The Boys of Pointe Du Hoc

Before we arrived at the First World War battlefields, our trip actually started with a stay in  Normandy, where on its beaches during World War II the greatest amphibious landing in history took place on June 6, 1944.   My husband and I had gone to Normandy for five days twelve years ago for his 60th birthday.    On that trip, one of our most memorable, we stayed at the Chateau du Sully, situated between Bayeux and the D-Day landing beaches.       We had not hired a guide 12 years ago, just visited the various beaches and sites on our own: Honfleur, Utah and Omaha Beaches, Aramanches, Pointe du Hoc where the troops struggled to make their way up the iconic cliffs and sealed their place in history,  the American cemetery and its museum, the Roosevelt Cafe  on Utah Beach and its radio room used by the GI’s as a communications bunker (all their equipment is still there as it was),  and, then took an unrelated side trip to see the Bayeux tapestry.   

Since our son and daughter in law had not yet been there, Normandy was added to the itinerary of this current trip, an easy drive from our arrival point in Paris.    Easy, that is, except for the fact that their flight was cancelled in Chicago and they had to wait until the next day to catch another flight to France.  We had our Normandy guide set up for the second day of our stay.    Unfortunately, our son and his family missed that day.   We took the tour with the guide because we could not reschedule for the following day.   My husband has studied quite a bit about the Allied Landing and the invasion. In addition to his knowledge, my husband also took copious notes when we were with the guide which he could then impart to our son and his family.  

The valor, tragedy and drama of D-Day have been well documented in classrooms, on film, in books.    The challenge: The Allied troops were charged to pry Western Europe from Hitler’s grip and free the occupied nations. The troops had a clear mission and  were committed to seeing it through.  Even today, when one says that a relative landed on the beaches at Normandy, it evokes an immediate sense of courage, reverence and honor for  that individual and the event in which he had participated.    The people of France and more specifically Normandy, living with the aftermath, the sites, and among the remnants of that fateful time, remain aware of the magnitude of what occurred.  Twelve years ago when we visited,  we heard the story of an old man who was  a boy in Bayeux during that war, encountering  a visiting American.     The old man handed the visitor a brochure about the site they were about to see.  The American thanked the old man for the brochure.  But the old man said, “No, thank YOU!” to the visitor who represented the Allied forces that ensured his country would be liberated from tyranny.  

The message on a restaurant window in Bayeux
Offering British and American veterans and active duty a cup of tea or coffee

What struck me this time was the fact that Omaha Beach is now considered a recreational beach.  I was somewhat taken aback by that. Would we make Gettysburg recreational? My mind scrolls back to the newsreels, the books I’ve read, the movies I’d seen about the horror of the invasion.   It’s not hyberbole to see this as hallowed ground, that civilization was saved on these beaches.   To me, it’s sacred.   As I looked around, though, I became aware that if this is a recreational beach, it was a solemn recreation.  No beach blankets or neon colored umbrellas dotted the landscape the day we visited.   Small numbers of people quietly walked the beaches, or stared out at the surf, possibly envisioning the terrified boys scrambling out of their landing craft to face the enemy, their crossfire and, very possibly, death 75 years ago.      I was reminded by my family that time moves on, and it is a beach after all,  and that it was probably OK, possibly even part of what the troops fought for, that kids fly kites here, that maybe families swim here.

I was overcome the first time I saw the massive panoramic view of the  white crosses and Stars of David blanketing that hallowed ground in the American Cemetery.    

This current visit was no different.  The scars on the earth from the artillery are still visible. Since this year is the 75th anniversary of the beach landings which essentially ended in Germany’s defeat and foreshadowed the ultimate end of World War II, it was still gratifying that the French people recognized and honored America and its allies for ending the German occupation.  Throughout this stay in the Normandy area, we saw the American flag being flown alongside the French flag.  We saw store and restaurant windows decorated with messages of thanks.    It was heartwarming to see that the enormous sacrifice of “the boys of Pointe du Hoc” and  the solemnity and significance of what happened there had not been forgotten. 

In addition to the beaches, we had gone to Bayeux on that first trip to see the Tapestry but didn’t spend any time roaming the town itself.   This time, Bayeux was our first stop and our base for our visit to the  Norman coast.  We stayed for three days.   Bayeux was the first town liberated after D-Day.  As we explored the town in our brief time there,  my daughter in law and I  were both enchanted.  She characterized it as simply one of the most charming towns we saw on the entire trip.   Yes, some stores down certain streets are dedicated to selling kitschy souvenirs and tee shirts.  They also sold sweatshirts (of course emblazoned with “Bayeux”  on the front) which were a blessing to me since, although there had been an unprecedented heat wave in Paris, it was pretty chilly by the time we got to Northern France at the end of July and early August.  

In Bayeux,   the incredible Bayeux Tapestry was a must see again for my husband and me, and a first time visit for our son and his family.   The Tapestry, measuring twenty inches high and almost 230 feet in length,  depicts through meticulously embroidered linen the struggle for the throne of England between  William, the Duke of Normandy, and Harold, the Earl of Wessex in 1066.   The details down to the tiniest facial expressions captured by the artisans a thousand years ago are truly something to be seen.     

A segment of the Bayeux Tapestry

Our Normandy guide asked us if we had seen the cathedral, called The Cathedral of Our Lady of Bayeux.   We said that yes, our hotel was just down the street from the cathedral.   “And you saw the light show?” he asked.   “I think we did; we saw the church lit up at night,” I responded.   “But did you go into the courtyard for the actual light show on the trunk of the tree?”   No, we had not seen that.   

The Cathedral of Our Lady at Bayeux lit up at dusk

So that evening, we first took in a Vivaldi concert inside the cathedral.  Following the concert, we joined an ever increasing crowd in the courtyard outside the church.  What we found was an enormous tree, called The Tree of Liberty, whose branches extend over the entire large courtyard.   It was planted over 220 years ago during the French Revolution. 

The Tree of Liberty

 When it was sufficiently dark, the show began.   There, on the trunk of the tree were moving lights, symbols, music and dialogue  sequences depicting various aspects of freedom.  

Such disparate events as the Allied Landing, the liberation of women, the French Revolution, the visage and quotes of  Martin Luther King and Barack Obama  and a montage of the 1967 Summer of Love shown against the backdrop of the anthem of the time:  “If You’re Going to San Francisco.”     The show was so enthralling and seamless that we and everyone else who was there stood for the better part of an hour and a half, rarely taking our eyes off the  massive tree trunk.   It was beautiful, thrilling,  emotional, all in all spectacular!  And so unexpected!

The psychedelic tree trunk during “If You’re Going to
San Francisco”

 Twelve years ago when we went to Normandy I came back with the impression that the French countryside looked exactly as I expected it to look.  Stone walls, lovely little cottages with flowered window boxes, large agricultural fields, growing produce and housing cattle of various kinds.

  I had guessed to our guide this trip that tourism was the paramount industry in this part of France.  He said actually both agriculture and tourism were primary.  And as you see the productive fields, the prevalence of agriculture becomes apparent as you drive around on the narrow roadways.   A stroll around Bayeux also showed us a perfect tableau of French breads, people casually munching their baguettes, and a gorgeous, gigantic rainbow.  

In Bayeux, we turned around to see this beautiful rainbow!

All in all, Bayeux was a lovely surprise to us, a respite from the reminders of war.   

Our Stay on the Western Front

Last November, our country and the world  observed the 100th anniversary of the signing of the Armistice ending World War I.      World War I – the war that probably should not have happened, the war whose aftermath reassigned European borders, eliminated centuries-old monarchies, established the United States as a world power and led an embittered German corporal to launch a campaign that would lead to him being the chancellor of Germany, and all the horror that evolved from that.      

Last December, we celebrated our son’s fiftieth birthday.   My husband and son have been avid readers of history for a very long time.    We had a party on the weekend of his birthday but we felt that this birthday called for more of a marking, something more special.     In our house,  wars and military history  had been a source of fascination for a very long time. Being history buffs, the one thing that my son and husband had talked about over the years was a trip to the  sites of the World War I battles.    So with the convergence of these two milestones -the armistice and our son’s birthday –  the idea of traveling to the sites of the First World War emerged and soon the planning was underway.  

 For us as a family, including our grandkids (this, not the first venue one necessarily thinks of when vacationing with a nine and eleven year old – more about this in a later blog),  this was not going to be an average vacation.  It wasn’t going to mean just setting an itinerary, buying a plane ticket, taking some guided tours and ooh-ing and aah-ing over things that we saw.  This was going to be an epic, emotional journey.  I’m an avid reader of many things but I’m not much of a student of  military history.    If I’m going to read about a war, I would rather that it be the letters, shared with me by a friend,  between a son and his mother written from the Front in 1917.   This humanizes the story for me.  Very aware of the gap in my subject matter knowledge,  if we were going to hire a credible guide, I knew I was going to need to turn myself into a credible participant.   This  adventure we were going to embark upon required homework, reading up and trying to become familiar about this complex topic.  I knew in broad brush strokes that this was a war for which there does not seem to be much concensus about why it was fought, but ultimately it was responsible for an unthinkable number of deaths.  In addition, the ramifications of that war and its aftermath were the underpinnings of the the rise of Hitler and the Second World War.    The United States was a latecomer to World War I, having joined its allies in April 1917, but  was essential to ending it and indeed, this war seems to have solidified the United States’ place in the world. More than 2 million U.S. soldiers fought in the battlefields, under Major General John Pershing’s command.

 Our planning for this trip continued for about six months.   We hired our guide to be with us for the five days that we would be moving from place to place along the way.

This is not an essay to explain the reasons for this war, nor to introduce the time and thinking leading up to it.  For that  I’ll refer you to books on the subject such as “Guns of August” (1962) by Barbara Tuchman and “The First World War” by John Keegan.       A wonderful remembrance article in the Smithsonian (October 2018) elicited the following observations about how the war came about:   John Keegan in his aforementioned book called the war “a tragic, unnecessary conflict.”  Some described the war as one of “defense and self protection” given that Germany was threatening to overtake France.  Philosopher Bertrand Russell apparently commented that  “Anticipation of carnage was delightful to something like ninety percent of the population.”    Trotsky apparently remarked that “for people whose lives, day in and day out, pass in a monotony of hopelessness, the alarm of mobilization breaks into their lives like a promise.”  Boredom, was that the cause?   Others cite diplomatic incompetence, hubris, or the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand  in Sarajevo. Some lay the cause in the lap of Kaiser Wilhelm with his “insecurites and military fetish.”   Twelve years after the war ended, British military historian Liddell Hart made the case against the Kaiser bluntly, “By the distrust and alarm which his bellicose utterances and attitude created everywhere, he filled Europe with gunpowder.”   All of these perspectives are still matters of debate today.  

We hired a wonderful well-versed, very flexible guide who stayed with us for the five days of our journey.   By training, he had been a math teacher in England, but spent much of his  time becoming a military historian and author, specifically regarding World War I.    He was extremely well-informed not only about names, dates and places, but background and idiosyncratic vignettes that happened during the course of the war.   In the five days, our Itinerary included  France starting with  Arras and the Pas-de-Calais, the Somme Valley, the Marne Valley; West Flanders and Ypres in Belgium; back in France, we visited Douaumont, Belleau Wood, Chateau Thierry, and finally, Verdun and Argonne Meuse (which my son characterized as the most “raw” of all the sites), all areas where the most important fighting took place.    This sounds like covering a lot of ground and we did, but it was very manageable, moving from place to place.  We actually stayed in only 2 different hotels along this part of the trip and drove between the sites on a day to day basis.  Again, here is where our guide was invaluable since he set the daily itinerary to make sure we made the best use of our time and he knew the roads so there was no backtracking due to getting lost.    

My husband and son with our guide at Chateau Thierry

As we proceeded  along the Front, I was taken with the beauty of the countrysides along the way, the sloping hills, tranquil rivers and villages.   All is now indeed quiet on the Western Front.  We visited  on  beautiful, peaceful days, looking at the very places that endured such mayhem, chaos and tragedy 100 years ago.     Belleau Wood is now a serene meadow with its 100-year old trees.   When we visited, birds were singing overhead. 

Belleau Wood

The Somme Valley,  now  idyllic, is also the site of the bloodiest battle of the Western Front.  In fact the Battle of the Somme which began on July 1, 1916 (The Battle of Albert) is characterized as the darkest day in the history of the British Army.  Nearly 60,000 men would become casualties by sunset that day.  And indeed at the Thiepval Memorial at the Somme, listed are the names of 72,104 British and South African men killed there who have no known grave.     All in all, there were 620,000 British and French casualties at the Somme, with another 600,000 killed or wounded Germans .   

Fleury-devant-Douaumont, France
The Menin Gate, Ypres, West Flanders, Belgium

In 1914, some of the first clashs between the Germans and the British happened around the town of Ypres, in Belgian Flanders, which would remain a battlefield for the rest of the war.  We toured the battlefield of Passchendaele where another 70,000 British soldiers were killed and 170,000 wounded.    These are staggering numbers.  In the center of Ypres, on a Sunday evening we observed  the Last Post military ceremony  at the Menin Gate, which every evening at 8 p.m. honors  the British soldiers  who died in and around Ypres with a very moving bugle call.  

In Douaumont, a magnificent edifice, the Ossuary in Douaumont, holds the skeletal remains of 130,000 soldiers killed during the Battle of Verdun and who could not be identified. Walking around the outside, you can see at ground level, windows showing the bones of the dead.  You see the sheer volume of those who could not be identified.  

The inside of the Ossuary in Douaumont

Why were there so many unknowns in this war?   One explanation could be  that early in the war, the soldiers wore metal dog tags, but it was found that, if injured, the metal tags often tore up soldiers’ chests, creating another wound with which to deal.   It was decided to change to cloth dog tags which of course disintegrated if the soldier was left for a time in the wet fields.  Some, if they were identified at all, were identified through their battalion insignias on their headgear or sleeves.

Arras (pronounced Ar-RAS) today is a charming city.   Its center is a lovely large town square called the Place des Heros, encircled by Flemish facades, restaurants, shops.   The Battle of Arras was originally intended to be a diversionary assault on a larger French offensive.  But the battle grew in size and scope and essentially was involved for the full expanse of the war.  

The Place des Héros, Arras

 Again, the sheer number of graves we saw was incomprehensible.   Also striking was the vast amount of crosses and Stars of David with no names.   I can’t adequately describe to you the enormity of this – field after field of gravesites.  It seemed around every corner, no matter our location along the Front, there was a monument and a sea of graves.  

More than 61,000 Canadians (Canadian War Museum) gave their lives during the First World War.  The Canadian National Vimy Memorial in a commune in the Pas-de-Calais department in Northern France is one of the most impressive we saw.  It is dedicated to the Battle of Vimy Ridge and the Canadian soldiers who were killed there.    Carved into the walls of the monument are the names of about 11,285 Canadians who died in France and whose final resting place was unknown.  In addition there are 30 other war cemeteries within a 12 mile radius of this Canadian Memorial.  It is said that even today if those fields were excavated, more bones would still be uncovered.   But digging is not done because uncharged munitions would also be found.

The Canadian National Vimy Memorial

I have to say that what also struck me about the various monuments we saw, was the magnificence and the sheer beauty of them.    These were not afterthought monuments.  They are majestic, breathtaking structures, showing the  will and commitment of the country to honor the war dead that once the architect was chosen, the vast amount of money was found to build them to bring the monument to fruition.

Bomb Craters in Neuville-St.-Vaast, France

When I could no longer stand it, grave after grave, in my frustration and naivete I asked,  why when they knew that the war was so ill conceived didn’t the plug get pulled  to stop the carnage, to end the war (sounds like Viet Nam 50 years later, doesn’t it?).  It seemed it just strung along until finally, due largely to the food shortages caused by the Allied blockade, the failure of a Spring Offensive and the loss of its allies in mid to late 1918, Germany surrendered and the Armistice finally was signed on the 11th day of November, 1918 at the 11th hour.  

What had I learned about the Great War?  That it seems a war that had at best a tenuous mandate for occuring at all.   That from 1914 to 1918, millions of men fought each other across a brutal 475-mile long “No Man’s Land” that stretched from the North Sea to the Swiss border.    In 1919, France, like many other European countries, suffered from the ravages of  WWI.   Many towns and villages were completely destroyed and devastated.   Interestingly, a number of the monarchies who advocated for the war, sewed the seeds of their own demise.    At the time of the Armistice,   the  reported number of dead varies but seems to be between 8.5 and 10 million military lay dead.  No military historian am I, but having gone on this trip and having heard how this war came to be,  how it unfolded,  seeing the size of the craters from the bombings, the unspeakable misery of the  trenches, the poison gases,  and,  most importantly, those acres and acres of cemeteries with the unimaginable loss of life, I cannot forget.

In Flanders Field, The poppies still grow

NO ORDINARY WOMAN

It was  Q & A time.  The gentleman from the audience started his question with an exclamation, “Talking to you is like talking with a Beatle!”   She laughed and shot both her arms in the air in triumph, genuinely happy to be designated as an icon of pop culture – a Beatle!   We all laughed in the audience, knowing what he meant!  She is indeed a rock star!    For many of us  presidential history nerds, we have our favorites: Jon Meacham, Michael Beschloss, Douglas Brinkley – great storytellers all – but this woman is the queen, a standout among historians.     Here she is, in a packed house at a local college, sold out, SRO – the person we’d seen on TV, whose books we’d  read with delight and learned from.    She is Doris Kearns Goodwin.    

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My husband and I have been following her for about twenty years.   When we found that she would be speaking locally, we rushed to get tickets.  We initially saw her in San Fransisco years ago, we catch her many interviews on Meet the Press, This Week, and any number of news shows.    We want to hear her because she always seems to have something new to say about old topics.   And she is almost always the one who is called upon to compare and contrast between the current situation in our country and times we’ve already been through, and the leaders who took us through them.    

But she’s not an historian of dates, names and places.   She’s an historian with a narrative, with an actual story.   She honed her knowledge as a graduate student and later burnished it as a professor of government at Harvard.  Her talent was recognized early when she  was chosen as a White House Fellow, one of the nation’s most prestigious programs for leadership and public service,  and, at the age of 24, she worked with Lyndon Johnson, and later assisted him in the writing of his memoirs, Lyndon Johnson and the American Dream. She won a Pulitzer Prize for No Ordinary Time: Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt: The Home Front in World War II,  to this day one of my very favorites.   It’s a wonderful story of what was going on in this country while our military were fighting the war in far off parts of the world.   It talks about the enormous influence of Eleanor Roosevelt on Franklin during those times.   It tells of the story of the uncommon friendship of Franklin Roosevelt and Winston Churchill, who spent vast periods of time living in the White House during the war.   It tells about the efforts of all Americans to help in the war effort, from Rosie the Riveters to families planting victory gardens, to rationing of foods and other goods.  An amazing story, wonderfully told.

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How she learned the art of  narrative comes from her lifelong love of baseball – first, with her idolized Brooklyn Dodgers and then when she moved to Massachusetts, her beloved Red Sox.   She’s had Red Sox season tickets for 40 years!   She actually wrote a memoir about growing up in the 1950’s and her love of the Brooklyn Dodgers called “Wait Till Next Year.”    She tells the story of her father teaching her at age 6 how to  track of the score of the game.   She would listen to the game on the radio and when her father returned from work each day, she would run to him and scream, “The Dodgers won!!!” not realizing that her dad already knew who won by listening to his radio.   He patiently sat as she described in minute detail each score. She learned early that, in baseball as in history,  even when the audience already knows the outcome, it’s the backstories that bring the piece  to life.    

She delves, she interviews, she researches and brings us a story that entertains as well as teaches.   She becomes so familiar with her subjects that she believes she really gets to know them intimately as friends, but none more so than her beloved Abraham Lincoln, the subject of her 2005 book Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln which was described by the Los Angeles Times as “the most richly detailed account of the Civil War presidency to appear in as many years.”  It won numerous awards including the prestigious Lincoln Prize and was the basis for the 2012 movie, Lincoln, nominated for 12 Academy Awards.  Throughout her presentation the other night, she referred to Lincoln as “my guy” because of her intense and extensive research into his life, foibles, and character.  He’s the president she’s studied most closely.   She talked about how Lincoln’s one overriding goal from a very early age was that his life would have purpose and that he would be remembered for something.   Dr. Goodwin tells the story of his journey through  our country’s gravest moment and how ultimately Lincoln would fulfill his life’s ambition beyond his wildest dreams.

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The true basis for her presentation on Thursday was her lastest book, published in 2018, and for which she won another Pulitzer Prize,  Leadership in Turbulent Times.   In her presentation,  she used both  Leadership and Team of Rivals to illustrate  the traits of great leaders, such as:  

  • The ability to communicate:   Franklin Roosevelt used his fireside chats so that people across the country came to believe that the president was talking directly with them
  • Choice of close advisors:   In Team of Rivals she shows how Lincoln didn’t pick yes men who would rubber stamp Lincoln’s own beliefs.   He chose smart, experienced, knowledgeable men, some of whom were adversaries, but who had a point of view that they would readily express to the president, giving him the food for thought to formulate his own path forward to win the war, to save the Union and to end slavery.  
  • The ability to legislate:   Lyndon Johnson was a masterful legislator.   He had the temperament and experience to bring together differing sides of the aisle and demand that they not leave the room until they had achieved a resolution to be brought forth for a vote.   By the end of his time in office, he had achieved more for civil rights than any leader since Lincoln, clearly a gutsy move for a longstanding Texas politician.   
  • Working for the good of the country:   Recognizing that a president’s mission is larger than any one person, the office demands work on behalf of the good of the entire country and not to satisfy just the motives and ambitions of one person.   

In all she has written seven books, including those already mentioned and The Fitzgeralds and the Kennedys, The Bully Pulpit about the friendship between Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft.

The thing about Doris Kearns Goodwin is that you don’t need to be an historian or even just a knowledgeable history buff.     It’s enough to want to know interesting things about the evolution of our country during challenging times and to learn about the men who got  us through them.   She writes in a style that is intellectually satisfying to those who have a working knowledge of history but she has kept the common touch for those who want to be enlightened while also being entertained.  I would strongly encourage anyone interested to read all of her books and, if you do, I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.  Until next time…..

Life Unfolding

    I’ve been gone from my blog for a while.   Several of my blog  followers have asked me where I’ve been, that they had missed reading the blog.   That was very sweet of them.  I too missed writing for these  four or five months.   Where  have I been?  What have I been doing?  It’s been time away but far from time wasted.  As I look back I smile at the joy, pride and inspiration I’ve witnessed  these past months!  I want to share with you three vignettes that account for some of my time away that have reflected back to me the joy of what life is all about!

          It all started in July at my beloved Jersey shore of all places!   My mother-in-law contracted a  sudden bout of pneumonia at the shore and that  was the catalyst that drew the conversation from “what if”, to “maybe it’s time.”  It was becoming apparent over time that her four-bedroom colonial house, which is 800 miles from us,  is too big to manage, even with the various workmen that she has supporting her.  She loved the house but it was also a burden.   Driving is getting more worrisome.    Acute  illnesses like the one that precipitated the thought of  this move  are likely to become more frequent and more chronic.  And even with her close friends relying on each other, it is difficult because each has her own things with which to deal, each  with   children, like us,  living hundreds of miles away.   And even with their vibrancy, it is unrealistic to expect that they can continue to prop up each other as time goes on. 

       We brought her to Illinois to recover and after she was well, we started taking her to visit independent living retirement communities but only those with a continuum of care should she ever need it.   I think  because we had been back East only by chance when she got sick, this  illness scared her.   She was suddenly  very receptive to the idea of thinking seriously about a move.  Her son and I  were asking her to dig for that spunk that’s always been within her  one more time.     It was first shown in the teenage girl who, in 1946,  left Italy for a new world  that was foreign to her in every aspect, who knew not one person in the new country other than the young GI she had married in 1945.  She’s lived her life for these seventy two years with her heart divided, planted solidly in two countries.   While she ached for her Italian family, she learned the American ways, she made close friends who became her family, she  laughed easily and she fashioned a big wonderful life.  It was a life not without heartache as she missed milestones in her birth family, as she  buried  two husbands, and as she has lost friends and family back in Italy and in America.   (90 CANDLES) .  So she was no stranger to reaching for the grit within her.  

      August and September were spent visiting and revisiting four different retirement communities.  Ultimately in September she chose the unit with the largest footprint and a beautiful view of trees out of the back windows of her third floor apartment that somehow mimicked the sunroom she would leave behind in the old house.    She went back to Pennsylvania and immediately told her close friends that she would be moving to Illinois right around the holidays.  There was shock, there was sadness but there was also the feeling that this was the right time.   Some even said  they too realized they were going to have to make a similar decision soon.   

     She had chosen the hard wood flooring that would be installed throughout the apartment but entrusted the decisions about the wall paint colors, the kitchen cabinetry  selection and the backsplash to me. I know her taste very well and proceeded with the choices.  I also added crown molding throughout and door casings at entries to the kitchen and the sitting room.    By the end of November it was virtually ready for her to move into.       UNADJUSTEDNONRAW_thumb_3e2c   

        Saying goodbye which happened just before Christmas of all times was excruciating.  For her at age 91 to  leave the place that had been her hometown for seventy two years to chart a new life, to make  new friends, to settle into a new place, to try to call it home is testament to all that is in her.  There was lots of laughter but also lots of tears.   The woman leaving and the ones being left hardly grasping at this age what life will be like without the other.  Everything between them has been so familiar, a  shorthand.  In their early nineties,  they call themselves the YA YA Sisterhood.   In our hearts , we knew it was time but there was still  a sense of guilt felt by the two of us – my husband  and I – advocating for and managing this move as we watch the farewells unfold.   They never sit still, this crew.   If there’s party, they are there.  If there’s a play to see, they will see it.       Is it too late in life to hope to ever establish that again?  

     Apparently not.      Here we are two months in – she is now part of a new pinochle group, has signed up for a series of concerts, she has established friendships with a number of women with whom she visits and has dinner every night.   She walks inside the buildings that are connected so she doesn’t have to brave this cold until the weather changes and she can go outside and walk the grounds.  She has told me that she loves her new apartment and is surprised by how she really doesn’t miss the old house.   And we were able to celebrate her 92nd birthday on the actual day with her here and in person for the first time in  a long time!

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She enjoys the new people she’s meeting but misses her friends back East.  She misses the freedom and independence represented by her car even as she realizes that the traffic here is so much more daunting than in her area of Pennsylvania, she wouldn’t drive anyway.   But she continues her relationships by phone calls  with her family  in Italy and with  friends in Florida, New York and, yes, her sisterhood in Pennsylvania.

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            They say you don’t make old friends.   In October, back in Pennsylvania to help my mother in law mine through seventy years worth of accumulating, a dear childhood friend and I finally were able to get together.    We literally hadn’t seen each other for probably twelve years – since our last eighth grade class reunion.   We were the closest of friends in grade school and high school.   My granddaughter has taken to reading my diary (with permission!) and has commented on  my friend’s name in almost daily entries during our high school years.   When we met we reminisced and laughed about how much time we had spent together as kids, and things that happened back then that only the two of us would recall.    One of the first things she said to me when we met was “You look just like your mom!”   Only a childhood friend would know that.   I can’t  tell you the feeling I had when she said that because it’s absolutely true, and she is one of very few who now remember my mom.   She told me that when she came to my house as a teenager she would marvel at the sister-like interaction between my mom and me after my father died.  The navigation she saw between my mom and me was more of a negotiation between the two of us than my mother actually directing me to do something. I laughed when she said that because a number of my aunts made the same assessment back then.     “Remember when we all went to the Golden Ox [a very nice local restaurant in those days] for your seventeenth birthday?  Do you remember that?”  Indeed she and I did remember that night in minute detail!   We remembered that there were a number  of us,  all friends, that went.   In those days, our comfort level was going to  local diners after high school football games rather than grown up restaurants.  We laughed about having  no real idea of how to maneuver around a restaurant like that since until that night mostly we were with our parents who did the paying and tipping.  

         When we parted we took a picture.  Our 71-year-old selves quickly reverted back to our 14-year-old selves: “We’re not going to post it if we don’t look cute!”   And we burst out laughing!  

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       I left our lunch with such a feeling of nostalgia, of regret that we don’t live closer to each other and yet happiness that we were able to meet and reminisce  and pick up our friendship as though no time had passed at all.   We stay connected through messaging.   

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       Finally, in November, we met again at my mother in law’s home for our final Thanksgiving in her house.  It was a wonderful bittersweet gathering, this Thanksgiving.    

       The boys sitting across from me at the table are  full-on men now but sometimes it’s hard not to see them still as boys   – one is my child, my son, and the other, Rich,  is my mother-in-law’s stepson.  My son and his family live in Chicago near us, and Rich and his family live in Texas.    They both have high powered successful careers and talked about all the stress, tension and reward that comes with that.   Their children became immediate friends, as kids do, remarkably having met for the first time on this trip. UNADJUSTEDNONRAW_thumb_3d68

Their wives had already known each other and chatted away.  

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        But wait, there’s more about these boys.   They both turned 50 years old this past year! Impossible!   Before my mother in law had even met or married Rich’s father, my son and Rich were friends, having first met in Kindergarten!   So I watch them across the table and see them as five year olds.   No, no wait, now they’re twelve year olds.   No, no, they’re teenagers, sneaking down to the bar in this very home and having some beers!    Now they’re in Philadelphia going to different colleges but then graduating on the same day!  It was at Rich’s wedding rehearsal dinner in Texas that we were all gathered and he toasted his  friend from childhood, “To Paul, one of my oldest friends, who through fate and a series of marriages, became my nephew!”   Life’s twists and turns are surely remarkable!

       So there you have it – part of how I spent these past five months – watching resilience play out firsthand, reconnecting with a cherished friend, and marveling with the pride and satisfaction of watching my son’s and all of his friends’ lead wonderful lives.    

Until next time….which will be much sooner than 5 months from now……

SEARCHING FOR OUR BETTER ANGELS

Reading is one of my favorite pastimes.  I read everything from non-fiction bestsellers to classics to biography and history.   I particularly  love reading historians who don’t just tell me names, dates and places but who can tell a story, who make the past come alive.    I’m an avid reader of  my two favorite historical writers,  Doris Kearns Goodwin and Jon Meacham.  Both have a talent for capturing  larger-than-life characters. With each of these historians I come away having learned new things about their subjects, the nuances of the times in which they lived, and often, lessons for dealing with now.  Their books are infused with facts and poetry, history interpreted through a storyteller’s sensibility

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Earlier this summer, I read the latest book by Jon Meacham called “The Soul of America.”    This  weekend is the anniversary of  Charlottesville rally,  where last year the president, in the face of white supremacy demonstrations,  gave moral equivalency to patriotic Americans seeking justice and equality  and  the apostles of former Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan David Duke  – “very fine people on both sides” Trump said.   “There’s blame on both sides,”  Trump said.   That rally became a catalyst for Meacham to write this book.    Today on the anniversary of Charlottesville, far fewer white supemacists, only about 20,  marched in Washington, tamped down by a far greater number of counter-protesters.   White supremacists were outnumbered at their own rally.     The larger  numbers were really on the side of the anti-racist, anti-fascist counter-protestors.   The President’s reaction?  Under pressure he tried to walk back last year’s comments – too little, too late, and only under duress,  again.  

 We’re living in a world of parallel universes.  Donald Trump  uses slight of hand and distraction admonishing his followers who have surrendered their intellect to him,  to “Just remember, what you’re seeing and what you’re reading is not what’s happening.”    For 22 months we’ve asked ourselves how did we get to this place?  Well, for one thing, having a president who tolerates extremist rhetoric and  fosters an atmosphere where division is not only tolerated but honed, is distructive.      In an interview I saw coincidentally today,  Meacham calls Donald Trump  the  “vivid manifestation of our worst instincts” but they are instincts that are part of our national character.   It’s the confluence of  a period of intense fear and  a willing individual at the helm  creating the storm such as what we are currently living through.     

We’ve been through times of fear before, of course,  and have ultimately  gotten through them.     Meacham talks about fear of “the other,”   people who don’t look like us or sound like us:   fear of immigrants,   fear of Catholics, fear of blacks that have generated times like this.  Incredibly, three to five million Americans were part of the Ku Klux Klan from 1915 to 1927 and  were so integrated into the fabric of our country that they didn’t bother to hide that fact.     Governors of Oregon, Georgia, Texas,  Colorada and others were known members of the KKK.   Seventy years ago, Strom Thurmond, United States Senator from South Carolina, running as a DIxiecrat,  espoused that  communisim would win if swimming pools were integrated.         Indeed  even Franklin Rooseselt, generally a good president whose administration passed legislation that was wildly beneficial for the people,  caved to then-Attorney General of California Earl Warren and instituted the  internment of Japanese Americans during World War II.  

One of the most emotional and prideful moments in the book and in our history was the evolution of Lyndon Johnson  spearheading the Civil and Voting Rights movements in the mid-1960’s.   Here was a Southern President being brought along in his thinking and position on this and ultimately fighting indefatigably for these pivotal pieces of legislation.  He came to politics  as anything but a progressive, appeasing his segregationsist constituents,  having actually weakened civil rights bills in the Senate.   But Meacham calls his ultimate commitment to Civil Rights  “one of the great chapters of personal transformation and of political courage in the history of the presidency – one akin to Lincoln’s move from tolerance of slavery in 1861 to emancipation in 1862-63.”

Each chapter in his book is dedicated to specific crises as cautionary tales or  illustrative of what is possible:  the Revolutionary War and the beautiful country that ultimately resulted,  crises such as the Civil War and the Reconstruction, the destruction created by McCarthyism that sadly ruined countless lives but didn’t ruin the country,  the Great Depression.   We’ve prevailed through them all.  The subtitle of this book is “The Battle for our Better Angels.”   In previous times, Meacham says,  usually with appropriate presidential leadership and  the people themselves  relentlessly communicating – through our vote and through activism –  that this is not who we want to be, that we find that  progress is possible again  and we can re-discover  our better angels.

Jon Meacham is certainly not a Donald Trump fan, but he writes this book with an even hand.   He uses examples of how both Democrat and Republican presidents and institutions have faltered throughout our history and how we’ve addressed each situation.   No matter what side of the political aisle you stand on,  if you read this book, I hope you find it interesting, informative  and provocative.   As Meacham says at the end of his introduction, “Hope is sustaining…Fear can be overcome.”   We can be lifted to higher ground.   

Until next time………

 

GNOCCHI

One of the pastas I routinely make from scratch is gnocchi.    It’s a sort of dumpling whose basic recipe has but three simple ingredients: Potatoes, all purpose flour and eggs. Some people add some parma reggiano or grana padano cheese to the mix but, I’m not a big cheese lover, so don’t add cheese to my gnocchi dough.  I leave it to guests to add cheese to their plate  when it is served.

How many potatoes do I use? Gnocchi, by definition, are heavy so I generally use one russet potato for each of my guests and then one or two for the pot, so to speak. I like leftovers. I boil the potatoes until they are fork soft, I remove them from the water, AND THEN, peel them.  (Note that I have read some  recipes that call for  baking the potatoes and scoop the potato out of the skins once the potatoes are cool, which seems infinitely more civilized than the way I do it.     I peel the skins off my boiled potatoes while they are still pretty hot – almost requiring that I have asbestos hands but I’ve gotten used to it over the years.   I’ve never gotten a good answer about what is accomplished by doing it this way  but, like many people who do things because “that’s the way my grandmother did it,” I’m  just following my family recipe).    I then cut the potatoes  in half and run them through the finest disc of  a potato ricer to get them to a consistency to mix with the eggs and flour.  If you don’t have a ricer you can mash them until they’re smooth.

It’s the flour and eggs that get tricky. I learned my gnocchi recipe from my mother-in-law who learned from her mother and on back for generations. So the answer I get to the flour and egg question is “See how it feels.” But if you’ve never felt the dough texture, that leaves you without a frame of reference.  Over the years I’ve learned that it should feel firm, but not hard, with the ability to roll into a rod, with  thickness the size of a magic marker.  UNADJUSTEDNONRAW_thumb_3b88

I start with about four room temperature eggs for about six or seven servings but I generally add at least one more egg to get the consistency I want.

I work with the dough cut into about 18-inch rods. Then I take a butter knife and cut the rods into about 1-inch gnocchi.  Some people at this point just leave the gnocchi in the cut shape.   Others use a fork and flatten them slightly, either for decoration, or so they are more certain to boil to a good consistency.     My family has taught me to flatten the gnocchi by rolling each one on my surface with my index and middle fingers to create a slight dip.

My gnocchi are served with my usual red pasta sauce and meatballs. If you google gnocchi you will see that there are a variety of ways they can be made and served: pan fried as a side dish, with spinach added to the ingredients for spinach gnocchi. Any number of variations can make them your own.

This week my mother-in-law and I made gnocchi, one of my grandson’s favorite dishes,  for our family dinner  for his tenth birthday. We have always made gnocchi, boiled them and served them on the same day. This time though we knew we would not have enough time do all that with all the activity surrounding Luke’s birthday.      I’m generally one of those “what could go wrong” cooks. So we made them on the night before and stored them in the refrigerator and crossed our fingers that they wouldn’t eventually boil into a thick glom. My mother-in-law, a veteran of making thousands of gnocchi in her lifetime, was skeptical.   I’ve made gnocchi about ten times in my lifetime, resulting in about a thousand gnocchi, and I must say they’ve all come out good.       I realized that I was indeed taking a chance not boiling them right after making them.   While putting them in the fridge for a couple of hours is OK according to recipes I found on Google, the real way to save gnocchi for later is to freeze them (apparently you can save them for up to a month this way).  This is something my mother-in-law didn’t know, so I was finally able to teach her something!

I had three pans of uncooked gnocchi dumplings laid out in a single layer on floured white cloths in the pans so that they could dry. I took them out of the fridge and drove to our son and daugher-in-law’s house for the party.

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The raw gnocchi before they turned gray

Let me also prepare you for the look of the gnocchi at this point. Unlike the tan bullets you get when making them and using them immediately, by saving them in the fridge,  they looked like gray oysters. The potatoes will cause the dough to oxidize in the fridge. Some say that it is the eggs that cause the dough to oxidize but in my experience with making homemade linguini and cappelletti, both of which obviously are made with eggs, (but no potatoes) and laid out to dry, neither have ever turned gray. It is only the gnocchi made with potatoes that have turned in my experience.

When I got to my son and daughter-in-law’s home,  I had a few hours before we were going to put the raw gnocchi in boiling water for the finished product. What I did as an experiment when I got to their house was to put one pan of the gnocchi in their freezer. The other two pans, I left in the fridge.  (I also made sure that we had store-bought pasta in the pantry as Plan B in case this all failed!).  I can attest that the gnocchi in the freezer did indeed freeze in that short time and were infinitely easier, keeping their shape, when dumped into the water. But I will also say that even the refrigerated  gnocchi boiled as they should, somewhat misshapen,  but did not congeal into an unappetizing blob. They had a very good consistency to taste and, thankfully, were enjoyed by all – most importantly and particularly by our guest of honor, Luke, who ate a very large dish full!

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The finished product – by the way, this is a picture of the serving dish, not Luke’s portion!

I know many of you are fantastic cooks and I would love to hear about your methods (or liberties) you’ve taken when making any of your other favorite dishes.

Until next time…….

 

 

JERSEY SHORE

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Beach Haven

For anyone  who grew up in eastern Pennsylvania in the ’50’s or ’60’s like I did, part of the  summer  was usually spent at the Jersey Shore,  anywhere along that stretch of oceanfront from Sandy Hook in North Jersey  to Cape May in the south.  As a child and teen, for me and later for my son,  that meant going to either Ocean City, Wildwood, or Atlantic City.   In fact, my son was born along this coast.     Long before there was Snookie and her motley crew that gave the Jersey Shore the crass  reputation that still stands in peoples’ minds today, we who grew up there remember lovely,  low key and unassuming summers, just enjoying the simple pleasures of  the ocean crashing on the sand, the smell of salt water, the boardwalk, pizza and cheesesteaks (on the Jersey shore you’re close enough to Philly to need a cheesesteak) , pork roll (in those days, we didn’t go to the shore for health food!)  salt water taffy, and, in those days, Atlantic City’s Steel Pier.

New Jersey resort afficianadoes have their own vernacular:    we  don’t call the coast “the beach.”    We know the Jersey coast as “The Shore.”  People who are going to any of the resort towns along the coast  say they are going  “down the shore,”  no matter from which direction you are going.  Even if you were headed East straight across New Jersey, you were  still going “down the shore.”  And for most of us it meant being on the Garden State Parkway for a bit or the Atlantic City Expressway.    You simply clarified by telling people which resort you were referring to; example, “I’m going down the shore to Ocean City.”

This year for the first time in many years, my husband and I had an opportunity to spend a week down the shore, on Long Beach Island (LBI), an 18-mile long,  skinny strip of land that boasts some of the shore’s most iconic beach towns with beautiful, quirky names that date back a couple of centuries:   Loveladies, Ship Bottom,  and Beach Haven.       Just before we left for the shore, we picked up a local paper that had run an unscientific study to determine their version of  the top  10 beaches along the Jersey coast.   Several reporters judged all the oceanfront beaches on the Jersey Shore (how did they get this assignment?!) on quality (however you define “quality”), crowd type, size, parking availability, surrounding food venues,  drink and recreation. Sure enough, second on the list, after Cape May, was Beach Haven, the beautiful LBI town where we were about to stay.    What they liked about Beach Haven was its “chill vibe and excellent surrounding attractions” making it “the best of the best” on LBI.

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The ocean at Beach Haven

Incidentally,  three of the 10 places along the shore that made their top 10 list, are on Long Beach Island: along with Beach Haven (#2),  they also liked Ship Bottom (#5 and Harvey Cedars (#9).

We arrived at the house we were renting which was a half block from the water.   It was everything we were looking for: besides proximity to the house, we found a clean spacious beach, beautiful dunes, and wonderful restaurants with amazing selections that didn’t scream “tourist-y.”

Three days after our arrival at the shore, we drove the hour and a half down the coast to Wildwood to visit with family who were also on vacation.   Part of the fun of going to Wildwood for the father in this  family, who now actually live in Texas, was to show his young kids where he had vacationed as a child.

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The beach in Wildwood

Wildwood is the quintessential Jersey resort, and is the beach of our youth!  In fact many of the hotels we passed seemed to have a distinct ’60’s or ’70’s feel to them that we could easily have stayed in way back when.

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The roller coaster on the Wildwood Beach

It also boasts  a large  beach, roller coasters and bullet rides along the water and a boardwalk.

UNADJUSTEDNONRAW_thumb_3b23The boardwalk is that slice of wooden planks  that separates the ocean from the kitschy shops, eateries and souvenir hawkers where people meander or take the famous tram car  that’s been in operation from 1949 and starts in North Wildwood, passes through Wildwood and ends in Wildwood Crest.  It’s no surprise  that songs have been written for over a century about the boardwalk and romantic strolls along its pathway.

Beach Haven does not  have a boardwalk but a few blocks to the south of our house,  we found a large number of  places for family outings:  carnival-like ride parks, ice cream parlors,  bars, souvenir shops with the ubiquitous faux sea shells, pictures of lighthouses, cards  and more sweatshirt and T-shirts that you can count.  As I write this,  I realize I’m making it sound tacky but really it is not.  People expect to bring back memorabilia from vacations and I think that if these items and places were not available, the place would disappoint and be somehow boring.   But in Beach Haven because the rides, shops and souvenirs are in town, the beach itself remains pristine and peaceful.     There is  definitely more of a Cape Cod feel to Beach Haven.

Later in the week we spent two beautiful days with  other friends near Egg Harbor, close to Atlantic City.  We even did a walkthrough of  the new casinos in AC, the Hard Rock and Oceans.

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The ceiling of the new Hard Rock casino in Atlantic City

 

UNADJUSTEDNONRAW_thumb_3b3f  I continued on  my quest to eat my fill of the freshest eastern seafood all week long.

UNADJUSTEDNONRAW_thumb_3b13As with all the places we stayed we had  wonderful dinners starting on the first day of our visit with a clambake of lobster, clams, corn, sausages and baked potatoes,  continuing on with mussels,  tuna steaks, sea bass, calamari – my mercury level is probably glowing but I love it!

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All in all, our  trip to the shore was a throwback to a very simple and fun time in my life.  The ocean always invigorates me.  I had been looking forward to it for several months and I loved every minute of the  being down the shore again.