.

To those who feel like the other every single second of every single day, I apologize for being in my bubble and not realizing how hard it must be, how exhausting. I am trying to do better, to be better. I appreciate that you are angry that it took people so long to see and hear you. I appreciate you being patient while we learn how to understand the situation and do better. I hope someday there is no other.

My Little Guy

When my son was in 8th grade he was cast as Danny Zuko…which meant a lot to this mama (who was a tween in 1978). I saw Grease at least three times in the theater, which was unheard of back then. Little Neck Movie Theater on Northern Boulevard in Queens. The floor was sticky, it smelled like rancid popcorn, and it played two of my all time favorite movies. Grease and Meatballs (1979). I did not swoon over John Travolta, but I majorly crushed on Chris Makepeace. I have always been more of a nerd-loving kind of girl.

The director did not mind that our kid was a foot shorter than all of the other T-Birds, she brought out the best in him. He had confidence and swag and he was owning it. She was this little bit of sass who reminded me of my bestie from High School, tiny and on fire. She could keep command of a bunch of horny squirrelly kids like no other. They were hand jiving and making greased lightning…it was bliss. She was also mighty pregnant and it seems that at one point during the production I joked with her that I would happily babysit her kid when mine were grown…then I forgot I ever said it. She didn’t.

Five years ago I got an email, hey Kat, do you remember mentioning babysitting for us… well he starts school in September, can you take the mornings before school? My youngest was a senior in high school. Why not.

You never really plan on falling in love, sometimes it just happens. I have written about falling in love with many men, which was mostly a joke (except for my husband and son of course) but with my little guy…it was just a gradual ever-growing love. We were total buds. He was so shy and quiet at first, sitting on my lap, reading Chicka Chicka Boom Boom and Dr. Seuss time and time again. He told me everything I needed to know with his big brown eyes and electric smile. Gradually we had inside jokes…just a glance between us would result in hysterical laughter. We walked to school backwards, we held hands, we raced up the block, took short cuts through neighbors yards, we bonded. He began to know my reading rhythms, looking at me just before I would give a completely crazy delivery of a line… getting so excited with anticipation that he would be out of control laughing before the words even came out. We got each other.

Kids grow up and passions change… my kids’ old Duplos, Legos, Toy Story toys, and then finally the Star Wars guys and space ships came out. There was less interaction but always connection. We sat together, he played, I rubbed his back. Sometimes I would do something silly and get the reward of a side glance and a smile, then a few minutes later he was on my lap for a cuddle. Almost my height, the cuddles became more like body slams, but I was used to it, my son still sits on my lap at 24. I loved cuddle days. This fall I realized this was the last year with my little guy, next year he would go to the middle school where his mom teaches, they would no longer need me.

I am very comfortable with life changes, time goes on. I deal with big stuff gradually, mourning slowly, so I am not hit too hard. These would be my last crisp fall morning walks to school, the last Halloween, the last elementary school play. This year he picked out a Christmas gift for me himself. “Kat needs this” he said to his mom, a wooden sculpture “Kissing Machine”. Perfection, maybe he realized we were doing lasts too. We would finish up the year and it would all be good. He would move on, we were forever buds, and we still had time…until we didn’t.

Last night I saw a post from my little guy’s mom. He is glowing, so proud…smiling eyes and exploding smile, standing in front of a graduation sign on his lawn. He is so different. How did he grow so much in just three months? I didn’t get to walk him to school this spring, we did not “walk the wall” and he did not jump into my arms, we did not get ice cream, or giggle at the crossing guard who reminds us of the bird from Go Dog Go. We didn’t have any more cuddles, or read any more books. We didn’t dance like Peanuts characters, bobbing our heads, bouncing from foot to foot. We didn’t even say goodbye.

Seeing that picture of him, I cried and cried. I knew I missed him terribly but had no idea how much. It is crazy to see how fast the world moves on. Stuck inside, we are still growing, changing, morphing into our next selves. He looks so happy, so confident, and he is owning it…and that is just as it should be.

Finding Balance

While in our twenties we threw pretty crazy Halloween parties. Having very artistic friends meant we needed to empty the living room of all furniture so that the huge sculptural costumes would fit. Costumes were often based on current events…one year there was a OJ Simpson Car Chase (helicopter hanging from a baseball cap, suv and cars glued to sweatshirt in chase formation), one year we had at least three sets of Keri Strug and Bela Karolyi, Keri carried in Bela’s arms for each entrance. One year my brother showed up covered in magnets, pictures of my family and post-its, he was my refrigerator, there was one to do list on his belly, and on that list was…

_ Bake Brownies for People Who Need Brownies

And that was the beginning of my religion. I was raised Protestant (think Little House on the Prairie roll up your sleeves and do good for others), I currently attend a traditional but “we meet you where you are” church that does a ton of mission work… but my religion is…Baking Brownies for People Who Need Brownies (BBFPWNB). It covers it all. If you do not have it, I would like to help you get it. Being a believer in this “religion” lead to 9 years as PTA President or Vice President…or both. It meant I was class mom for two children every single year except for one. It meant volunteering to the point of insanity while working full time. It is a really exhausting “religion” to practice.

I was on the phone the other day with the Pope of BBFPWNB. She has done all I have x 10, her to do lists exhaust me. She admitted that the idea of staying home was a bit frightening at first… how would she fill her time? She assumed she would lose her mind… until, until she didn’t. She enjoyed this new peace, she enjoyed having some solitude. She enjoyed her husband, no need for constant parties and plans, she really really enjoyed just being with her husband. I totally get it.

I miss hugging. I am sad about lost milestones and celebrations. I mourn not going to Fire Island and not knowing when I will see my son again hurts my soul… but I do not dislike this quieter life.

When this bit of insanity fades and a new normal exists…I plan to keep some of this newly acquired quiet in my life. It is a wonderful lesson learned.

The Gentleman of Pleasantville

When we moved into Pleasantville I assumed there would be a small town welcome… you know, like in the movies, notes that said hi, welcome, here is my number if you need anything, or, come over for a BBQ while you are unpacking, or, let us know if you need tools…nope, crickets. We quickly realized this was no movie set, and there would be no welcome baskets arriving.

I love Jane Austen movies, Downton Abbey, PBS anything. I love the banter, the rules of society, the ridiculousness of it all. I find the gentlemen whose job it is to be…gentlemen…purely delightful. Their occupation…to know history, sit by the fire and read books, and every once in a while give a longing look across the room at the young new girl in town while she does needlepoint. I mean, can you imagine a time when it was a person’s job to read, learn, and share their knowledge?

Parents with toddlers do a lot of walking. In the city walks mean two kids in a double stroller, always. In the suburbs kids walk on their own, bliss. We loved this new reality, we walked to find leaves, to watch the trains come in…swooshing by under the overpass. We walked to the playground, the library, the fields to roll on the never ending grass. Let’s be honest, we walked to get the kids really really tired.

On our first few Pleasantville walks we met a man. Swoon, my first real gentleman…a man who read, who shared knowledge, who was charming…that was his job! He wore a tan suit jacket, always. He had white coiffed hair, always. He was often lost in thought until he got close, then smiled a huge smile, always. A man who was of a different era. He introduced himself. Well, hello, you are new here…I am Carsten Johnson. Welcome to Pleasantville. Who may I ask are you…you look like you are the interesting one in this group, looking right at our 18 month old daughter. He had my daughter’s number from go, and he asked about her first every single time he saw me. Kat, how may I ask is Olivia Rose? To this day she has only been called Olivia Rose by Carsten, and anyone who is angry with her… namely her parents.

Carsten was a sponge, he wanted to know everything about you… so that the next time you met, he would have some interesting tidbit for you. He was our town historian. If you had any question about Pleasantville he either knew the answer, or he would find it out. He was a walking encyclopedia who taught without ever making one feel less than. Carsten was able to keep a group of elderly scholars riveted on a subject they thought they knew everything about and could also wrangle a troop of squirrelly Cub Scouts. Did you know Cub Scouts behave like little gentlemen when on a walking tour with a gentleman? Carsten would walk the town, a gaggle of boys in blue Scout shirts following behind him, talking about where the old schoolhouse was, who was buried in the cemeteries, where the library used to be. He had them enthralled. He was magic.

Carsten. Sigh. Sitting at the coffee shop, greeting every single person who passed. A coffee, a cigarette, and a smile. He could make even those rushing to a train stop for a chat, because a Carsten chat was always worth it.

Years ago he was missing from his spot for a bit. I asked around to find out he was sick, in the hospital, I was told that he wondered if anyone would even know he was gone, miss him. This kind of killed my soul. I realized I really did not know him well…he knew me, he knew my family…he knew everyone. How on earth could we let this man wonder if anyone missed him, of course we did.

So, word got out, and people made cards, wrote letters, and sent in notes. We created a keepsake box, with a beautiful vintage feel. He would know that the community he loved…loved him right back. Long letters, little poems with drawings, thank you notes from Scouts and school groups. It was a box full of love…for a man who was used to giving and not receiving. We were so thankful we got to let him know how we felt.

When I heard that Carsten had recently passed away I knew he would become a Swoon. He is why swooning exists, to give public props to the special things that need to be cherished a bit extra. Carsten meant so much to so many people in this town, everyone seems to have a Carsten story…where he made them feel special, and noticed. It is pretty crazy that one person made so many feel so very good. He was a gentleman, he was the gentleman…The Gentleman of Pleasantville…maybe Pleasantville is like a movie after all. Swoon.

Left to right: Carsten; Carsten’s dad holding maple syrup he tapped; Old School Lane sign from the Cub Scout tour of Pleasantville; Martling Avenue maple syrup tapping lesson by Carsten’s dad (a smidge of our house above the triangle on the far right.

T-Rex and Kong

T-Rex and Kong: Swoon 60

Pleasantville is about 30 miles north of Manhattan. More suburb than vacation destination, people fleeing the city due to the pandemic drive right past our exit while heading upstate. We do have one new family since lockdown…a family of dinosaurs. First, it was just one lone T-Rex, checking things out for the rest of the clan, he* ran through the neighborhood feeling out his welcome. We did not tell him to go back to where he came from, we embraced his uniqueness. After a few weeks, the rest of the family showed up. They are a healthy group…some days they run together, other times they take a solitary stroll. Their presence brings joy and laughter during this time of ever growing fog and confusion. T-Rex sightings posted in real time on FB update us when they are out and about…they are on Romer Avenue, they just turned onto Bedford Road…quick go look! The family made an appearance at the farmers market and at the teacher appreciation day drive by at the elementary school. They remind me of one Halloween during elementary school…when I was kidnapped by the Son of Kong.

My bestie was a teeny tiny girl named Deirdre. She sounded like Bea Arthur, had wild curly hair, was brilliant, and her parents were health food people before there even were health food people (no Twinkies for her, she had sunflower seeds). She lived in an apartment complex in Jamaica Queens and she was bussed to school. Being the only white kid on the bus never seemed to phase her, and I never thought about it until I went to her house for a sleepover. It was the first time in my life I was the minority. Every little kid should experience that.

I invited Deirdre to spend Halloween with me, her first house-to-house trick-or-treating experience, we were beyond giddy walking home from school with our friend Richard. It was warm and sunny and there would be no stupid coats ruining our costumes. We were on Center Drive, just blocks from home when a white station wagon with wood panelling pulled up. A gorilla leapt from the car and threw us in the way back, then drove off. Richard realized his brother was driving, I realized my cousin was in the middle row, and poor Deirdre seemed traumatized…until she saw that we were laughing.

The gaggle of teenage boys invaded our house to tell my mom of their escapades and to eat warm chocolate chip cookies. They had just returned from the Empire State Building, where one boy sported the gorilla suit and tried to gain entrance by paying with a banana… declaring “I need to see where my father died”. If I remember correctly, the kid in the gorilla outfit got in for the banana, the rest paid to go up top.

My mother, being my mother… asked to borrow the gorilla suit. She planned on hiding behind “big tree” to scare kids after they got their treats. It all went well, kids squealing and parents laughing as she hoo hoo hooed, acting like an ape. Such fun…until she tried it on a group of middle school boys. They watched her come from behind the tree and screamed GET HER! taking off after her with shaving cream and eggs. She ran down the block screaming STOP, I AM MRS. MUENCH, I KNOW YOUR MOTHERS!

I stood frozen, I mean really, what does one do in this situation. She was heading toward the bay, it was dark, she would be fine…right? I am pretty sure my dad’s response was to just get up from the couch and take over giving out candy. No. Reaction. Which of course says all that needs to be said. A bit later Mom showed up at the backdoor a bit shaken but fine. The story goes that the boys followed her for two blocks then gave up when she tucked into someone’s backyard, going from unlit yard to unlit yard until arriving home. The potential for Big Foot sightings in Douglaston that night was large.

People who are willing to be ridiculous…are gifts to the universe.

I would like to imagine, years from now, someone will be writing their memories of being a child during “The Pandemic of 2020”. There was no school, no parties, no trips to the pool, no playdates, and no grandparent hugs… but there was a T-Rex, who jogged through town, spreading so so so…very much joy.

*he, she, they, substitute as you wish.

Photo copyright 2020 Donna Mueller Photography… more work at @DonnaMuellerPhotography. Thanks Donna.

Do you

Do you: Swoon 59

My sister’s garden at Fire Island is a mix of beds, trellises…English garden meets sandbar chic. Flowers bloom (on schedule, so there is no clashing) for a 3 season display of lovely. Cut flowers become one beautiful still life after another allowing some inside joy.

My brother and sister-in-law recently added a vegetable garden, housed in a structure he built himself…hinged door, walls made of cedar, able to be converted to a winter greenhouse, it is the real deal. Their garden out front is a mix of plants, bushes and flowering trees…offset with light brown mulch, in the back the little gardens are offset with a dark brown mulch…they coordinate their mulch with their plants, which when you think about it, makes perfect sense.

“My” garden is a work in progress (thanks to mom), made up of the leftover gardens of the previous owners, new plantings of eclectic flowers, and my favorite…potted bursts of color. The new addition of four metal vegetable beds surrounded by a bunny proof fence, is both laid back and impressive all at once.

We were raised in the same home, our gardens could not be more different. You could say the same thing about our clothing, our grocery lists, our music choices, and our homes.

The thing is, I never question their different choices, I embrace them and I learn from them and I must admit, I sometimes envy them. Our differences make us a mini superhero group, the sibling Avengers, all with our own powers. My sister is the researcher, the study, the brains. Master of pro and con lists, knowledgable on medical conditions and financial issues, she is a Google search away from any answer to any question. Guru on all things food, design, and style, she is a visual master, curating every aspect of her life. My brother embodies charm and acceptance, he can walk in any room and bring calm, understanding, and love. He can make any group cohesive and united. He has the ability to talk to anyone, about anything, and it is genuine. He brings out the best in people, it is a rare gift. I tend to be the one who does the connecting, keeping the family together for holidays and celebrations. I am the nurturer, the family archiver, the roll up the sleeves and doer, I am the memory of all things past and the planner for most things future.

I do not mean to paint a picture of perfect sibling harmony. We have more flaws than gifts. Our gifts clash almost as much as they compliment. But even when clashing, I really believe there is a respect for our differences. We see how our differences make us stronger as a unit.

I am finding certain FB posts kind of numbing lately. “My husband puts salt on everything, I hate salt.” “Why do people miss beauty parlors so much, I like my gray.” “My downstairs neighbor listens to really bad music.” “I don’t like messy sidewalks, why do kids need to put chalk everywhere”.

Maybe we should all just chill a bit.

It is ok if someone else likes to get their hair done, it is not a reflection on you. It is ok to just look up while walking if you choose to ignore the utterly glorious and joyous art below your feet. Maybe your neighbor thinks your music is really bad! Maybe differences (except fact-based science of course, facts always are facts) should be used as a way to enjoy something that does not come naturally to you. Maybe if we embrace our differences we can spend more time living life.

Enjoy each other. Embrace differences. Be happy with your choices and… do you.