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It’s Not Cancer


“It’s not cancer.”

These words are spoken to me by my (very) handsome surgeon as I’m still emerging from an anesthesia haze in the recovery room after emergency surgery.

“Okay…  That’s good,” I say, never really thinking that it was going to be.  This was a bit of an anomaly for me because I always assumed that anytime I felt something unusual going on in my body that I did indeed have cancer, but for some reason this time it hadn’t crossed my mind.

Several months ago after experiencing some intense stomach pain I went to my PCP who thumped on my distended abdomen for less than 30-seconds, told me to go buy some laxative and sent me on my way.  Five hours later I found myself in an emergency room where after a Cat Scan I was descended upon by two medical staff, had a tube jammed down my nose and into my stomach and was told that essentially, something was strangling my small intestine and I needed to be admitted.

Other than having my daughter sixteen years ago I had never been hospitalized for anything and everything happened so quickly that it was hard to process the flurry of activity– the IVs, the vitals being taken every four hours, the administering of medication and the monitoring of the stuff that nobody should ever have to see that was being extracted from my stomach via the tube.  I vomited repeatedly, something I haven’t done in 27 YEARS and that was more traumatic than any other part of this frenzied scenario.

I became this pliable mass, being formed and shaped into machines, onto cold metal slabs of tables where robotic-like arms took more 360-degree images of my abdomen.  I just did what I was told– let them attach stuff to me, insert more unknown liquids into my IV and accepted the Ativan that was offered to me every once in a while.  I’ve never felt more at the mercy of anything in my life.  It was the ultimate of relinquishing control.

I was naïve enough the next morning to ask during the 6:00 am rounds if I would be able to go home that day.  The doctor and surgeon, without having to say the words, basically let me know that that wouldn’t be happening.  When I begged to have the tube removed just for a little while, and immediately vomited rather violently the surgeon dashed out of the room and came back within ten minutes to tell me that he had put me on the schedule for surgery the following morning.  So, clearly, I wasn’t going home any time soon.

The surgeon presented a few different scenarios but never once mentioned cancer, and neither did I.  The procedure went off without a hitch, taking less than 45-minutes from beginning to end.  An errant band of tissue left over from laparoscopic day surgery in my twenties was causing a blockage and apparently with just one or two snips, the problem was solved and I was released the following day.

Ten days later at my follow-up with the surgeon I reminded him of those first words he said to me in the recovery room.

“I think I said it more for myself,” he said.

“Why, did you really think you were going to find cancer?” I asked.

He hesitated before saying, “Yes.  I thought it was a good possibility.”

As part of their jobs doctors have to keep their patients from panicking.  If he had told me of his suspicions before the surgery I would have completely crumbled.   I didn’t blame him for being honest with me but for the rest of that day I was thrown off, questioning my mortality, so when about 3 weeks later, there were some unusual things going on with my entire digestive system I was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this time, I indeed had cancer.

I Googled every symptom I had, endless amounts of time a day, and the top three were all signs of cancer.   I scoured copies of my x-rays and Cat Scan results from the days in the hospital, using the internet as my medical dictionary.  No matter how many times I read the words “normal” and “unremarkabIe” I was still convinced that my surgeon had missed something, that malignant cells were somehow hiding in the places that weren’t visible during surgery.  Based on the things I read I staged my own cancer and read articles on how to tell my teenager that I was going to die.  I did this for three weeks, the earliest I’d be able to see a doctor to get seen.

I didn’t and don’t have cancer.  After I saw my doctor and he confirmed it for me, my symptoms immediately disappeared, but the relentless reminder of my age and mortality has stayed with me.  I’m 53 and other than needing to lose about 15 pounds, I’m in perfect health. As I age, cancer will always be a possibility and I know myself well enough that I won’t stop Googling every strange and new symptom that comes along, and that I will always pray to hear the words, “It’s not cancer.”


“She’s” My Memory


In the days leading up to this past weekend’s sixth biannual camp reunion, I was under the rather pretentious delusion that I would enter it with a sense of detachment, that I’d be on the sidelines, observing, in preparation for writing this recap post like I do the day after every reunion.  On Friday night, one of the guys, another stalwart at these gatherings sat down next to me at the bar and said I seemed different, “more composed” than I usually do but was harkening back to  a me from thirteen years ago when after an endless amount of tequila shots I pulled the second all-nighter of my life and actually saw the sunrise.  By Saturday night, I found myself spinning and twirling in a room, dancing to a Squeeze song, drink in hand, clearly all detachment thrown out the window.  How could I not have?  This group of 60 or so people is my comfort zone, my second family.

These weekends are a sort of pilgrimage, a flocking to a sacred place where we can all be ourselves without pretense, without judgment, the stripping down of our outside lives for a couple of days where every smell, every structure, every face is a shared experience, a shared memory.  It’s universal among us all.  It barely even needs discussing.  We know.

As in the past, the two years between these weekends, new relationships are formed through Facebook, usually kicked-off by a comment or two on another person’s post where you discover a new kindred spirit who you didn’t necessarily know that well before.  Whether it’s politics, the appreciation of the same music, movies, tv, you anticipate the carving out of time to get to know that person a little better, to turn the virtual into the actual.  Those moments have yet to disappoint.

This weekend I was able to be in the right place at the right time as a young woman who hadn’t seen camp grounds in thirty or so years first arrived. I was eager to meet her as she and I are the only two who live in New England, and plus her comments on our alumni page were pretty fucking funny.  We chatted for a little while, learning more about each other, along with another regular and rallier and the only other woman from her division.  Someone asked her what some of her memories of camp were and she pointed to her former bunkmate and said, “She’s my memory.”  My heart leapt at the poignancy of those three words.  Not only that, it provided me with the title for this post.

At the time, I took it as such a gorgeous homage to another one of those special camp bonds that we all have.  Then I realized that for me, it has a couple of meanings.  My camp friends fill in the blanks of my life.  They are the keepers of  tiny snippets of memories and they are there to remind me of things that I have no recollection of , including how my pre-adolescent thick fingers would always grab for the biggest piece of fried chicken from the family-style platter that was placed in the middle of the table where we ate.  After this reunion, my friend mentioned that she’ll never forget me playing Rizzo in a camp production of “Grease.”  I played along but I have absolutely no memory of that.  So, these friends are “my memory,” but they are also and always will be the snapshots of the visual memories that I still have embedded in my brain.

These weekends, whether or not fueled by alcohol or these new-fangled “edibles” I’ve heard so much about (apparently, if you eat more than a leg off a gummy bear, you’ve had too much) embolden us to say and do things we wouldn’t have the courage to do otherwise.  The best part about this is that we walk away, puffed up and confident, like a badge of honor to take with us into our day-to-day lives.

On my bleary-eyed drive home, sandwiched between a James Brown and Allman Brothers song, my clearly disparate Spotify playlist shuffled to “Tradition” from the Fiddler on the Roof soundtrack.  I’m not making this up for dramatic effect.  I smiled and belted it out, sunroof open, and marveled at the very random selection of the song.  However in life, I have learned that there ARE no coincidences, that in the end, it all makes perfect sense.





But I’m HUGE in Argentina!

Wallpapers Flag of Argentina Flag Graphics (6)

Last week, after years of pitches and no response,  my first piece was accepted and published in HuffPost.   I was beside myself with excitement.  To me it was a huge breakthrough knowing how wide their readership is (According to my research and depending on who you ask,  they have between 100 million and 368 million unique global visitors–and yes, I’m fully aware of that disparity so let’s just go with a zillion.)

The subject line in my e-mail pitch had some compelling words that I hoped would grab the attention of the editors and when one answered back within twenty minutes asking for a full draft I knew I had to make it shine.  When I got a second e-mail from who became “my” editor (and after trolling his social media I discovered that he’s a gorgeous, tattooed, Jewish, gay man) and he told me how much I would be paid and that he would be sending back some edits and suggestions I was stunned and thrilled. With a round of three drafts flying back and forth,  his brilliance and way with words and my hope not to lose my “voice” resulted in the piece below:

The second it appeared on the HuffPost site I spent the rest of the day obsessively refreshing my browser and watched as the number of “shares” went up and up and up.  I was officially going viral.  The piece had a link to my personal blog and my stats skyrocketed,  strangers began following me and I started to get an endless stream of e-mails with their opinions on the piece.  In the first 48 hours I was able to tell that most of the readership was within the United States which was no surprise.    But when on the third day I got 200 readers from Argentina I got very confused.  I e-mailed my aforementioned gorgeous editor and asked him if he had a clue as to why this would be happening and he didn’t.  It wasn’t until I got an e-mail from a man in Buenos Aires with the link below that I was able to crack the case:

In a wonderful twist of fate I had the good sense to marry a Puerto Rican whose first language is Spanish and he began the process of translating.  For some reason the writer alternated between calling me “he” and “she” and some of the details weren’t quite right, but the below words that captioned a picture of me had me laughing until I cried:

“Gayle Saks is one of the most famous bloggers about everyday life in New York.”

Suddenly I had become the Carrie Bradshaw, the lead character of “Sex and The City,” of Argentina. The thing is I’ve never written about everyday life in New York because even though I grew up on Long Island, I’ve lived in Boston for over 30 years.  What I really should have done right away while I still had a captive audience is somehow got on the talk show circuit  and played the part, have that caption in huge letters on the screen and then fled the country in preparation of being discovered as a fraud.

I don’t know how I can milk my 48 hours of being famous in Argentina.  Can I start using it in my bio and in my pitch to agents to make them jump at the chance to have the honor of publishing my memoir?  Should I come clean and admit that in the world of bloggers I’m smaller than a grain of sand and then do a rousing rendition of Evita’s “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina?”  Perhaps I will be found, twenty years from now, holed up in a house in a teeny, tiny town in Vermont, a la J.D. Salinger, and some long ago Argentinian fan will step timidly up to my door and knock and when I answer I will hear the words, “Weren’t you one of the most famous bloggers about everyday life in New York?”  There will be a documentary about my life with film of me ducking from the paparazzi, begging to be left alone with my cats and Argentinian pinot noir, and I will once again, fade into obscurity.


The Sad and Suffering


“It says here that less than a year ago you almost jumped off a bridge?”

I’m asking this of a young woman, not yet thirty, as part of her intake assessment to the drug and alcohol rehab facility where I work.  I HAVE to ask questions like this in order to assess if someone is safe enough at that moment to be admitted or if they need to be taken to a more appropriate facility or what is known as “a higher level of care.”

This wasn’t her first attempt and during her rattling off the details with little-to-no affect she initially remembered two others, and later in the conversation remembered that there was another one that she had forgotten about while she was in sixth grade. Sixth. Grade.

It’s not lost on me or people who know me well that asking those suffering from addiction about suicide attempts comes with heightened and loaded emotions.  Both my mother and my best friend, albeit 30 years apart, committed suicide, my mother by overdosing on pills and my best friend by hanging.  My mother never turned to substances to ease her pain and trauma of surviving the Holocaust but my best friend, driven by a raging crystal meth addiction was spun into such a paranoid and psychotic alter ego that undoubtedly some imagined forces egged him on.

The men and women who have sat in front of me, men and women of all ages with different drugs of choice pretty much all admit to self-medicating with drugs or alcohol.  Some don’t want to discuss their past trauma but others will, and after hearing some of their stories I truly don’t know how they are still standing.  I don’t.   There have been  many who have found their parents dead from overdose.  There are those who have lost children, been raped, have been shot-up with heroin for the first time at age ten BY THEIR PARENTS,  and have been hung by hooks from their belt loops as punishment.

It is impossibly hard to picture my very best friend going through the machinations of preparing for his death.  I can only go so far before I have to shake myself out of it.  I think of people stockpiling pills, buying a gun and bullets, figuring out the best place to sling a rope that will hold their weight.

The one patient I will never, ever forget was a beautiful woman in her forties who one day put weights in her shoes and clothes and lay down on a large rock with a bottle of wine, and waited and hoped that a powerful tide would pull her out to sea.   It didn’t happen and she was disappointed that it hadn’t.  I hope she is out there somewhere having found the hope and happiness that she was clearly missing at that point in time.  I pray that she is no longer sad and suffering.

My Father’s Ashes Came in a Pill Bottle



A few weeks ago my siblings and I got an e-mail from my brother telling us that my father’s wife was offering up some of my father’s ashes to us, his children.    I didn’t want to experience what people describe about little bone fragments that you have to touch 0r do what Keith Richards ostensibly did with that whole sniffing of his father’s ashes thing.

“Uh….sure?” I answered back and we decided to do something together.  We wanted to pick a spot that meant something to our father and it came down to his beloved Syracuse University or the spot in New Hampshire where he and my mother met.  Selfishly I decided that the trip to Syracuse was WAY too long, and that New Hampshire, between my brother in Vermont and me in Boston would make more sense.

My parents met at a now non-existent resort.  In its heyday, it looked like this:


Now, it looks like this:


That’s where the main building stood.  Even though it is still situated on a lake, it’s devastatingly sad that now it’s on the side of a busy road that didn’t exist back then.  It’s flanked by two run-down houses in a very run down town.  It’s hard to imagine that it was once a thriving resort town.

My father who had been a chorus boy in a Broadway show that not many people have ever heard of and was sort of a C-list performer at the Copacabana was hired by the resort  for a summer to entertain its guests.  He looked like this:


My mother was the receptionist.  She looked like this:


So you can guess where this is going.  Magic was made and the rest is history.  Okay, so the marriage ended and my father remarried a woman who he had been with for 35 years before he died who made the choice to put a small amount of his ashes in an empty prescription bottle.  My father was a lifelong hypochondriac so when my brother and I unwrapped the yellow tissue paper that it had been folded into, we burst out laughing.  But really???  What the fuck?!  I later called my husband and begged him never to pour my ashes into a prescription bottle.  Maybe a can of Diet Pepsi or an empty K-Cup, but COME ON!  You can’t make this shit up.

My brother, daughter and I trudged through some incredibly overgrown, dense and dead grass that was covered by crusty snow to get down to the lake.  It’s the closest I’ve come to hiking in my life.  My brother’s wife stood at the top of a steep hill and cheered us on as we stood on a concrete slab at the edge of the water.

“So…what happens now?” I asked my brother.  He volunteered to go first and unscrewed the (childproof) cap of the bottle.  He somehow managed to get his share to do a lovely swirl in the air, while mine just sunk to the bottom, not moving or swirling at all.  He then shook the rest into the wind, where like every movie you’ve ever seen, they almost blew right back into our faces.  It wasn’t exactly the poignant, teary ritual I had expected.  It was actually rather funny.

We trudged back up the steep hill to our separate cars before heading off to have lunch in a rather bizzaro restaurant called Calamity Jane’s. As far as I can tell by doing a quick Google search, Calamity Jane had no connection to this little town and along with her pictures everywhere, there was a huge Teddy bear sitting on a chair.

We hugged in the parking lot and there was a flicker of sadness when my brother and I looked at each other.  A year after our father’s death, this ritual seems to be a wrap-up, the grand finale to his life.  For me, and I’m sure for my brother, it was very moving to see, for the first time, the place where our parents fell in love and take in the same views that they did.  My father would probably have found our decision for the location to be all wrong and even a bit inappropriate,  but for us, it was the only logical choice.




Moving Day


I have lived in 25 places in 51 years.  This does not include my two years in boarding school or my first dorm room in college.  Despite the fact that I spent my first 13 years in the house I grew up in, that averages out to an average stay in each place at 2.04 years.   I am not an army brat.  I haven’t been evicted from any of those places (Well, actually, I was “asked to leave” my first place out of college, a lovely converted basement apartment in the home of a single mother raising two young boys, because my friend was doing bong hits with her boyfriend while I was at work.)

My 15-yr old daughter has lived in 10 different places.  We aren’t running from the law or abandoning them under the cover of night.  Most of those places have been pretty wonderful except for one that looked like the Bates Motel from the outside.  Even though she is incredibly resilient, I feel a tremendous amount of guilt.

In the 6 years I’ve been married to my second husband we’ve lived in two houses both in 3-year chunks.  Our first place was a rental in an incredible and large Victorian home.  I would have gladly bought it when our landlords decided to sell but at the time we couldn’t afford it.  Instead, we scrambled to find something we could afford to buy and ended up in what I consider sort of C-list house with very low ceilings, a bedroom that barely fits our bed and a choppiness to the rooms that creates a lot of wasted space.  We couldn’t install our beloved ceiling fans because we would have been decapitated.  My daughter brought a friend over on the night we moved in and she reached up and said, “I’ve never been able to touch a ceiling before!” My heart sank.

I have always dreamed of walking through my front door and seeing a vast open room with soaring ceilings and windows everywhere.  My mother who came to this country with virtually nothing adored our house with its “cathedral ceiling” in the living room.  At the time I didn’t appreciate it  but I get it now.  My sister lives in Arizona and has what is called a “Great Room.”  I envy her her Great Room.

My husband and I have been mired in debt since we met.  With employment set-backs and large child support payments we have had to rely on credit cards to help get us through.  It’s quite frightening to see those numbers on paper and to watch our credit scores plunge.

Our house happens to be in one of the hottest real estate markets in the country.  Houses fly off the market the second they’re listed and eager buyers submit letters accompanied by photographs of a smiling family like couples pitching themselves as potential adoptive parents.  Bidding wars and what people are willing to pay over asking price are off the charts.  It wasn’t lost on us that we were sitting on our only untapped asset.

My husband, who owned a house with his first wife for over 25-years has reached his threshold of brutal New England winters that require shoveling in sub-zero temperatures and mowing the lawn in sweltering heat.   Two winters ago we had our ceiling cave in in three different rooms from the record weight of the snow on our roof.  We had to replace our oil tank, our hot water heater and pay for miscellaneous service calls for plumbing, heating and structural issues.  When you have no reserve funds to tap into for these unexpected and large expenses panic sets in.  So, on a weekend less that two months ago, we decided that the only way for us to live debt-free, DEBT FREE!, was to put our house on the market and move into a rental.  As my friend Carla said to me, “That is EXACTLY what Suze Orman would have told you to do.”

We were lucky that we knew of a couple who desperately wanted to move to our town and fell in love with our house right away.  We didn’t need to go through the hassle of showings and Open Houses where we’d have to round up our animals and kill time for a few hours.  We sold it for almost $95,000 more than what we paid for it just three years ago, and with the equity already put into it we are walking away with enough money to start living the way we’ve always wanted to and to actually start saving.  The hope is that in a couple of years we can buy a weekend home in Vermont that I’ve always dreamed of.

The apartment is in a fantastic and fancy complex with a pool, a gym and an actual human who will whisk our garbage away while we sleep.   The ceilings are high, the living room huge and bright.  My daughter is very excited about creating her own space and I, now for the 26th time, get to design and nest in a place that I can be proud of.  I will miss having windows in the bathroom and kitchen and being able to let our dogs out throughout the day into our huge backyard.  I will miss the silence and privacy of a stand-alone house and a separate dining room with a table large enough to host dinner parties and Passover.  I will miss the hundreds of books that now sit in storage for an indefinite period of time.

We move in less than three weeks and I have started visualizing us in our new bed in our new bedroom, assuming what will become our regular spots on the couch and our animals trying to figure out what the hell just happened.  I’m not quite sure how long it will take to feel like home but I don’t doubt that it eventually will.  I’ve gotten good at this, for better or worse.  I’ve rolled with much bigger punches and continue to greet change head on.   This change will be a good one where  I can finally breathe a huge sigh of relief and fully appreciate everything that I have, and everything that I can look forward to.




And a Rock Feels No Pain, and An Island Never Cries

Medieval Akkerman fortress near Odessa in Ukraine

“I’ve built walls
A fortress deep and mighty
That none may penetrate….

….I have my books
And my poetry to protect me,
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain,
And an island never cries.”

–Paul Simon

In my 7th grade English class my teacher, who left an indelible mark on me, used the lyrics to “I Am A Rock” by Simon and Garfunkel as an example of great poetry.  She was SO hip and cool and this sealed the deal.  I remember sitting in class and thinking in a very overly-mature way, that this was a song I could totally relate to.

Those who know me are probably thinking, “Oh please, you wear your heart on your sleeve,” but those who know me BEST have experienced my arms-length reaction from wanting to dig too deep.

I still have not cried over my mother’s death by suicide.  I’ve had thirty years to try, and it hasn’t happened.  When two days ago word came of my best friend’s suicide, I couldn’t cry.  They paralleled each other in that their lifelong struggles really couldn’t have led to any other outcome.  In making the many phone calls to spread the word of my friend’s death I envied those who sobbed instantly.  I felt cold and deficient in some way. For those of us who didn’t cry, we understood each other completely.

What’s interesting to me is that when a year ago, one of the men who lived in the halfway house where I worked died of an overdose, I crumbled to my knees and sobbed.  Maybe it’s because I had seen him the day before and laughed with him over lunch.   While watching as my father died, feeding him through a straw, I had to leave his bedside so he didn’t see me with my head in my hands crying like a baby.  I didn’t cry at his memorial and I haven’t cried since.

People have described me as the “laughing on the outside, crying on the inside” type, but that isn’t entirely true.  I laugh because I’m a really happy person and my inside feels deeply but isn’t drowning in its own tears.   However, there are places that my head still cannot visit, the pain too palpable for me to explore.

I do mourn, and I mourn deeply.   Grief is wrapped up in many different packages and forms and there is no right or wrong way.   But most of all, I am numb.









“Is This The Call?”: Spreading The News of an Inevitable Death


This is a picture of me and my best friend of over thirty years, Craig Ashton Johnson, taken at my first wedding where later that day, he made the opening welcome to our gathered guests.  He was sober and healthy and happy and everyone there was aware of the critical role he played in my life.

There was not one person who ever met Craig who didn’t love him instantly.  He was THAT person to an infinite number of people, so when just yesterday I was charged with contacting his East Coast friends to let them know that he had been found dead in a hotel room somewhere in Los Angeles, the list of phone calls and e-mails to those in his life became longer and longer and longer.

The first call I made was to a dear friend of his.  When she picked up the phone, one of the first things she said was, “Is this the call?”  Another friend, just a few hours later said the exact same thing.  We have been waiting for “the call” for years.

Crystal meth, the most insidious of drugs had turned him into a COMPLETELY different Craig.  The last time I saw him he was in a rage that made the veins in his neck pop out.  I was the recipient of that rage and it ended our friendship.  For a little over a year, I hadn’t reached out to any of his friends to find out how he was doing and I absolutely felt and still feel okay with that decision.  So, just last week when a friend of his forwarded me an e-mail that clearly described the worst of his downward spirals there was no question in my mind that “that call” would be coming very soon.

Craig made the very deliberate decision to end his life.  Without going into details, because in the end how it happened would haunt and devastate too many people, it actually took someone else to point out to me the parallels to my mother’s own suicide exactly thirty years ago. They were both a long time coming and in the end, although it seems heartless and callous to say,  there was a great sense of relief.

The reactions on the phone from his dearest of friends were varied.  Those of us who had been in the trenches of his addiction for so many years reacted like me–numb, relieved and guilty that we couldn’t cry.  Others sobbed and couldn’t speak.  We all began posting pictures and tributes on Facebook that have made us all smile and tear up.  He was a magnificent person.

He was “Uncle Craig” to his friend’s children. He drove them to supermarkets and let them pick out all the candy they wanted.  He loved animals.  He loved the Stones.  He loved Elton John.  He chain-smoked and drank coffee by the gallon.  He loved Honeycomb cereal.  He was brilliant and had a memory like an elephant.  He spent his weekends catching up with all of his friends on the phone.  He would devote hours to us all.  He was the funniest person I knew.

I will never get to drive cross-country with him and sing our way through every Elton John album from beginning to end.  There are so many ‘nevers‘ for so many but we all did what we could to make everything a possibility.  We all did everything we could.

Watching Thunderstorms With My Daughter


Many years ago after my divorce from my daughter’s father, she and I found ourselves living in a magnificent apartment with soaring ceilings in a fancy-pants complex with a pool, movie room and gym.  It was an incredibly special time for us as we were held in limbo until the next chapter.

At six years-old, she was still a bit fearful of the booms and flashes of sudden and sustained thunderstorms until one night, I had her lay next to me on her stomach as we stared out of the floor to ceiling window in our living room and watched a magnificent storm.  Watching and listening as I “oohed” and “aahed” and grinned my way through it she gradually lost her fear.

Ever since, she loves when a scroll at the bottom of the tv pops-up with severe thunderstorm warnings.  She has a weather app on her phone that alerts her as one gets closer. She’ll beg me to wake up to come watch as it rolls into view.

This past weekend while visiting my brother in Vermont strong thunder and lightning storms were pretty much guaranteed for the night we arrived.  After everyone else had gone to bed she and I sat in anticipation in my brother’s beautiful all-season enclosed porch, me in his perfectly placed armchair and she on a couch.  The lightning became fast and furious, like a monochromatic fireworks display.  We did that oohing and aahing thing in unison and giggled as we listened to ourselves.  While looking at the lightning I said it seemed as if the flashes and bolts were having an argument, a very dramatic call and response.  She complimented me on my interpretation and said I should write it down.

I suggested that we both write two paragraphs describing the shared experience from our own perspectives.  She enthusiastically accepted the challenge and has since forgotten about it.  I’m not up for the inevitable reaction of a 15-year old if I remind her and the excuses she’ll make.  It was a moment in time that I know neither of us will forget.  And even though this is more than two paragraphs, I have lived up to my end of the bargain, quite happily.





From the Winsted Register Citizen

A 55-year old reporter from the Winsted Daily Tribune was found this morning in the fetal position in the corner of the old Arts & Crafts shack on the grounds of the former Camp Delaware in Winsted.  He was surrounded by a sandwich bag of gummy bears and brownie crumbs and a half-completed potholder still on that thing where you make potholders.  He was babbling about having stumbled on the scene of a couple of very attractive middle-aged women pouring shots of tequila through a funnel on the hood of a red Subaru. When they weren’t looking he snatched the leftovers that they were saving for later, ran into the shack and managed to jot down the headline you see above. Having landed such a  major story we will surely recruit him away from that daily rag once he gets out of rehab.


I don’t usually travel with a funnel.  As a matter fact I’ve only owned a funnel for about a month, purchased as a way to not waste the wine that I never manage to drink from my second glass.  As my friend Beth and I were getting ready for our bi-annual camp reunion we discovered that in order to effectively pour what has now become a tradition of  each of us doing one shot of tequila in the parking lot of camp, we needed to jerry-rig a way to pour it out of a travel mug and into shot glasses.

“Do you have a funnel?”

“As a matter of fact I DO!” and from there, we were off and running.

I’ve written endlessly about these reunions and the rush of happiness they bring to everyone who attends.  The ease and joy of being around people who we’ve known for over thirty years in a place that means so much to all of us is still hard to describe in a way that people who haven’t experienced it can fully understand.  It is what draws us back, every two years.

The atmosphere is loose and fluid as you float from one cluster of people to another.  There is no rushing around, no obligations to be anywhere other than just being together in a very short amount of time that goes way too quickly.  The weekend is a revolving door of people and the only regret is not being able to spend enough time with those who are so worthy of it.  As I said last year in a Facebook post, there is not one person there who is NOT worth knowing.

In these brief snippets of time the mood is light.  There is very little talk about the pressures of work and the demands of every day life.  Everywhere you look people have pipes or joints or those vape things in their mouths. In addition to the old-fashioned way of smoking pot there are “edibles” in gummy bears, brownies, lollipops and a bunch of other things as a cleaner delivery system.  They scare me.

We eat at the pizza place that we’ve eaten since we were six.  We order the same food that we can taste in our sleep, and have it placed on the table for everyone to share.  Feeding eight people costs in the range of $50.

Friday night we manage to scare the locals when close to sixty-five people pour into one of the only restaurants in town.  It’s like a scene from Candid Camera, the looks on their faces wondering what the hell is going on.  I watched as a little girl clung to her mother’s arm for dear life.  When I smiled at her she looked away in horror and fear.

On Saturday night on the basketball court there is a ceremony honoring people who have made a big impact and embody the spirit of camp.  We sit on the same bleachers we sat on as children (getting up on them is not quite as easy as it used to be) and listen to the magnificent tributes paid to lifelong friends.  A band of former campers play their amazing music and we dance and smile and hug long into the night.

Back at the hotel where many of us stay (I use the word “hotel” lightly) we gather in a small gazebo in the parking lot for a sort-of after-party, where those who still have it in them drink from bottles of vodka and tequila (I am one of those who do not have it in them.)  Things tend to get a bit animated and sloppy but they are priceless moments to be retold and retold as memories for years to come.  I watched as my friend Lauren dropped her phone in her cooler and mid-sentence pulled it out, looked at it, and kept talking.  She no longer has a working phone with an endless amount of pictures from the weekend trapped inside.  Somehow, it became 2:30 in the morning.

I have warned my daughter that she can not talk to me when I come practically stumbling through the door of my house on Sunday.  I’ve made the mistake of telling her that the only time I smoke cigarettes (I quit years ago) is at these reunions.  When she later asked if I smoked a cigarette I said yes (In reality, I may or may not have smoked a pack.)

It is now Monday and I have slept for a countless number of hours, have a pounding headache and an aching body.  The tequila elixir has long since left my system, the fountain of youth inside of me slowly drying up a bit.  Maybe in two years I’ll have a different car, with a different color hood, but always, from now on, I will travel with a funnel.