Renee Rocks

I can’t count the number of times I’ve said aloud, to oh so many different people, and of course, to myself, that life can change in a second. That …

Close Calls and Lucky Reflexes

I can’t count the number of times I’ve said aloud, to oh so many different people, and of course, to myself, that life can change in a second. That we’re all a phone call or a misstep away from disaster. That we can’t constantly hold that vulnerability in the front of our minds all the time because we’d be too scared to function in daily life. As I’ve gotten older, and have unfortunately been in the position of having my life as I’ve known it, suddenly shift permanently for one reason or other, that awareness is taking up more brain space than it once did. Take this past week for example. After a packed Thanksgiving holiday, which stretched into a sixteen day visit from my son and his family, I spent a weekend in Chicago, catching up with rarely-seen relatives and old friends. These days, I’m trying to pack a lot of activities into my life, taking full advantage of the moments when my body, albeit less than perfect, is still capable of pushing its limits. Anyway, I got home Sunday evening, pretty tired but with a prepared list of deferred chores to tackle during the upcoming days. A bit of good news was that the significant amount of snow that was on the ground while I was away had melted, including bulk of the thick ice layer that had covered my driveway. Only scattered rough patches left, not as unnerving or dangerous as one big slippery slick. Or so I thought.

I tackled that chores list for a few hours on Monday and Tuesday mornings, mostly running errands. I stopped only for a midday swimming break. When I was done, I went back home, turning my attention to inside jobs and eventually, allowing myself some downtime in the house. This strategy was working for me, as I recovered from all the holiday and travel tumult. Dividing my tasks into manageable chunks of time was a good strategy. So Wednesday morning started just like the other days. I put my coat on, grabbed my purse and some boxes to be mailed, and headed out to the garage. While I was walking, I noted where the remaining ice was on the driveway, reminding myself to walk carefully. But literally, at almost the exact second I had that thought, I apparently stepped on that tough-to-spot winter hazard, the dreaded black ice patch, and found myself headed face first into the concrete pad in front of the garage. A total faceplant.

In the nanosecond of consciousness I had before I hit the ground, I remembered to pull my shoulders back to protect my arms so I wouldn’t land on my wrists. Instead my chin took the hit, bouncing up, my teeth smashing into my lips. Head wounds bleed so much. I found some napkins in my coat pocket which I jammed between my lips to stanch the bleeding. With nothing to hold onto to pull myself up, I remembered this old people video about how to stand up from a flat position, one that I’d recently seen on Instagram. Yeah, I watch all those senior infomercials now. Amazingly, I got myself into the downward dog yoga position, walked my feet toward my hands, pushed hard and was suddenly upright. I got a big hole in my bottom lip, abrasions along the upper one, really hurt my jaw and had some whiplash. But my teeth were all fine and I didn’t break anything. Kind of a lucky miracle. It could have been so much worse. But it wasn’t. No one was around me. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I was able to think and to not get undone by pain or anxiety. My reflexes, physical and mental, still worked for me, in an unexpected, startling situation. Lucky indeed.

A couple of days later, another snow storm arrived, coupled with frigid temperatures. Late at night, I shoveled my sidewalks. Because I no longer can do all the outside cleanup, I was relieved to see the small company I hired a few years ago, show up with a truck which plowed my driveway, leaving a path to get me from the garage to the street. But I was leery after my fall. Aware that big ice was still lurking below the new snow pack, I cleared the all the snow and ice on the pavement from my house to mid-driveway. I had no desire to walk over any treacherous ground back to the garage, so I parked my car, outside the garage, on an angle, next to that clean walkway.

The next day, I did my morning things, went swimming and came back home for a while, before heading out to an afternoon eye doctor appointment. I can’t exactly say what happened next, but my best guess is that I didn’t correctly gauge my turning radius from the unaccustomed angle I’d parked at to avoid the ice. Within seconds of trying to back out, my car had slid out of the plowed pathway. I skidded onto a pile of snow and ice covering a railroad tie which separates my garden from the driveway. Is there such a thing as beyond stuck? Because that’s what I was. I started doing the rocking thing, shifting up and back from drive to reverse and cutting my wheels to escape the rut. But I wound up digging myself in deeper, and making a huge racket while doing it.

That noise brought my neighbor out of her house to offer help, but I knew someone bigger and stronger than her would be required for my mess. Fortunately, my son-in-law who lives right across the street from me, had just arrived at his house. He came over and immediately realized that my passenger side tire which wasn’t making contact with the ground. He retrieved a piece of carpet and some wood to close the gap and restore traction. With him pushing, I began the rocking thing again. After less than a minute or so, I could feel the car rising over the rut, so I gunned the motor. And just like that, I was free. Except I was in reverse gear, foot still on the accelerator, moving at a high rate of speed and barreling toward my neighbors’ vehicles, which were parked adjacent to my side of the driveway.

The sequence of events is blurry to me. My son-in-law yelling, “STOP!” Me glancing over my shoulder to see those cars and suddenly swerving away to avoid a collision, then swerving the car again to avoid plowing back into the railroad tie and ultimately, slamming on the brakes before plunging backwards into the street. I don’t think even a minute had passed. But I was safe. No collisions. No disasters. My son-in-law’s expression as he approached me was priceless, a mixture of shock and relief. But I didn’t have time to think about it – I hurried away so I wouldn’t miss my appointment which would’ve taken months to reschedule. Later, when I came back home, I photographed the skid marks to remind myself of that close call. And I talked with my son-in-law who figured out how my unusual parking angle had contributed to getting stuck in the first place.

The winter week still wasn’t finished with me. Two days later, when heading out in the morning to meet my daughter for our weekly breakfast, I found my car utterly dead, a victim of the brutal weather. That incident required a visit from the motor club, whose car-charging guy offered me solace by reminding me that I was only one of many that day whose vehicles were no match for the cold. Then my garage door froze too, an issue which has continued for days. But on I went, jiggling and adjusting whatever glitched, just trying to lead my daily life.

The following day’s tasks were two-fold. I had a scheduled visit to my health clinic for lab work ahead of an upcoming doctor appointment. As the blast of frigid temperatures caused school cancellation, I also planned on getting breakfast for my grandsons after I finished up at the lab. After my blood test, I headed to my car, ready to bring food to the boys. But when I lowered my car window to clear some ice covering my rear view mirror, the window got stuck in the down position.

With windchills in double digits below zero, all I could think was really ?? Were all these incidents a series of cosmic messages telling me to just stay inside until spring?? Enough already. But rather than give up, I picked up breakfast, delivered it to the kids and made my way to a service garage where the kindly owner squeezed me in for an immediate fix. That was a relief. I was glad for it, and also, that I was still resourceful enough to find quick solutions to these inconvenient and annoying situations.

I know that based on my age, now 74, a certain amount of brain function decline is common. This is the kind of stuff I wasn’t thinking about ten years ago. But I’m hoping to be on the outside of that inevitable curve. So I’m trying to do what I can to keep myself as sharp as possible. Exercise, every word puzzle created and mostly, the right foods. I guess I’ll have to see what happens.

“The brain’s neural pathways — the routes signals take — start to change, too. Over time, some connections weaken or get less efficient, like an old highway with potholes. This affects how fast we process and respond to things, whether it’s a loud noise or a sudden movement. Hormones and blood flow play a part, too. Reduced oxygen or nutrient flow to the brain can further impair cognitive processing speed. By the time someone’s in their 70s or 80s, these changes add up. These changes make reflexes noticeably slower and less responsive. It’s not just about feeling slower; tests show that reaction time by age can double compared to someone in their 20s. That’s why older adults might struggle with split-second decisions. For example, stepping on the brake or dodging an obstacle.” Medline

What I do know for certain is that I’m going to be glad about every single thing I can still manage without anything type of catastrophe. And that’s a good plan as today, I had another challenging situation with my vehicle come straight at me, out of nowhere. As I was driving down a two-lane through street with no stop signs in my direction, I suddenly noticed, through my peripheral vision, that a car on a street perpendicular to me was racing through her stop sign. I accelerated, hoping to avoid getting crunched in my driver’s seat. That worked partially. Instead of that direct hit, the other driver rammed into the rear of my car, completely knocking off my back bumper. Fortunately no one was injured. When the police arrived, the offending driver was issued a citation which means that her insurance will have to compensate me for what will be extensive repairs.

As I said, I feel lucky that I still have quick reflexes and that I’m still uninjured and alive after all my recent mishaps. But there’s a part of me that thinks I should just stay home for a while. I’ve had my share of problems. Now wouldn’t it be nice if life worked that way?

Sometimes it’s just one note of a song. Or a whiff of that certain scent. Maybe a glimpse. What elicits a memory? Where do they really live? 1,800 …

Memory Land

Sometimes it’s just one note of a song. Or a whiff of that certain scent. Maybe a glimpse. What elicits a memory? Where do they really live? Only in the murky recesses somewhere in the head? Or do shimmering wavelengths of what we felt, what we thought, what we did, somehow melt into the places where they happened. Can they leak out of their hiding places when we return to those spots, adding three-dimensional sensations to the movies in our minds? I have no idea. But certain places feel like that to me…

I wasn’t one of those people whose childhood experiences laid the foundation for a life master plan. The truth is, while growing up, I didn’t have much practice in goal-setting. My parents did not model best practices for an organized approach to the future. When I was young, they led what I’d call a reactive life, always responding to some crisis or other. Sometimes that was okay but the “we have a problem” approach didn’t lend itself to long-range planning. Interestingly enough, later on in my teen years, my dad was constantly harping on the necessity of having “a plan,” a true irony as for the longest time, there was no evidence he’d ever made one. And he wasn’t really specific about just how these plans were devised. I realized that for many years, despite that admonition in my head, I was winging my life in the same way as my folks had.

My dad had a number of jobs until he finally settled into a secure position in his mid-forties. My mom worked occasionally, but had nagging health issues that usually caused her to quit her jobs. As a result of their economic challenges, our family of six experienced years of struggle. I knew that other people lived differently. My school friends went to overnight camps during the summer. They went to far-away places for family vacations. Both of my older siblings had moved out of our apartment before we ever went anywhere other than visiting our grandparents and one uncle who lived in Chicago like we did. When I was twelve and my younger sister ten, somehow my parents managed a road trip to Mackinac Island. A real family vacation. We stayed overnight in a couple of motels and ate at diners. The first time I was served hot buttered toast I felt so rich, so privileged. After so many years, restaurant toast still evokes luxury to me. I remember us buying huge, juicy purple cherries at roadside fruit stands which we ate in the car, and I can smell the earthy scent of the horses pulling the carriages on the island, still the only transportation mode allowed on Mackinac. But that trip was a one-off. In my family we didn’t build memories around shared adventures away from home. Most memories were created within the walls of our various third-floor apartments, hotter than hell in the steamy Chicago summers.

Except for a high school trip to Expo ‘67 in Montreal following my junior year, that Mackinac Island trip was the only vacation away from home that I ever had during my childhood. Money was always an issue and throughout college, not much changed until January, 1972. With $200 and a few free months, I hitchhiked my way around several European countries with a couple of friends, discovering the wonders of being elsewhere. When I moved in with Michael upon my return from that first big adventure, his quite different early life experiences would set the tone for future travel. His family took numerous trips while he was growing up, annual visits to his two sets of grandparents who lived in Ohio and Florida, along with visits to places like Washington, D.C. and Gettysburg. In college he was off on tropical spring breaks, scooting around Florida and the Bahamas. Early on in our relationship, we cruised around on long driving trips in our shaky vehicles, combining sightseeing with camping for affordability. I loved being on the move. But after roaming around together for almost ten years before we had kids, the next kind of vacations we took were the more sedentary kind, going to a particular spot and parking ourselves in a place where families could have a good time.

For many years in the early ‘90’s, we spent our summer vacations with old friends and their families at a small lake in Michigan. These were the kind of traditional experiences that I never had while growing up. The comfort of knowing where we would go, with people we knew to do the same things we loved was great for our little family. But eventually, we shifted away from those gatherings. Our son, the youngest in that Michigan group, felt uncomfortably detached from most of the older kids and no longer looked forward to that annual sojourn. So when everyone wanted to put down roots in that area for the future, we stepped back. In the winters, we usually visited my in-laws in Florida. After my relationship with them soured, there was a period of years when Michael made that same trip with our kids while I stayed home. After a time, he too grew estranged from his parents, so the two of us stayed behind while the kids went off to see their grandparents. The two of us wound up looking for a different getaway during the winter holidays, just a couple of days somewhere, fairly close to home, which wouldn’t be outrageously expensive. And that’s when our trips to Starved Rock began.

We loved the opportunity to recharge our weary internal batteries, just the two of us, but after a while, the kids wanted to come along for the swims in the snowy woods. Grateful that they still enjoyed our company, we began squeezing in short trips during their winter breaks. Starved Rock was only about an hour and a half drive away from home. We could quickly get that wonderful sense of being away, almost instant gratification. When we started going there as a family we had teenagers instead of little kids, people who were more self-sufficient and less likely to tangle with each other. So for the most part, we enjoyed a peaceful, relaxing time. I still vividly remember our winter of 2000 trip. Just a few minutes before we arrived at the park, snow began drifting down, big fluffy flakes. We dropped our bags in our rooms and went down to the big indoor pool which was surrounded by windows on three sides. Swimming around in a warm room in the midst of what became a blizzard was unforgettable.

That particular trip was also memorable because one night as we shared dinner, Michael informed the kids that he was switching careers after twenty-seven years as the co-owner of a beloved campus record store. I can still see their shocked faces, lit up by the nearby fireplace. Having a dad who knew seemingly everything about music, especially the kind they liked, was a source of pride for them. In addition they only knew their dad’s work life in the one way which had encompassed their entire lives. Our son looked at Michael across the table and asked, “are you going to become one of those dads who drinks beer all day and lays on the couch watching game shows?” I’ll never forget that moment.

The years went by. We didn’t always take as many photos of each trip but we tried to get that picture-perfect winter respite as a family every year that we could. As the kids evolved, so did the configuration of our group. In what seemed like only a short time, our daughter married and had children. Our son was joined twice by a significant other. We brought the grandkids along with us when they were small.

Michael developed cancer in 2012, had a year-long remission and began chemotherapy at the end of 2013. Between rounds of treatment, we were all back in Starved Rock.

As Michael went through a health rollercoaster ride, we managed to get back to our winter respite at the end of 2014 and once more in December of 2016. When he died the following May, I wasn’t sure I could ever go back to Starved Rock. I worried that I would only feel his absence and a huge sadness that would shake my hard-fought balance in the life I’d built for myself.

But as time passed, I missed that restorative little trip, tucked away in the woods, surrounded by nature noises with the extra luxury of swimming every day in the pool that felt outside, despite the snow and frigid temperatures. In January, 2023, my son, now married and a dad, suggested that maybe I was ready for a little emotional risk, in addition to his fulfilling his own desire to share an important part of his life with his wife. So off we went. Despite my trepidation, I was relieved to feel a flood of only the best and most positive memories of our many wonderful times in this proverbial home-away-from home.

Maybe our shared moments with people we love leave remnants of themselves in the actual physical environments where they occur. Sounds a little far-fetched, I know. Maybe I have an imagination so vivid that I’m projecting myself into these spaces and dragging everyone with me. All I know is that I’m glad I got past the anxiety about this place so I could enjoy it again, even if there’s always that empty space where I wish Michael would be, in the flesh instead of the dreamy way. I also realize, that despite not having the roadmap of a master plan in front of me when I began my adult life, that Michael and I created the kind of experiences in our family that I always wished I’d had. That my children cherish those times is everything to me.

Anyway, last year was so great, we managed to repeat the trip this year. Will it again become an annual event? Who knows? But if I go back again, I’m certain that the visceral memories will still be there to greet me. Even though I don’t exactly understand how they really work…

My, my. Sitting in my living room on the Saturday after this Thanksgiving, this post that I wrote two years ago popped up in my blog memories. 1,863 …

The Last Thanksgiving ? (Not)

My, my. Sitting in my living room on the Saturday after this Thanksgiving, this post that I wrote two years ago popped up in my blog memories.

My granddaughter just turned three. She has a baby brother who is six months old. My older grandsons are now eleven and fifteen. No one in my family has died since I wrote this blog. But this year marks the ninth anniversary of Michael’s death. That is impossible for me to believe and yet, that’s reality. I am quite obviously, still here at age 74. I’m glad that I write, that my memory still works well and that I still reflect on the ways of all things. Here’s that post from two years ago…

This year, I have a brand-new granddaughter as the holiday season begins.

My grandsons are 8 and 12 years old. Since the birth of the eldest one, my brother, my mother, my husband and my older sister have died. Of my family of origin, only my younger sister and I are still alive.

I’ve had three dogs die in the past 12 years, not to mention a number of friends who checked out way too early, in my opinion. I’ve lived longer than my dad and my husband, both gone at age 67. My brother was my age when he died. I think more about the uncertainty of the future than I once did. I try to be aware of my moments and to take advantage of the opportunities to share experiences with my family and friends. I wonder if I’ll live long enough for my new little girl to have real memories of me after I’m gone. What if this is my last Thanksgiving?

Thanksgiving was traditionally the favorite holiday in my family of origin. All about the great food and good company, absent the pressure of gift-giving or rituals outside our own, everyone was primed to simply enjoy ourselves. When we were kids, my parents always hosted the gathering. My uncle and his family who lived in Chicago, always shared that day, along with my grandparents. These gatherings were boisterous. We had freewheeling conversations which covered a lot of ground, from the personal to the political. We always sang, preferably songs that allowed everyone to belt out their parts in harmonies. After beginning our relationship, Michael and I attempted to alternate between our two families for Thanksgiving but we only made it to one stiff dinner with his parents before we abandoned that plan. My family didn’t celebrate Christmas so we saw his parents in December instead. The fact is, my crowd, despite being far from perfect, was certainly a lot more fun than his. My quiet guy routinely remarked over the years, that no matter how many people died, the decibel level at my family’s Thanksgiving was always the same. I think that was a fair assessment. The more introverted additions to our family were best-served by taking small mental health breaks from the intense intimacy of the rest of us.

I remember the one year my brother got into a significant and painful confrontation about his past with my parents, who promptly cancelled our upcoming Thanksgiving dinner. I was furious, as was my sister. That year I hosted the holiday, inviting her and a group of random friends to my house, foreshadowing for the almost thirty five years that we became the permanent hosts of the holiday, I suppose. We hosted the first family event at our home when I was thirty, just a few months after our daughter was born. I had a miserable virus, but I desperately wanted to signal my readiness to be more than a guest at that point. I’d stepped into my new role as a mom and wanted to establish our own traditions in our little family, embracing my origins, but also advancing our differences from the prior “kid” role. The following year, we went back up to Chicago, this time to my brother’s home. But his marriage was soon to come apart and from then on, our house was the destination. Within five years of our daughter’s birth, my parents had moved to our town. Going forward, our holidays were a mixture of family and friends.

Despite the peculiar and untrue traditional perceptions about the meaning of Thanksgiving, a whitewashed version of relationships between Native Americans and white settlers, the classic principles about taking a break from daily life to ponder gratitude and the positive parts of our existence were always important to Michael and me. We considered ourselves lucky to have a home, healthy kids, and a long-lasting powerful love affair. Sharing that emotional bounty with people, along with some seriously delicious food was a really satisfying experience.

Over the thirty-five years that we hosted this event, we had a core group of family in attendance. Sometimes more far-flung relatives joined us along with a revolving crew of their significant others. Neighbors and their families, co-workers with their spouses and kids, gathered around the tables with our kids’ college friends and roommates. People with no relatives nearby, found an extra chair squeezed in between others. Best buddies from school life, back in town to visit their families, often showed up to snag dessert. We still sang, often accompanied by guitars that someone had picked up along their way.

I can’t remember what the first Thanksgiving without my dad was like in 1989. That was an incredible year, Michael being elected to the city council in spring, both my parents diagnosed with cancer in early summer, Michael with back surgery in August followed by dad’s death in September. I know it happened. More memorable was Thanksgiving, 2010, two months after my first grandson was born. New life. At that time, I thought of nothing but what I believed would a rich future with our growing family, rolling out years into the decades beyond.

In April of 2012, Michael was diagnosed with the rare and deadly Merkel cell cancer. We were shocked and terrified. After an extensive head and neck surgery in May, coupled with 30 radiation treatments, he recovered from his treatment and was given a protocol of being examined every three months. He had one full body scan in November. The results were negative and that year, we were deeply grateful at our traditional Thanksgiving dinner. Our local team of doctors, along with the specialist we’d consulted were pleased with his progress. Merkel cell usually reappeared in the same area as the original lesion which for Michael, was on his face. His skin remained clear. In June, 2013, at a consultation with his doctors, we requested another scan. Subsequent scans were not included for his Merkel cell cancer stage which seemed crazy to us, given its lethal reputation. After much wrangling, the doctors ordered a scan for November, a year after his first and only one. The return date was November 8th with a doctor’s consult scheduled for November 12th. I wasn’t home for the scan. My family and that of our close friends, had arranged for a weekend getaway, with me and the wife in that family, surprised by a spa adventure. The husband in that crew had been through a bone marrow transplant following his diagnosis with a lethal form of leukemia. Everyone encouraged us to enjoy a brief restorative experience after the brutal stress we’d endured. I was uncomfortable with leaving. I called Michael to see if he’d gotten any results but there was nothing but a phone call moving his November 12th appointment to the 11th. I was home for that one in which we received the devastating news that his scan showed widespread cancerous lesions on over a dozen bones. We were transferred from the care of his head and neck surgeon to oncology. His prognosis was 2-3 months survival absent chemotherapy with perhaps one year possible if he survived the powerful treatment cocktail he would have to endure. Our daughter was expecting a second child in January. We weren’t certain if Michael would be alive to meet that baby.

By the end of that week, Michael had retired from his teaching position with our family going with him to empty his school classroom. The next question was whether or not to have our usual Thanksgiving gathering. Certainly there would be nothing usual about it. We were certain this would be the last Thanksgiving we’d share as our whole family. The concept of Michael’s future absence was a heavy emotional load. In the end, we decided that the opportunity for everyone to join us and to say a potential farewell was the right thing to do. We had a big crowd. I remember sleepwalking through the food preparation, being astonished at how normal and delicious everything tasted. We cried in the street with our neighbor family immersed in similar grief and anxiety. While we cried we experienced simultaneous wonder at how normal everything seemed. The last Thanksgiving. At least that’s what we thought.

Fortunately for us all, 2013 wasn’t our last family Thanksgiving. Michael survived for three more years, three more wonderful November celebrations. After his remarkable five year run he died in May, 2017. Those years changed the way I look at time. Although I always knew that living in the moment is the only way to go, with each passing year, I’ve grown more aware of how how quickly life passes. At almost 72, I’m still supposed to have more life ahead of me. But who knows? Maybe I do or maybe I don’t. I no longer host Thanksgiving dinner. I passed that torch to my daughter and son-in-law in 2017. Still, I prepare my dishes to bring with me and look forward to the familial time, despite missing Michael.

When it’s all said and done, I hope that if indeed, I don’t make it to the next one, that I’ll have used my time wisely. When I had my kids, every year on their birthdays until they were eighteen, I wrote each of them a letter, detailing the big and small events of their lives. At eighteen they both got their stacks of memories. I’ve done 12 for my oldest grandson and will present the 8th to my youngest one in January. I’ve already started the first one for my granddaughter. If I’m not here in the flesh I guess that whatever I write, for however long, will have to do.

The lemon tart, my most favorite dessert, which up until recently, I hadn’t tasted for many years. This is its story. I realize that associating …

The Taste of Memory

I realize that associating taste with memory might seem odd. But the truth is, the longer I live, the more complex the interactions between my five senses and the other parts of my brain appear to be. And I’m not alone, as many others also have interesting neurological connections between their sensory experiences. The term synesthesia, for example, is considered a real condition in which there is a transference between the senses. A person who listens to music sees colors. Another might taste words. Sometimes a number may always be perceived as a specific color. The examples of synesthesia are endless and are one of life’s fascinating mysteries.

But I digress. I can explain how I arrived at this particular experience of tasting my memories, which was an unexpected bonus when dining at my favorite local restaurant.

A couple of weeks ago, the above notice appeared in both my local newspaper and on my social media. Although I fully understand the impermanence of businesses, after seeing so many disappear during my lifetime, I found this one to be truly upsetting. I really have no idea how many times I’ve dined at this place throughout the years. The restaurant was family-operated. The patriarch, Ray, Sr., was a prominent landowner in town, whose Italian grandparents inspired him to begin his first food venture, a small tavern in this university community. That ultimately became a highly successful restaurant, known for its thin crust pizza and delicious Italian beef sandwiches. One of his sons managed that business. Unfortunately that son had serious personal issues which ultimately led to the closure of the tavern-style restaurant after a long successful run. The other, more high-end restaurant was run by his other son, a chef who trained at a school in Italy, and who often came out of his kitchen to chat with his customers about what they thought of his menu offerings. That is the one that will be closing soon.

For over three decades, I was the chief assessment official for commercial property in my city, determining the value upon which the often unpopular property tax was based. This role laid the foundation for a somewhat adversarial relationship between me and Ray, the restaurant founder, a dynamic, blunt man who complained a lot about his property taxes. But while we haggled and disagreed, we also developed a pleasant personal relationship, during which he told me lots of family stories, including the one about his grandmother teaching him how to make the pizza dough which was still used in the pies at both his local restaurants.

Starting in the late ‘70’s, my husband Michael and I became patrons of both restaurants. The tavern-like one was more affordable for us, which we often frequented on Friday nights, splitting salads and a pizza after work. By the time we were into the ‘80’s, we were customers at the more expensive one for special occasions like birthdays and anniversaries. In the ‘90’s, we’d had our kids. During those years, Michael was a city alderman with a public presence in our community. When we were our and about in the community, including when dining at restaurants, he was frequently recognized and engaged in conversations about issues before the city council. That’s how we initially met Ray, Jr. Ray’s wife Ginger was the genius pastry chef who created that fabulous lemon tart I loved so dearly.

Later on, our youngest child played baseball on a team with Ray Jr.’s kid, eventually strengthening our connection with is family. In addition to eating at their restaurant, Ray and Ginger provided the food for the end-of-the-year parties for the team. What a great bonus for everyone involved with that group.

Over time, whenever there was a family gathering with relatives visiting from afar, our one fancy night out together was at Ray’s restaurant. But more often, I’d have lunch there with my office mates. After my dad died in 1989, my mom, sister and I celebrated birthdays there. When my daughter began practicing law, lucky enough to be in her hometown, she often joined us for these lunches. One time, the four of us were sharing a birthday meal, when to my dismay, I discovered that the lemon tarts weren’t available that day. When Ginger found out I was in the restaurant and disappointed, she went into the kitchen, whipped up four tarts and presented them to me in a take-home box. That was one of the most thoughtful favors I was ever lucky enough to receive.

Time seems to fly away. The kids were suddenly adults, off doing their own lives. My daughter married and had first one kid and then another. My son completed a PhD and post-docs which took him abroad for long periods of time. My mother died in 2015. Michael began a five year tangle with a lethal cancer in 2012. On May 1st that year, we had what we thought was our last anniversary dinner at Ray’s. A somber affair at that time, we went on to get several more of those anniversary dinners before he died in May, 2017. Ginger, the pastry wizard, died the following February. That was the end of the lemon tarts.

Then in the fall of 2021, while we all navigated the pandemic, my son brought home the lovely woman he’d met while working abroad. About seven months later, they were married in our parlor, my daughter their officiant, with family, a few friends and many Zoom attendees, given the health constraints of those times. Afterward the ceremony, we took our group to a private room at Ray’s for another special time in the long line of celebratory family dinners at our favorite restaurant.

In recent years, I’ve still frequented Ray’s, mostly for dinner with my daughter and/or sister, and an occasional one with Joanne. These evenings usually occur before a concert or other event at our local arts facility which is located only a block away.

While there I often engage in conversation with the wait staff in this intimate setting. During the past few months, I found out that one waiter, Jim, is also the current pastry chef. Employed in the kitchen for almost thirty years, he’s done almost everything from food prep to serving. But he spoke fondly about working with Ginger who taught him everything about desserts. These talks naturally elicited my stories about the lemon tarts. About two months ago, Jim told me that if I gave him two days’ notice, he’d whip one up for me. I thought that was such a kind offer which I tucked into the back of my mind. A good thing to know for the future. But when I read the announcement about the upcoming closing, I thought, “time to make some farewell reservations, and maybe, just maybe, make that lemon tart request.

When I walked into the restaurant in the early evening of November 15th, my eyes immediately sought the wall-mounted chalkboard where the evening’s specials were always posted. There below the salads and entrees were the words “lemon tart.” I can’t describe how I felt in that moment. A few brief encounters with Jim were enough to motivate him to pull out Ginger’s wonderful recipe, just for me. So, so special. When the host seated me, I told him who I was; he was actually the person who’d taken my request over the phone. My sister arrived and we ordered our dinner, splitting two of our favorite dishes, one of which was a special that night, the traditional Italian beef, and the other, the famous thin crust pizza. I also had the salad-to-die-for, the arugula and goat cheese, which my daughter says she hopes to snag the recipe for, when we go back for our final dinner. But the lemon tart…

Meanwhile, it seemed as if every person seated near us that evening was either a friend or acquaintance. I told all of them the lemon tart story and encouraged everyone to order one. When dessert time came, Jim emerged from the kitchen and came to our table. He told me he was nervous because he hadn’t made the tart in such a long time, and that he felt Ginger looking over his shoulder all through the preparation that afternoon. And he promised, that if it wasn’t as good as I remembered, he’d do it again if I came back. We held each other’s hands for a few seconds before he had to dash back into the kitchen. What a magical moment.

Everyone around us was indeed, ordering lemon tarts. The man at the table next to me got his before I got mine. I told him that the chef was worried about how good the tarts would taste and asked if he had any complaints. He said, “only one – I wish it was bigger.” Then the waiter brought our tarts to my sister and me. I took my first bite and immediately had to pause. I took the photo at the top of this tale, a rare moment for me as I am not generally a foodie interested in displaying meals of any sort. But this one was different and memorable. As I said earlier, from that first bite to the last, my mind was flooded with images and moments from all the times I’d tasted this dessert before. What stunning memories, from raucous laughter, to frustrated tears, to sexy foot games under the tablecloth, intimacy to annoyance, friendship to caregiving, sentimentality to distance, all right on the tip of my tongue and in brilliant visualizations. Simultaneously as real as can be and also, utterly ghostly. An unforgettable experience. I’ve tried to think of an image that would help describe it. I came up with this photo of the blanket/tapestry given to Michael and me by my niece at Thanksgiving, 2013, scant weeks after we received the news that his brief cancer remission was over, his prognosis grim. Our life together, all in one place. That’s what my brain tasted through the tartness of lemon. All of it. Pure and simple magic.

Today is Albert’s birthday. I’ve always remembered it since I learned what day it was, way back in 1969. Like many numbers, birthdays seem to get stuck in my memory. Many of them make no sense to me, as the people whose special days I remember are often those I haven’t seen since I was a child in elementary school. My memory remains a mysterious creature. Anyway…I actually haven’t laid eyes on Albert since 1974. I came dangerously close to seeing him in 1975 when I was on a trip in California, visiting my friend Fern. Seeing her was wonderful, but the subtext of this vacation was me deciding if Michael was really the right person for me to be with for the rest of my life. Al was my first big love, after some innocent high school crushes. Our three year on and off love story was twisty, painful, ecstatic, tempestuous and often brutal. Being with him almost broke me. I know that I was often exhausted, insecure and filled with self-loathing during that time. For years I thought if I could wait out his immaturity and reluctance to be in a committed relationship at too early an age, we’d wind up together. Letting go of that fantasy was a difficult process for me which eventually got easier when I made my cosmic friendship connection with Michael in 1971. After eight months of that soothing, burgeoning bond, I finally broke away from Al as I ultimately transitioned with Michael from best friends into life partners. But that wasn’t easy for me.

I have always made intense connections with people. Keeping them is a theme in my life. I am loyal while at the same time, quite cautious about who I’ll trust. For the most part, if I’ve felt emotionally betrayed, I’ll walk away and never look back. But walking away from my first true love was a big ask for me. I’d always felt like love wasn’t the problem between Al and me. We weren’t able to get past what felt, at least to me, was simply bad timing. The rule was, you weren’t supposed to have too-serious romantic relationships in college, at least that was the rule for him. There was a constant push-pull between us which was torturous for me. But I always loved him. My ultimate separation from him was both an intellectual and emotional decision. I knew I could never trust him after all the havoc he’d caused with my sense of security during our time together. And I’d found a healthier, more secure passion with Michael. Even with Michael, though, I took several years trying to be sure we could navigate our differences. During that California trip, Al, with whom I still communicated, finally felt ready to be with me, years after our breakup. He used all his sway to convince me to travel from San Francisco where I was with Fern, to Los Angeles where he was completing a PhD and preparing for law school. He wanted an opportunity to convince me that we should give ourselves one more chance to see if we could go forward together. Thankfully, I understood that seeing him again, no matter what the outcome, would be a crushing blow to Michael and me. Despite that first love mystique that still had some meaning for me, I had just enough good sense to say no to a visit. I wasn’t willing to risk what I’d found with Michael for a dramatic whim. I returned home having avoided my sentimental impulse. Michael and I were married the following year. I never regretted my decision.

Over the years, being well-loved by Michael went a long way in healing the scars on my psyche which had so changed me during that tumultuous time with Albert. I moved on with my life and was glad I’d been so lucky. I saw myself as a survivor of reckless, immature mental abuse. Being whole, despite that reality, was a win. I didn’t ever forget Al but I didn’t talk to him again for thirteen years. The next time I contacted him was when my beloved Fern died. Back in college, she’d been in love with Al’s college roommate for a few years and I wanted to find him, to let him know of her death. When I called Al, his wife answered the phone. I identified myself by name, adding that I was an old college friend. When Al came to the phone, he sounded excited. I heard him say, “yes, Leslie, it’s that Renee.” I was so stunned. In all the years since he’d been out of my life, I’d never once thought of him telling anyone, wife included, anything about our past history. Perspective is fascinating. I was wounded enough to believe that despite the power of our feelings, I was the only one who walked away from our relationship with real pain and damage. That phone call was a jolt. I could tell immediately that he was way too interested in prolonging our conversation, that his marriage was probably in trouble, and that as a feminist, I never wanted to undermine another woman who was in a bad spot. When we hung up the phone, I understood that I couldn’t be Al’s old friend. After 1988, I didn’t communicate with him for a few decades. Years later, a mutual acquaintance told me Al had since divorced and remarried. He also said that he was markedly changed and quite unlike the person we knew when he was young.
Then, sometime in the mid-2000’s, I opened Facebook and found myself staring at his still-recognizable face. The algorithms which suggest friends to you was possibly the reason for his sudden appearance in my feed, but after checking him out, I realized we had no friends in common. So I sent him a friendly, chatty note, saying I was surprised he’d reached out to look for me, along with some details about my current life. And just like that, he vanished as suddenly as he’d shown up. I could only assume he wasn’t savvy about how the platform worked and was embarrassed to be “discovered.” I never heard anything further from him and never found him again. My life was full and busy so on I went. Subsequently, my mom’s needs, my kids’ needs and ultimately, Michael’s cancer blotted thoughts of Al out of my mind. Still, every year, I always remembered his birthday.

In the spring of 2017, as Michael’s health steadily declined and he spent a great deal of time sleeping, I began sorting out papers and memorabilia from our past to prepare for what I’d decided would be more an exhibit of Michael’s interesting life iterations, rather than a traditional celebration. During the hours selecting what treasures I’d use for his event, I found a few pieces of writing from Al to me, written in the early ‘70’s. I decided to write him a note, explaining what was going on with Michael and to ask him if he was interested in seeing those interesting epistles he’d written so long ago. His response was polite; he wished me luck and said he wasn’t great at connecting with the past. The blur of Michael’s death and the next several months left little time to dwell on that. But near the end of the year, I sent Al a note explaining why I’d initiated contact with him years earlier and abruptly ended it. I thought that at this time in our lives, after decades apart, we might have at least some sort of connection. As people have disappeared from my life and knowing that the future holds more and more loss, I thought there was value in keeping in touch with those who’d once been so significant in my world. That met with a really negative response from him.

A while later, my old friend Brenda sent me the photo of me and Al on the front steps of the student union on campus, taken on the first day we’d gotten to know each other. In the spring of 2018, I sent him the photos and got a thank you email. I thought I’d ask if perhaps we might stay in touch after all but was rebuked by an abrupt response which made it clear that I should go back where I came from. I wrote him a response expressing my surprise that after over 50 years, even minimal contact was more than he could manage, but that I would honor his feelings. I thought for a long time about all the unknown but clearly negative emotions I seemed to elicit from him. For so long I thought I was the damaged party in our relationship but clearly, my view was too self-focused. His desire to leave everything back in that old time still seems weird to me and is really the only instance in which I’ve been unable to share a few memories with an important person from my past. I haven’t reached out to him since then. Sometimes I wonder if he’s still alive or if I’ll ever know if he’s dead. I find that idea that he could simply no longer exist without my knowing to be unnerving and creepy. For some reason, it just feels wrong. But oh well. I guess I’ll just continue to remember his birthday without ever acknowledging it until either my memory fades or I’m gone myself. In the end, I suppose our differences were always as serious from our very beginning as they proved to be late in our lives.

After resigning myself to this apparently forever loose end in my life, I’m somehow left with the lyrics of the Rolling Stones’ classic, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” tumbling through my mind. Indeed, I don’t get what I wanted in this instance. But I still can get what I need, at least some of the time. In this particular fall season of my life and on a distinctly more positive note, I’d had great concerns about whether this year’s dry, hot summer would devolve into a drab autumn. In early October, trees were either still green or just beginning to go brown, without the glorious colors which are so dazzling and a major highlight of the four-season area of this country. Thankfully, the past few weeks have brought a brilliant show to my designated tree city, one which is known for its wide variety of specimens. I’ll end with some of my favorite photos I’ve taken recently which always make the coming winter easier to bear.

Nature is a great balm for the life’s discomforts. I’m glad I get this beauty. Just what I need.

Right now, I have a number of friends and family members who are coping with cancer. It’s been 13 years since Michael’s initial diagnosis of Merkel …

Cancer in the Corners