Category Archives: Society

Society, Newburyport, MA, the people of Newburyport who come together for benevolent, cultural, scientific, artistic, political, patriotic and other purposes, and who live together as members of Newburyport’s community.

Too Good to be True

One of the few “life lessons” that I’ve managed to get somewhat into my DNA, is “when it’s too good to be true, it’s too good to be true,” but yet, boy is it tempting. Good grief.

And that truism applies to all sorts of things that so many of us are experiencing in these lousy economic times. Maybe Newburyport frugal Yankees are more suspicious of the “too good to be true” thing, and maybe it’s part of the reason that Newburyport, MA is not experiencing some of the unbelievable pain that some folks are facing. Just moderate pain.

I get a small odd postcard in the mail offering to buy my house, no strings attached. I investigate the website of the mailers of the postcard. Four websites, that I can make out, all looking pretty high scale, compared to the postcard I receive. The return address on the postcard appears to be a house for sale.

Promises of fast closing, fast cash.

Implications of owning a house, with bad credit or no credit.

Red flags are flying in my brain. Isn’t stuff like this what got us into this mess in the first place?

I actually call someone in the government, the US government, and they say stuff like this is now popping up all over the United States, but here it is apparently popping up in Newburyport, MA.

I want to investigate this red flag so much. But, for this blogger, restraint. I call one of my Newburyport journalistic friends instead, and give them the information, hoping that our local Newburyport press could examine the waving red flag that has come, apparently, Newburyport’s way.

Newburyport Stories

I open the present my son gives me for Christmas, a book. A skull with a cigarette on the front cover. My face obviously gives my skepticism away.

“No, Mom, really, he’s on the New York Times best seller list, I promise.”

I feel slightly better when I find out that the skull was painted by my favorite painter, Vincent Van Gogh. To say the least, I am still skeptical.

My son to reassure me, sits me down and reads the first short essay/story. It’s about germs. I’m still not won over.

But after all, this is my own beloved son, and I want to make at least some attempt to appreciate his thought out present to moi. So I plunk myself down in the comfiest chair I can find, and proceed to read the skull book. By the fourth essay/story, I am howling with laughter, and offer to read my son some of the stuff in his now much appreciated present. He declines.

The 8th essay/story is about a New York City woman, who could have been any number of characters that I’ve known so well. And I begin to wonder that maybe these stories have a lot less fiction in them than I first supposed.

And having struggled with, in what fashion to continue the Newburyport Blog, an idea begins to form. Stories, maybe fiction, maybe true, centered around my beloved New England seacoast city of Newburyport, MA, my stories, but hopefully somewhat universal as well as local.

What woman, Newburyport or elsewhere, hasn’t stood in front of the mirror and wondered about “midriff bulge.” Another version of, “Am I fat?”

What one of us, while considering the problem of “midriff bulge,” hasn’t also considered a personal financial fate in these lousy economic times.

Instead of “preaching” about historic preservation, and preserving the historic quality of this wonderful historic town, an experience of what it is like to live in an historic place, day after day, and how that adds to an unquantifiable quality of life.

Instead of talking about how upset I am about specific “restoration” and building projects, why not talk about historic preservation and boob jobs, hoping that people will start rating planning and historic preservation projects as a “double D boob job” as the worst, to a “braless wonder,” at their very best.

In December 2008 I find I am weary of pissing off my fellow Newburyport citizens, living under a constant risk of being sued or being threaten of being sued, and this appears to be a possible solution.

After trying to find every possible book by the skull guy, I finally Google him. And I find that, yes David Sedaris has not only been around for quite a long time, and I am very late to the David Sedaris planet, but also even that he has been on David Letterman a lot, no less, much less a visit to one of my favorites, Jon Stewart. From here on in, I vow to myself, I will trust my son’s taste in literature, even if the cover contains a picture of a skull.

Newburyport Twitter Wakeup Call

This is something that I never thought I’d give a rip about, so it surprises me that I do. Something so global and is in fact so much Newburyport local.

Some full disclosure here. For 3 years I worked as one of then 75,000 (the number has since grown) editors for the “Open Directory Project” or as it is often know as “DMOZ,” the directory owned by Netscape and used by Google. Most of my ever ongoing “training” at DMOZ, was catching people trying to scam the system, as well as adding really good websites to the directory. I was constantly amazed at how many and how often and how sneaky people were. It was a real wakeup call for moi.

And yesterday I watched the CEO and co-founder of Twitter, a very, very smart (vast understatement) and personable gentleman, Evan Williams, talk about his ideal for Twitter. Twitter is also not making any money (yet).

This is who it appears is making money, Social Media Optimizers (SMO)s. From what I can make out in my small amount of research (and yes this is cynical and possibly jaded on my part) the gig was sort of up for the Search Engine Optimization (SEO) folks, when Google wanted relevant content and lots of it. Schmoes like me can rank high for key words that SEO’s used to be able to persuade folks to pay unbelievable amounts of money for.

When I went on Twitter and searched “SEO,” what I saw were lots of “tweets” from SEO’s saying how stupid people were about Twitter, what a sham a company was if they didn’t insist on a SEO firm using Social Media like Twitter, and a certain implication of the large amounts of money to be made off of Twitter ignomaniacs.

What was interesting to me, was that this was not the tone or goal, at least from what I heard, from the co-founder and CEO of good old Twitter. Quite the contrary. He said he thought at this point Twitter, I believe the word was “impossible” to use, the plan was for that to end, and the whole thing was suppose to be fun. The aim did not seem to me to scam people out of large amounts of money.

And the other thing that I sort of read between the lines, that many large companies now almost feel compelled to set up Twitter accounts, even Newspapers, which Mr. Williams, it seemed to me, seemed to be quizzical about.

I’m guessing that it is all those SMO’s out there who used to do SEO that are now scaring their website customers into have things like Twitter accounts, so that, yes, the SMO’s can make tons of money, because most folks are Twitter ignorant, and need to pay someone mucho money to do it for them.

Maybe I will become a Twitter addict, Mr. Williams did say it was addictive and was supposed to be fun. But, I wonder how many Newburyport businesses, in this lousy economy, will feel compelled to pay good money to SMO’s to make sure they stay relevant and solvent.

Dehumanizing Social Media

This will make me hugely popular. We finally have a president who speaks thoughtfully and in complete sentences–even paragraphs. I find this refreshing.

And I look at Twitter and for the most part, it verbally looks like a Google Earth close up of a mangled beaver swamp. (Yes, I know our new president Twitters, but he Twitters with a purpose and in complete sentences.)

And yes, I ripped off the Google Earth thing from a blog post on the Huffington Post called “What Sentence Diagrams Reveal About President Obama”, by Jason Linkins. The quote was, “By contrast, the diagrams of typical George W. Bush sentences are indistinguishable from Google Earth close ups of small rodents, drowned in mud puddles.” I like that quote. Obviously, I like it a lot.

Yesterday, much to my surprise, people emailed me, and not only don’t seem to be fond of “comments” on blogs, etc, but appear to find a lot of the social media stuff, the virtual-contact, meaningless, dehumanizing, especially if it takes the place of face to face, person to person, real human contact.

Works for me.

I actually phone folks who leave comments on blogs, etc., who have problems with the Newburyport Blog, because I have this quaint belief in human contact, or at least voice generated contact, as a way of communicating. I’ve yet to have one of those phone calls returned. Voicemail is such a wonder when it comes to avoiding “stuff.”

I am being very cynical today, but it appears to me that social media, Twitter, Facebook, is often used as a great Search Engine tool (SEO) to get blogs and websites to rank high on search engines. A bastardization if you would of its probable original intent.

And for an educated society, to have one of their major communicating tools take the form of 140 characters or less, is to me is a huge, waving, red flag. Are we going from a nation of sound-bites, to a nation of “tweets?” A nation where thoughtful sentences and paragraphs are a thing of the past–a passé, elite Liberal agenda. I hope not. I’m a big fan of the well written, and spoken, at times lengthy, written word.

Newburyport Yankee Frugality

So far, fingers crossed like mad, Newburyport, MA does not appear to be as hard hit by these lousy economic times, as is so many other parts of the United States. That’s not to say we haven’t had some pain and there won’t be more pain to come. But as President Obama travels to some of the hardest hit parts of our country, so far, Newburyport, MA does not seem to have those heart wrenching stories.

And in my attempt to begin to fathom what we as a country are going through, I watch, uncharacteristically, the cable business channel. And this time instead of coming across a segment on “shapewear” (see earlier entry), I came across a segment attempting to explain all of this called (I think) “The House of Cards.” I have no idea how accurate this particular explanation is, but I watch it with fascination and horror (the “horror” part they are probably counting on).

What struck me was their emphasis on folks on either end of the foreclosure crisis facilitating the “American Dream.” I can see the American Dream not wanting to be killed in a crime ridden part of the United States. In my book this is a good thing.

But what I could not fathom, was buying, what in my book, looked like a mansion, on a $900 a week salary. Now, my guess is the folks who did this documentary, found this particular example. But what I think, as I understand it, there were a lot of folks leveraging their dwelling, for things that they could not otherwise think of ever affording– a “dream” pool, a “dream” kitchen, a “dream” vacation. A lot of dreaming, that sounded like it was not too in touch with reality. So yes, watching this documentary, when reality raises it’s little head, the impossible dream thing could go out the window.

The version of the “American Dream” that was being described was so far beyond my own definition, that with one exception, I had a hard time feeling sorry for any of the folks, Wall Street or Main Street who were depicted, whose lives were affected. (Again, the documentary could have been wildly eschewed, I don’t know enough about all of this very complicated stuff to make that call.)

But I am very glad to live in what many have referred to, often in not very flattering terms, as a frugal, Yankee community. Our community banks, are doing just fine, in part, I think because they are rooted in reality, verify folks information, don’t sell their mortgages, love and know the community, and if someone wanted an unrealistic amount of lending money to finance a possibly unrealistic “dream,” my guess would be that our community banks would have a kind but firm community chat with whoever that might be.

Bras and Historic Preservation

Flipping through the channels, there appear to be more and more TV shows on plastic surgery. Especially plastic surgery for boobs. Is it size D or double DD? A lowly size C? Never do I hear these young and older women agree to a measly size B. What would be the point (pun intended).

And what the configuration of women’s paraphernalia tells us about our culture at large (see earlier entry on shapewear), much less that we as a culture now have shows on plastic surgery, says something about us, I think.

As I recall in the 1950’s, as I sat watching things like cartoons and racier stuff like “I Love Lucy,” there would be advertisements for “Cross Your Heart” bras that, from what I could make out, looked really, really uncomfortable, and made women’s boobs look unnatural, like less exaggerated, latter-day Madonna cone-shape, shape boobs. It said something about the times.

Later in the 1960’s bras literally went out the window or up in flames. If women actually wore bras, they were more “natural” shaped. This also said something about the times.

Today, it seems to me that the aim of upper women’s wear is to make every woman look like she’s had a boob job, whether she actually has had one or not. Not that I mind, looking like I’ve had a boob job, and not actually having paid for one, maybe that’s not such a bad idea, I don’t know. Upper woman’s wear, thick, molded and not a nipple showing. This, like the new 21st century, girdle, poising as shapewear, to me says something about the times we live in, I just don’t know what. That fake boobs, rather than the old fashion natural ones, are in?

And what in the world do women’s boobs, bras, the configuration of upper woman’s wear have to do with Newburyport, MA? As I mull this over in my brain, sometimes I think that it has to do with the fact that Newburyport, MA, more especially in boom times, is losing it’s lust, more and more, for actual real historic homes. The real thing, real historic homes, seem to be going out of fashion. The façade of historic homes seems to be more appealing.

As I walk through our historic district, I know how many house are replicas of the real thing. Architectural boob jobs if you will. Visually pleasing to the eye, often more easily sold for bigger bucks, but not the real thing.

To my eye, the real thing around town, actual old homes, seem like gems, not small or sagging breasts in need of reconstruction. But I worry that this view point of mine could be called quaint.

I guess one of my hopes in these lousy economic times, is that by the time they have hopefully righted themselves, peoples “values” could have changed, and real stuff, like historic homes in Newburyport, MA would be seen as the gems they were once seen as, rather than a possible opportunity to slash and stuff, a face lift, a boob job, to turn a tidy profit.

Shapewear and Tummy Control

Because of the financial melt down starting in September 2008, which effects folks in Newburyport, MA too, I find myself watching the business channel on TV. Believe me this is something new. Five months ago I wouldn’t have been caught dead watching the business channel on my Newburyport Television.

Apparently even the business channel on TV needs to liven things up, and there are gorgeous celebrities. The “hook” on this particular business segment, is how they got to look so spectacular.

They got to look so spectacular because they wear “shapewear.” The business channel can also now show semi unclothed gorgeous females. Sex, business–ever thus.

Having gotten stupid lucky and got the skinny gene, plus doing sit-ups and crunches every night for the last 18 years, not out of virtue, but to avoid massive back pain from years of painting gorgeous paintings, I’ve only accumulated mild midriff-bulge (see earlier entry), and I have obviously been oblivious to “shapewear,” which has been around, I gather, for quite a while.

From what I can make out watching the business TV channel, shapewear came into it’s own around the year 2002. And as I recall that was when former President Bush was at his zenith. I ponder whether this is a coincidence or not.

I’ve had this theory, which will not be completely popular with many readers of the Newburyport Blog, but my theory is that with the first election of President Bush, we as a nation regressed back to the 1950’s. (I’m hoping with our new president, President Obama, that we really and truly are coming out of those dark ages.)

And as I recall, in the 1950’s I watched my mother’s compatriots cram themselves into awful looking girdles, delighted that they looked so slim, despite, what seemed to me to be excruciating agony.

Now I haven’t gone out and test driven a shapewear product, yet, so I have no idea if they even cause excruciating pain or even mild discomfort. And yes, I now realized that almost all of the rest of the world knows about shapewear, tummy control, thigh control, butt control, lots of body stuff control, except moi, since apparently I just came off the planet Pluto last night, where there is no shapewear, tummy control, etc.

But I find it interesting that at the beginning of the 21st century, a form of girdle has come back into fashion. And I wonder, ponder what this says about our culture and society at large.

Single Mothers

Single mothers may not be “in,” but to the mildly self-aware, they are not getting the “kick in the head” that they are normally used to.

I’ve never met a single mother who said that being a single mother was their first choice. As choices go, it always seems to be fairly down on the list.

I’ve also never met a single mother who said that single motherhood was “easy.” In fact, in my experience, single mothers usually rate single motherhood as one of the hardest, if not the hardest thing that they have ever done.

And add to that, from one to ten, a walloping dose of guilt and shame (yes, even in the year 2009). A “ten” coming from the most conservative folks in our society, and “one” often unconsciously from even the most enlightened of progressives.

Single mothers often tell me that in general, it is very hard to hold their heads up in society with a complete sense of pride and dignity.

So, in the “what do we make of this now” category, here we have folks giving tons of credit to the mother of the President of the United State. The mother who was not only divorced once, but twice–a single mom.

So yes, our president appears to be a loving father and husband (a wonderful example). But so many people give credit to whatever “it” is that our new president has, not only to him, but also to enigma of the single mother that raised him (in much more less than receptive to single mother times).

Humble is In

“Humble” is now “in.”

Humility being a foreign entity, at least often in places like New York City and Washington, D.C., and probably LA as well. Although in places like Newburyport, MA, humility is very common (thankfully).

Noticing how the new president, President Obama stands while he’s waiting for whatever. His hands are clasped in front of his waist. In power, how to succeed in being powerful, hands clasped in front of your waist, a big fat “no, no,” and a big waste of time, in the how to succeed in the being powerful body language thing.

Either President Obama is very comfortable in his own skin, or has never been to a how to succeed in business, power coach, or both. But here he is President of the United States of America.

It’s not apparent to me if the major power folks, who have assisted in causing our major financial meltdown, which is now very much trickling down to our small New England city of Newburyport, MA, have gotten the message yet, or in fact ever want to get the message.

I asked a Newburyport friend, who is in finance, what is happening to some of these powerful financial folks. And I was told that their life styles have been dramatically “cut back,” as in one of their many houses may be on the chopping block.

I inquired if “they” could have any clue that maybe they, along with lots and lots of other folks, might feel responsible for what has happened to the United States, the world, as well as our own little spot in the world, Newburyport, MA.

And I was told, no way would it ever occur to them to own up to their role in all of this mess. It’s, “Give me my two extra houses back, now,” as far as I can make out.

We obviously have a long way to go in coming to terms with the whole concept of the “humility” thing. The frogs (see previous post) get it, they want to be selfish and narcissistic (their words, not mine). Maybe we could all begin to acclimate ourselves to this new “in” concept of humble, by practicing standing, while waiting for whatever, with our hands clasped in front of our waists, just like one of the most powerful men on earth, President Obama,

Website Design Outrage

The frogs are outraged.

The frogs are outraged because they think the new “look” of The Newburyport Blog makes them look awful. In fact they think it makes them look “tacky.” (What can I say, they’ve always looked somewhat “tacky,” but believe me, I’m not going to go there.)

I tell the frogs (I haven’t put a photo of the frogs, just incase the new “look” does in fact make them look less than their amphibian sparkling best, just a previous link to their entire frog page, “About George”) that the color scheme is actually pretty close to the old “look.” They are not placated. They tell me that the maroon headlines brought out their eyes (I of course am rolling mine). I tell them they have beady black eyes and the maroon headlines did nothing of the sort.

I also tell them, if I’m going to experiment with designing websites, for goodness sakes, why not start experimenting on one of my own sites, for crying out loud. And that there is always tweaking that can be done, and worstcase scenario I can always change back to the old look. Good grief.

I also tell them that they should pay attention to their new president, who said that it was “time to put away childish things,” and that they are definitely being very childish. That there is a big difference between silly and whiney, and they are definitely being stupid wildly whiney.

And they say, they don’t care, that they would like to be selfish, narcissistic (pretty big word for a frog, have they been studying psych?) frogs and they don’t give a rip what the new president said. And I say, “Guys, depending how you look at it, you are in “good” company, because there appear to be plenty of Wall Street folks who feel exactly the same way.”

The Newburyport Library’s Hidden Treasure

I find at the Newburyport Library, which is one of my favorite places in all of Newburyport, and somehow makes paying my property taxes less painful, a small, and what looks like a treasure chest of a section. I decide to keep the “call number” of this treasure chest of a section, a big fat secret, and not to share it with anyone, not even any of the librarians that work at the Newburyport Library in Newburyport, MA.

I impulsively dub this section the, “Everything is going to be all right, really and truly, at least I hope so, ” section of the Newburyport Library, in Newburyport, MA. I spot a book by Stephen Colbert, so I know this finite area contains humorous stuff. Humor being something that I could use a heaping dose of in these scary and uncertain economic times.

And I spot an old friend (my mother used to say, semi rolling her eyes, “Books are our friends”), “Lost in the Cosmos, the Last Self-Help Book,” by Walker Percy, which I snatch from the shelf, as if it might be snatched from my hands, and usher it downstairs to the beautiful granite topped checkout center, before scurrying home with my new found treasure.

And that night I sit down in the comfiest chair possible and start to read, once again, Walker Percy’s “Lost in the Cosmos.”

By page two I no longer smile in anticipation, but begin to frown. By page four I turn back to the copyright page to find out when this book had actually been written–1983, a while ago. By page eight I call it quits.

The book no longer seems like a witty commentary on the society in which we live. It seems bitter, angry and confused about the direction that society is taking. I am beginning to understand a) why “irony” has been getting such a bad name lately and b) why this book has been sitting on the shelf and does not have a long waiting list instead.

I wonder out loud to myself if it could be possible that we as a culture could have actually outgrown an angry 1980’s ironic phase?

And I think about our almost president to be Obama. Over and over again the one thing people seem to agree on, and still seem to agree on, is that here is a man that does not appear to be angry, when in fact, many think he should be.

And last night as I flip through the channels looking for the latest inaugural news, on one of the cable channels I come across someone who says that they think that it is “ironic” that our new president will be inaugurated the day after Martin Luther King Day.

I think to myself that I in fact I do not think that this is “ironic” at all, now that I am coming to the conclusion that it may be possible that “irony” may indeed be going out of fashion.

Instead I think of it as what a wise friend of mine calls “God’s pinky.” Possibly that this “coincidence” could be the god of my understanding indicating that electing the first African American president is a very good thing.

Weddings and Inaugurations

A milestone of sorts. The first one of my friend’s children got married.

I cried through the entire ceremony, and wished for them what a friend of mine once referred to as, “the normal mess of a marriage.” That they would defy the odds, and make it until death do them part.

From what was said, it appeared that there had been discussion about the difficulties of marriage, which was an improvement on my own take–that marriage would be some sort of fairytale, and with no effort on anyone’s part, everyone would live happily ever after, no problemo. Obviously, the issue of realistic expectations had been addressed in a more concrete way.

And as I listen to the folks of Obama Land, the chit chat is that expectations are way too high, for the incoming president, and could we please bring them way, way down.

Although, no matter how much I try to bring my expectations way, way down, as far as Obama Land is concerned, somehow, when I’m not looking, they sneak back up there to a soaring pinnacle.

And I imagine that on Tuesday, January 20, 2009, during the inauguration of our new president that I (along with so much of the nation, and much of the world) will find myself beyond teary.

I really do realize that fairy tales are not possible, although having the first African American president, would have been so improbably not too long ago, that it feels somewhat mythic to me.

My hope as we arrive at Obama Land on Tuesday, is, not only for our new president but for our national as well, to that have wisdom, patience, intelligence, savvy, perseverance and a great big huge heaping dose of the biggest luck that the universe can possibly offer. Realistic? no, but I desperately want much more than the normal mess of politics, and much more than the normal mess of a presidency.

The Early to Mid Twenties Thing

Having talked to various young men and women in their early to mid twenties, in Newburyport and elsewhere, I am beginning to think that the early to mid twenties thing may be as difficult in its own way as the teenage years thing.

I have two wonderful Newburyport neighbors who are somewhere in their late thirties and early forties, closer to, and therefore with better memories of, the age of the twenty age thing than moi.

They tell me that it is a teetering transition time between adulthood and childhood (I naively thought this took place at 18) and it’s best to throw them to the wolves.

My son seems to agree with the throwing to the wolves thing, at least when it comes to the female member of the parenting part. I am all in agreement, with the great hope that the journey to adulthood thing, not only has been set into motion, but is chugging down the adulthood path at some sort of consistent regularity.

However, it is not necessarily easy to have gone intensely down the parenting highway at a good clip for a good couple of decades, get off at a 30 mile an hour thoroughfare, Newburyport or elsewhere, and be able to actually slow down. The brakes get quite a workout. I am, however, more than ready to enjoy the scenery.

Others who are older than my Newburyport neighbors, with children who are in their 30’s and 40’s tell me a different story. They look at me with either a smile or a frown, and tell me, “They never really leave home.”

And at least for me, while my parents were alive, that was indeed true. I might not have actually been present at their actual dwelling or in contact at that actual moment, but there was always a sense of “home,” one that, yes, might have evolved over the years, but still, in whatever shape it took, existed in a very tangible way. And I didn’t comprehend that I had stood on that foundation, with both obliviousness and confidence, until that foundation was no longer there.

Turning Heads in New York City

I was in New York (City) visiting my Dad and had lunch with him at his favorite eating lunch haunt in Mid-Manhattan.

It was one of those gorgeous New York spring days, and I walked back to where my Dad lived. And, as usual, when visiting my father, I was dressed in my “New York best.”

And I found as I walked North, I turned heads.

When my father got home that evening from work (yes, in his eighties, almost to ninety, my father worked, and loved to work), I told him that walking home I had “turned heads.”

He looked at me with that beady, quizzical look of his as if to say “Beany (he used to call me “Beany”), you are a woman of a “certain age,” and women of a certain age simply don’t’ turn heads.”

But I’d say to him, “No, Dad, really.”

When I was down visiting in New York one Christmas, when it was one of those blessed Christmases when it was actually warm outside, my son and I took a cab to his quintessential New York walk-up apartment near 42nd street, to bring back some of the Christmas presents that he had received. And we walked back to where my Dad lived, winding our way though a ridiculously packed Rockefeller Center.

Bakers don’t walk in New York, they stride. And yes, I was dressed up in my New York finest. And my son, who was also striding along side me, would say things like, “Mom, did you see that guy, he was trying to pick you up, and he was half your age!”

He recounted this amazing occurrence to my father when we arrived back at my father’s dwelling. My Dad gave him the same beady, quizzical look. And my son said to him, “No, Poppy, it’s true, really, the guy was half her age.”

When my Dad was ill and dying, I didn’t do any striding around New York City. It was more sort of stumbling blindly. And I noticed something–I sure as hell didn’t turn any heads.

It was as if in my grief, I had become invisible, or if not invisible, then sending out a grief aura, that folks in New York would like to avoid.

I thought of the old saying that goes something like, “When you smile the world smiles with you, when you cry, you cry alone.” (Of course this is not true everywhere, people in other parts of the country actually do respond with empathy to grief.)

And I came up with my own version of the old saying. It goes like this: “When you stride confidently in New York City, no matter how old you are, you turn heads. When you stumble in grief, you become as invisible as the ghost of the loved one that you mourn.”

Newburyport Walking

I walk. That’s what I do. Some people ski. I walk.

I have my Newburyport route, so when it’s time to take a break, I don’t even have to think about it. Set myself on Newburyport walking-autopilot, and off I go.

People ask me, “You walk everyday, how much?”

And I say, “Two miles.”

And invariably they say, “That’s not enough.”

And then I think to myself (I never, ever say it out loud, I’m far, far too polite), “Look at me and look at you. Who’s in better shape. I don’t even have midriff-bulge (yet).”

When I was pregnant, my father announced to me one day, that after my pregnancy, I would get the dreaded midriff-bulge, and that it would never, ever go away.

It’s been a few decades since I last gave birth, and I look into the mirror and go, “Do you have mid-drift-bulge yet? Is this mid-drift bulge?” And after all these years, I’ve decided that my father was wrong. I only have, decades later, a very mild case of the midriff-bulge thing.

Actually, as an entire family, we never got the dreaded obesity gene thing. No, we all eat like birds, and when something goes wrong, we end up not having any appetite, and lose tons of weight, as well as any mild midriff-bulge thing that we might have actually acquired along the way, instead of the other way around.

People, who don’t have this very fortunate gene, always look at us and say things like, “You look so gaunt.”

And I want to say something like (but I never, ever do, I’m far, far too polite), “Don’t you wish sister.” or “Don’t you wish you dope. You have the midriff-bulge gene, and you’re just jealous as all get-out. You’re dying to look gaunt.” (No pun intended.)

But instead, I just smile, and say what a friend of mine calls the “Cheerio prayer.” I say “Oh.”

And then I sometimes, if it’s me that’s been told I look, “So gaunt,” I add, “I guess it’s from those two miles of Newburyport walking.”