I liked my iPhone 8 but after a mere three years, it was time for an upgrade. In tech speak, three years equals a lifetime. Remarkably, the pale pink Otterbox protector emerged unscathed through all the daily abuse and heavy pandemic wear and tear; even the screen survived without a crack or a chip. My ‘8’ still performed its duties well–my daily games of Wordle, Worldle, Globle, and Quordle; email alerts; headlines from the New York Times and the Boston Globe; and all those dizzying, breaking news updates. The gadget, with all of my personal and business emails synced and a steady flow of text messages, kept me apprised of everyone’s needs. Its aging battery drained quickly, but I saw that flaw as a positive; the time it spent charging was time it was out of my hands. I embraced the charging inconvenience’s hidden benefit–a few tech-free hours to attend to other matters, like my ongoing Swedish death cleaning and the most recent edit of my memoir. 

I thought my ‘8’ and I would enjoy a long future together, even if the glaring “button” on its face screamed “old person with ancient technology.” I didn’t know the button was a thing until the first time someone sneered, “Oh, your phone has a “button.” I didn’t realize I was opening myself up to tech shaming. In the eyes of Millennials, GenZers, GenXers, and the rest, I owned the iPhone version of a flip phone. Still, I hung in, proudly tapping my screen, one finger at a time, like all good Boomers. I’m too old to care about something so inconsequential as a fancy phone or a clever typing form but it was clear–my phone and I were becoming obsolete in tandem.

The final nail in the coffin of my 8 was struck by the tech expert on my favorite local radio show (yes, I’m old. I listen to the radio) who recently explained that the iPhone 8 would not update after the spring of 2023. Without updates, all manner of disasters would follow me and any online exploits. I have a healthy fear of hackers and spam, and all those other things I know little about. I had no choice but to part ways with my still-pristine phone, no matter how immune I was to the side-eye glances of tech shamers around me. 

I began my phone purchase research. My previous iPhone ownership journey progressed from the 4 to the 6, and eventually to the 8. But I was a fool. In 2019, I should have made the enormous leap from the 6 to the then recently released 11. Instead, I chose the 8. Planned obsolescence bit me on my cheap butt. I had five good years with my 6 but only three with my 8. I had learned my lesson. This time around, I was choosing a newer model, something that might not be too old too soon. 

After a serious case of sticker shock and dealing with the frustrations of a non-user-friendly Verizon website, I handed the process over to my son who completed the transaction. I had hoped he would know a trick to pare down the price but there was no way to escape the fees and the installment plan, that is, short of plunking down a hefty sum upfront in addition to the privilege of paying Verizon a monthly fee to access their service. 

My new pink iPhone 13 arrived today and it’s lovely. So far, the learning curve isn’t too steep and I almost don’t miss the button below the screen. Everything seems the same, except now I have to log in to everything again. Now if I could only remember my passwords…

My 13 proved that I was moving forward technologically but, in my defense, it wasn’t my first foray into tech progress. For the last year, I have basked in the glow of shedding our house landline, a move I made because I was tired of hearing “Oh, you still have a landline,” followed by a pitying chuckle. No landline combined with my new phone insured I was out of the woods of tech shaming for good but I was wrong. My apparently deep-seated shortcomings were outed by the click of my Volkswagen’s jackknifing key, leading someone to ask, “What year is this car?” The familiar feeling of being put on the spot, the shame, and the further proof that I am a fossil flooded over me. I realized I may never find myself totally caught up to the latest technology. But in my defense, I’ve owned those cars that start with the push of a button, that park themselves, and whose trunks open with a sweep of my leg under the bumper. I never used some of the technology, relying on my parallel parking skills to take care of business and pushing the release button on the hatch. With my latest car purchase, I’ve gone backward, like a technological Benjamin Button, and aside from the shaming, it was never a problem.

I fear being technologically out of touch is only the tip of the “out of touch” iceberg to surface in the next few years. Many tech advances don’t matter to me; I have learned over a long life that things like having the coolest technology don’t really matter at all. For now, I’m happy to be the old lady with a car key in one hand and the phone without a button in the other. I consider those moves progress. Like Benjamin Button, baby steps might be my future.

When I found my cousin Carmela via a Facebook search, I connected with my last relative. We spent late summer Sunday afternoons, week after week, chatting from my house in Boston to her house in our family’s hometown of Cisternino, near Bari, in Italy. We rehashed family history and revised the facts: Grandpa’s heart attack in 1964? Well, there was a big family brawl and a weapon may have been drawn; Our gay uncle? We all knew about that but it wasn’t a big deal. Plowing through topics long-buried clarified some hazy details. Still, there was one story that frustrated me, an unfinished puzzle forever missing a piece. Carmela held the clue to that mystery as well. 

My parents married in September 1956 after a brief courtship. When they found out they were expecting shortly after, Mum and Dad set up the spare room in their new home as the baby’s room. They added nursery rhyme-themed linoleum, crib, bathinette–a hideous 1950’s contraption for washing babies. Then, they waited.

My mother’s labor began a few weeks after her due date, a detail that doesn’t seem quite right in 2021. When the contractions stopped, the doctor brushed off my mother’s concerns. The baby wasn’t moving. Again, the doctor insisted that my mother was overreacting. She waited at home as her body began to reject what was now dead inside of her. It was July 4th. Was the doctor just too busy celebrating to care?

The baby called “Marie Frances,” the name they would recycle for me a year and a half later, somehow arrived by a vaginal birth on July 5th. I can only imagine my mother’s suffering. While she was in what she referred to as a “twilight sleep,” she remembered confusion in the room when the baby was born. She also remembered being “knocked out.” When my mother awoke hours later in the maternity ward, she found herself surrounded by moms and their crying babies. When the doctor informed her of the stillbirth, the news destroyed her, changing her forever. 

Mum never saw her baby, which was customary in that era, but she always had questions about her. According to the story, my father didn’t see the baby either. Only one person, my mother’s Uncle Dario, bravely assumed the task. In his thick Italian accent, he reported back with a description–“Beautiful. Thick black curly hair. Perfect. An angel.”

Although she never held the baby in her arms, my mother spoke frequently about my sister, making her presence in my life. I was curious but I also knew the subject of the baby could cause my mother to fall apart. My Uncle Dario was the only person who had the answers I sought.

When I was young, I begged my uncle, “Please tell me about the baby again.” 

But his version of a perfect baby never changed. It was the only narrative I knew. 

For years, my interest in my sister lived in my psyche along with a peculiar form of jealousy focused on a dead baby. My mother’s obsession irritated me. I competed with “the first Marie.” I endured my mother’s tearful review of events. She regretted never holding her baby.  More importantly, she had no idea where the baby was buried. I listened for years as Mum bemoaned never visiting her grave. For a long time, I sat and half-listened but, at some point in my early forties, I listened and took up the cause. I wanted to find my mother’s baby for her.

Mum believed that her baby was buried in some unmarked grave in the nearby city cemetery. It was the story she had been told by my father. Without her knowledge, I contacted the cemetery office. Yes, dead babies were buried and there was a record of these burials. After flipping through the book from 1957, the clerk announced, “There is no record of the baby being buried here.” Armed with this disturbing information, I told my father. He feigned shock and told me to never mention this news to my mother. Mum died soon after my investigation and this conversation with my father. I never pressed my father for more information. I sensed the topic was verboten.

When my mother died eighteen years ago, I asked the undertaker about the handling of stillborn babies. He worked at the same funeral home that allegedly handled the baby’s interment. He dismissed me.

“They didn’t keep good records back then.” The conversation ended. I abandoned my search.

This past summer, when I broached the subject of my mother’s first baby with Carmela, I didn’t expect her to know very much more than I did. A few years older than I, she was a kid at the time. Nonetheless, Carmela knew the truth. The baby‘s extensive physical deformities indicated her demise was the only possible outcome. She described the baby as having “a head twice the size of her body.” In my mind’s eye, I pictured an alien-like creature. I instantly flipped back to the angelic image I knew best. Still, I was grateful for the truth. 

Carmela and I discussed the possibilities; her guess is that the baby, at our uncle’s suggestion, might have been donated for medical research. Uncle Dario had been a medical student before studying engineering and he believed the baby’s profound deformity begged investigation. We assume our uncle and my father made the decision to donate the baby for research and probably conspired never to tell my mother. 

I accept now what happened to the baby may never be uncovered but I am intrigued by her cause of death. I reached out to the state to see if I could get a copy of the death certificate, specifically the fetal death certificate. I needed closure, pure and simple.

When I contacted the Registry of Vital Records a few weeks ago, the clerk, Marie, (how weird is that?) rebuffed my efforts, but after an email exchange, she softened to the request. At first, I sensed she didn’t want to help me at all. I’m guessing she assumed I wanted the information for litigious reasons. Since most, if not all of the participants in this tragedy, are long dead, who the hell would I sue? From Marie’s correspondence, I learned that the records of fetal death are protected. Only qualified parties are privy to the information. Marie eventually sent the list of what I needed: my parents’ death certificates, my father’s will naming me the executrix, my personal identification, and “the form.” Marie didn’t promise she could produce the document but her willingness leads me to think she might have done a little background work and the records do exist. This week, I completed the forms and sent them to the state. Dead ends haven’t deterred me so far, just forced me to be more clever and creative. If this research yields nothing, my investigation ends here. I have exhausted my best resources: funeral directors, cemetery clerks, and anyone else who might have answers. With the help of Carmela, I was able to initiate the last piece of my search for my sister. Documentation of her will provide validation of her existence, a connection to her as my parents’ child and my sister, and a visual artifact that completes our family constellation. I don’t know why I need this closure but I do.

With Thanksgiving done and dusted, 2020 thankfully nears its end as the holidays begin. While it all seems a little different this year, some people still mark the start of the season with Santa rolling down 34th Street at the Macy’s parade in New York. Others count the arrival of the tree: for Bostonians, it begins with lighting of the Prudential Center tree. But, for our family, there is one event that defines the true arrival of Christmas. It is known to us as the High Holiday, a time when all good people gather together for one cause. It is the thrill of the hunt. It is the miracle of Black Friday.

For over thirty years, on the morning after Thanksgiving, I have dragged myself out of bed before dawn to join the throngs of crazed shoppers seeking a bargain. Miserable at first, I pull myself together, just enough to be presentable. Once on the road, the excitement builds. As I enter the first store, the exhilaration sparked by Christmas carols and signs touting ‘half off’, or ‘buy one-get one free’ overtakes my malaise, triggering my focus. Like a heat seeking missile, I zoom in on the best deals and, amassing my hoard, I make my way to the register, coupons and debit card in hand.

In the early days, I brought a friend along to join in on the fun. While it was nice to have the company, having someone in tow inhibited my free-wheeling antics. We negotiated our destinations and I weighed my goals against her plans. But Black Friday is no time for compromise. It is serious business. Before long, the appeal of companionship lost out to sheer determination. I had things to do and no one would be getting in my way.

About twenty five years ago, I bent my own rules when I allowed my daughter, Lisa, to tag along on my Black Friday adventures. She had watched me, year after year, drag bag upon bag into the house, the whole operation complete before noon. Even though she begged to join me, I waited until the time was right: a time when she was too old for surprises under the tree and strong enough to carry the bags to the car, a perfect combination.

Memories of Black Fridays Past always bring a smile to my face. After Tim cleared the Thanksgiving dinner dishes, Lisa and I took over the dining room table, dissecting the ad-thick Thanksgiving Day Boston Globe, prioritizing and strategizing our approach for the next day’s attack. We compared prices and looked for the best ‘early bird’ specials. Black Friday demands a special kind of dedication and I couldn’t have asked for a better acolyte. It was a religion of our creation and we, as the High Priestesses, had written the bible.

We always left the house as the sun rose, stopping at Starbucks for one of their seasonal lattes: gingerbread for Lisa, eggnog for me, always made with skim milk. Taking a seat in the comfier chairs, we laid out the final plan. Fortified for the excursion, we set off to the wilds of places like Old Navy and Michael’s Crafts. 

Those years when we filled the car high and deep with boxes hold a special place in my heart. Televisions we didn’t need, exercise equipment that morphed into clothes racks, and more and more decorations–those kind of purchases defined the spirit of Black Friday! Times when we pulled into the driveway at nine a.m. to unload, only to embark on the next phase of the project were my favorites. Then, 2020 happened.

Lisa and I saw it coming, and we sensed impending loss and disappointment. With the pandemic raging, how could we think about immersing ourselves in a bath of virus while seeking bargain priced things we probably didn’t need anyways? Still, we didn’t want to give up our tradition. We both knew it was about more than spending money. It was a rite of female bonding and there had to be a way without risking a variety of mortal danger much worse than the average Black Friday carnage.

Last Friday morning, Lisa ventured solo to Starbucks and secured our lattes. I cleared off the kitchen table, leaving in the center only the pile of ads and coupons I had collected over the past few weeks. With separate computers in front of us, we sat at either end of the table, masked, socially distanced, and committed to our pandemic version of Black Friday. When Lisa asked, “What do you have for Macy’s coupons over there?”, I tossed a ‘$15 off of $40’ gem across the expanse of Thanksgiving, fruit-themed tablecloth. We both dug through our text messages for Bed Bath and Beyond alerts. We discussed the merits of Snapfish, versus Vistaprint, versus Shutterfly for our Christmas cards, comparing discounts and layouts. For the first time, Molly, my ten-year-old granddaughter joined us for our watered-down, computer-generated, shopping spree. We ushered in a new day of Black Friday shopping, Pandemic edition, and it wasn’t all bad.

When the shopping gets tough, the real shoppers find an alternative and, while it was fun, I still long for a return to normal, in general. I miss hugging my kids and grandkids, or going out to restaurants without thinking twice about dying. I anxiously await a day when I can leave the house without a mask in hand. But at the moment, while it’s fresh in my mind, I really miss the pre-Pandemic version of Black Friday. In the meantime, we always have computers, coupons,  and a Starbuck latte in hand to simulate the feeling until the real thing hopefully comes around again.

I was a few months short of my twenty-eighth birthday the day that I found my first gray hair, the whitish, stick-straight strand defiantly poking out from the top of my head. Once I recovered from the shock and the sting of plucking the solitary offender, I pledged full-out warfare against a bold and tenacious enemy: the ravages of age. Although at twenty-seven, getting old seemed far off, the inevitable passage of time and the physical decay it would bring suddenly popped my youthful bubble. In response, I committed to action, sooner versus later.

While I was far from needing a full-on dye job quite yet, I responded to the call like a stormtrooper. I adopted measures designed to stave off the other signs of aging. Within months, I had committed to a skin care regime of a full compliment of Mary Kay products: toners, cleansers, moisturizers, and eye creams. Slathering on the thickish goop morning and night, I hoped that the wrinkles just under the surface heard me loud and clear: GO AWAY! And having seen pictures of Mary Kay herself, by then in her seventies, these products must be potent. Her skin was a smooth as a baby’s behind! As weird as it sounds, I could only hope for such a result.

While my skin, bathed in a dewy glow, held its own, my hair steadily lost ground. By the time I hit thirty-two, the grays, abundant and stubbornly protruding despite gel and other extreme measures, overwhelmed the rest of my now-fading, once-dark brown hair. In the initial stages of haircoloring, one stylist tried some highlights in an effort to camouflage the lighter strands but it was futile. The whole head approach was the only way to go.

I now realize I have religiously dyed my hair every 4-6 weeks for thirty years. Initially, I was able to manage with the economical at-home variety of hair color. But there came a point when no amount of Clairol Nice and Easy was enough to mask the problem. When I finally gave up, my hair was more than fifty percent gray, which coincidentally coincided with my fiftieth birthday. I passed the hair dye baton to my hairdresser, Cathie, who, by now, had been with me for twelve years. In hairdresser years, that’s like forever.

For over more than a decade, we’ve played with color–a tinge of auburn, a hint of ash, a little bit of dark blond. One of our early experiments made me as coppery coiffed as any member of Celtic Woman. So much so, that when, on one of our many Irish adventures, Tim and I stopped for gas in Bantry, County Cork, Ireland and the attendant asked me, “Where are your people from?” My green eyes coupled with my raging red locks denied my Italian roots.

I stumbled over my words while I tried to come up with an answer that made sense, or not. “Uh, uh, Avellino?” He took a minute to process the comment. “You’re not Irish? You have such light eyes and red hair?” As a pretend Irishwoman, I was pleased but, when I returned home from the trip, Cathie toned my hair down to a boring light brown, restoring me to something more ethnically generic.

Yesterday, I went to see Cathie armed with pictures of hairstyles. The pandemic has made me itchy to try something new. I swept my finger over the screen of my iPhone. I could tell she was not impressed with any of the choppy, short styles. Her comment: “You’re showing me a few things here? Do you want to do gray or cut off your hair?” I knew that doing both in one session would be more than I could handle. But the idea of going gray had been tugging at me and my ever expanding roots. Was it time?

Hours in the making, and three refills of dye and countless strips of foil later, I embarked on my life of gray hair. I wondered if I was giving up on pretending to be young, waving the white flag of surrender, in the form of steely, silvery hair. Like pretending to be Irish, pretending to be young was equally fraudulent. As for the total gray switch-over, I wasn’t there quite yet. The whole process takes time and, in the midst of the conversion, I could always change my mind. But, for now, gray hair was my fate.

When I walked out of the salon, my hair, previously medium brown, sported a light blonde-pearly color, designed to blend with the one inch roots that would become my new permanent hair color eventually. As I approached the car where Tim had been waiting twice as long as my appointment should have taken, he looked pissy. More importantly, he didn’t say anything about my hair, twenty shades lighter than a few hours earlier. Later, he said he didn’t want to upset me because, clearly, the color did not take.

Tim didn’t look any less shaken when I told him I was letting my hair go gray. I’m not sure he likes the idea, but judgment coming from someone who has had gray hair since he was thirty falls flat in my book. In the meantime, I’ll keep slathering on the moisturizer in the hopes that a youthful glow and a wrinkle free face belie the passing of time and the painful truth inherent in full mane of gray hair.

And, unlike getting old, if I don’t like it, I can always change my mind.

I consider myself a shopping polyglot. I speak the international language of dollar stores. Poundland, Flying Tiger, Eurogiant. Wherever I travel, I hit the dollar store for the wall of gummy bears in varieties not found in the States, or a foam St. Patrick mitre, or some other unique find. A few years ago, I stopped in at one of my favorite Everything 2 Euro stores on North Earl Street in Dublin, where I thought I could pick up a few picture frames for an odd Euro-sized print. As I suspected, they had what I wanted and in my choice of black or white.

As I breezed down the aisles, scanning the shelves for something else I might need someday, I stumbled upon a few puzzles created from photos of famous Irish landmarks. I immediately recognized the inherent gifting potential of the items since I’m always on the lookout for cheap souvenirs. I grabbed puzzles depicting Trinity College and the famed Cliffs of Moher, and proceeded to the checkout imbued with a sense of accomplishment only a dollar store haul can inspire.

When the pandemic hit in March, I resisted the urge to join the throngs of puzzle makers who flooded Facebook with pictures of their completed projects. But a few weeks later, when I thought I was bored, I broke down and pulled the good old, still sealed and never gifted Cliffs of Moher five hundred piece puzzle, off the bookshelf in the den. I wondered why I hadn’t completed the puzzle before now and was thrilled that I had something on hand to keep me busy for the next few weeks.

I should have known straight away that the puzzle would be a problem. First off, the caption, in bold print on each side and across the picture on the top of the box, shamelessly touted the “Cliff’s of Moher.” I knew for a fact no one named Cliff owns the “of Moher.” At the time, I thought the error comical. I never imagined that this glaring mistake foreshadowed more dire quality issues.

Knowing that we wouldn’t be entertaining visitors for a while, I set up the card table in the corner of the living room. I welcomed the opportunity to stop and, in passing, secure a piece or two in place. With all of the free time at hand and easy and ready access, I assumed that this puzzle would be the first of many I could expect to complete during the lockdown and beyond.

I approach any puzzle project with excitement and trepidation. It’s a long-term commitment under normal circumstances, yet I never imagined the challenge ahead. When I removed the edge pieces from the box, I immediately noticed that, even the pieces that should be the easiest to slip into place, the frame, defied a smooth loop to socket connection. Without a bright light directed on the pieces, I struggled to match subtly nuanced tones of blue, green, tan, and blackish. I forced pieces into place, moved them around, and walked away.

In time, I realized that this puzzle was nearly impossible. Now firmly in the grip of hyperbole, I grew to hate the picture, the color of the ocean, the ruggedness of the cliffs, and anything to do with Ireland, in general. I questioned my own cognitive abilities. Did I have Alzheimer’s? Have I developed a rare form of late life color blindness? Maybe I vacuumed up a piece or two. Could it possibly be just a bad puzzle? Is that even possible?

Now, six months later, the puzzle, barely half finished, taunts me from its corner hiding place. Most nights between dinner and an evening of mindless Britbox or Family Feud, I sit down at the card table, rearrange the pieces, become frustrated, and walk away.

Last evening, my husband, Tim, noticing my confusion and angst, told me to “throw the damn thing away!” but I never leave things undone. I read the draggy, painful book cover to cover. I can’t go to bed without making sure the sink is clear of dishes. I curse my compulsive determination to complete these tedious tasks, but this one has taken me to the brink. Tim might be right. I picture myself folding the pieces into themselves, piling them back into the box, and depositing the whole lot into the trash bin. Unfortunately, I have a vivid imagination and zero resolve.

I assume, now six months into the chore, I will press on. I even managed to set six pieces last night, under the glare of a repositioned floor lamp and a handheld halogen flashlight. In my latest tack, I examined each piece for subtlety and shading, and organized each color into its own pile. I am working on a smaller scale now, managing tiny segments and then gingerly moving them into position. I feel a small amount of gratification but I can’t get past the fact that, in all this time, I’ve only come this far.

As the pandemic shows no real signs of abating, I think I’ll give myself a break. What’s the rush? I’m not going anywhere and neither is the puzzle. And for now, a lousy chopped up rendition of the Cliffs of Moher is sadly about as close as I’ll get to Ireland, or anywhere. I’m forced to make peace with the pieces of the puzzle as I study a fuzzy picture of a beautiful Irish landscape. In any case, I do have a deadline. I’ll need the space occupied by the card table for the Christmas tree, but I hope it doesn’t come to that. Sadly, it’s not looking too good for me, or the Cliff’s.

For my sanity, I think I will gift the Trinity College puzzle, after all.

This summer, here at Chez Cahalane, we have been blessed to have a robin build her nest at eye level in the shrub next to our driveway. So far, our prolific little birdie has produced two sets of three eggs and six live robin chicks. We, along with our neighbors, who happen to be our children and grandchildren, have kept a watchful eye over the broods as they moved through the stages of gestation, hatching, and flying away. Mom robin has even become accustomed to our daily visits, calmly watching us from a branch in a nearby tree as we admired her little ones. In lieu of in-person science classes, our little nature experiment has been a wonderful way to enjoy a little hands-on, non-Zoom learning.

Last week, as our second set of three little ones peeped away in the nest waiting for their next meal, my grandson Declan and I peered into the nest. Their little heads turned towards us and I gushed, “Oh, Declan! Look at how cute!” Dec, always the realist and the master of the zinger, reminded me that nothing lasts forever. “Well, you know, Mam, soon they’ll fly away and leave the nest.” Although intellectually I know this fact, my heart sank.

As we passed these months, locked up here at the Compound-my label for our two houses side by side, I have become keenly aware of the growth of our own little ones. The pandemic lockdown resulted in rapid maturity in both Molly and Declan. Surrounded by adults all day, every day, they sound like mini-Me’s, picking up all of our expressions and habits, as well as a few of our neuroses and quirks. Their parents have worked diligently to juggle their own jobs and the kids’ intellectual enrichment, no easy task when you are fending off kids who, like little addicts, so eagerly crave a Roadblocks stupor (it’s a video game of some kind…I have no idea either). Science and cooking projects, and a recently added drone, have kept us knee-deep in entertainment and food. But in a very subtle, dramatic way, our kids have changed, and I don’t like it one bit!

I knew I was dealing with a whole new animal when my granddaughter walked into my bedroom last week and asked me if I still got my period. Apparently, my daughter thought that this quarantine would be a good time to fill Molly in on the details of “the facts of life.” Now ten, the child is full of questions, I know, but seriously, a little heads up would have been nice. I have successfully dodged her prodding in the past, referring her to the Parent Department for Customer Service issues. Now cornered, I started to explain and she cut in with, “Oh, yah, you’re probably too old for that.” It was like a one-two punch…and way too much information to process in rapid succession: she is growing up and I am getting old. (Insert misery emoji here)

When my son left Boston for a new life in Texas a few years ago, the Italian mother in me took a good hit. While he was thirty-two at the time, I sounded like my father when I reminded Scott that “we,” that is, our family specifically, “don’t do things like that,” aka “move away” or leave the nest. Four generations have played hot potato with two side-by-side properties in West Medford, and Scott, before his grand exit to Austin was living in a two-family house near Tufts University that has been in our family since 1926. We don’t leave, and it’s almost to a clinical level.

Our robin’s nest is once again empty. We observed the Mom Robin as she coaxed her babies to try out their wings, making a monumental leap to the branch from which she barked her orders. Now I look at my pandemic-weary, formerly-little grandchildren and acknowledge, as Declan reminded me, that they will someday leave the nest, as well. At some point, this arrangement-two houses, side by side, everyone up each other’s butts, every day a perpetual family reunion-has to end. I don’t like it one bit but it’s a reality that, while a few years away, I must get used to.

I know I have been lucky to have lived with my family near me every day for my entire life and I don’t take that for granted. The closeness has certainly made the pandemic easier to stomach. Until my nest is empty, I will revel in watching my grandkids become little adults, and prepare myself to field those really tough “can I spread my wings?” questions like “Will you take me for a driving lesson?” or “Can I borrow your car?” Now that I think of it, I may never be ready for those requests.

A few years ago, a dear friend faced a long recovery from a hip replacement surgery that sidelined him from his athletic training job at a local high school. As with anyone who enjoys exercise and movement, the thought of being sedentary for weeks gnawed at Peter. While he attended physical therapy sessions and walked the prescribed distances, he was antsy. He could only watch so much SportCenter in a day. Pete needed something else to fill his time. 

When my husband and I embarked on a cruise with Pete and his wife Paula five years ago, Pete spent much of the trip regaling us with what he calls his “credos”, a litany of alliterative motivational phrases and sayings that he not only professes but lives by. With Rainman-like repetition, Tim and I endured the constant onslaught of Pete’s common sense revelations, at first thinking that the practice was odd. It seemed like Pete had devised a credo for just about every life situation. By the end of the seven day cruise, our cultivated and shared love of ‘Pete’s Credos’ made for fun and inspirational conversation. In a basic, almost primitive sense, the credos truly were a road map for life. 

Some of my favorite credos I soon adopted as my own. The quasi-oxymoronic statement, “Negativity Sucks!”, a simple but true proclamation, was easy to remember and quick in its delivery. Others like “Visualize Victory” came in handy during our weekly trivia nights at a local bar, even if we routinely came in last. And my favorite, “Get Better at Getting Better”, embodied the simple idea that one should never give up. The credos became my mantra, too. 

Being an incessant tease, I half-seriously prodded Pete to write down the credos. Paula begged me not to push the issue. She had heard enough of the credos and the thought of memorializing them made her crazy. To support my premise that the credos needed a larger audience, I insisted, citing the fact that I had been sharing the important messages contained in the credos in my counseling office at work.. Invoking the credo, “Always give your best effort”, I was relentless. Like Pete and his credos, it became a topic of most conversations, with me telling Paula,  “But there are no lies there! It’s all good information.” That pronouncement was usually met with a narrow eyed stare. Nonetheless, I didn’t give up. And what better time to transcribe those credos than when your legs aren’t working but your fingers are?

Peter embraced the idea of capitalizing on his convalescence to write down the credos, using Microsoft Word as creatively as Pete was able, inserting a decorative border to frame the numbered phrases. Once complete, Pete sent his son to laminate one hundred copies. The Mr. C’s Credos to Life were officially memorialized for all time, with copies available for the masses, or at least immediate family and friends. 

Since there is nothing shy about Peter, the credos have been foisted on anybody brave enough to allude to one of the precepts that Pete espouses. As a major fangirl, I have been the proud recipient of multiple copies, which I share liberally. I proudly display my copies of the credos at my desk, on the bulletin board in the kitchen, on the mirror in my bedroom. The credos have traveled as far away as Austin, Texas, safely tucked into my suitcase, as a gift for my son’s edification. 

As I write this Mami for Pete and his “Mr. C’s Credos to Life”, I smile to think that something so simple, a few phrases that embody “living your best life”, helped me through tough times in the recent past. When I was at my worst, Peter would ask me, “Are you living or just existing?” His question made me think critically about what made me happy and the changes I needed to make. I relied on the idea that one should not “pray for an easy life, pray to be a strong person” to manage hopelessness along the way.  Now when I get a wobble, I am reminded to “live daily with passion, energy, enthusiasm, and excitement”. And sometimes, a reminder is all you need.