Jim Miles

I used to see the senior custodian every morning on my way into the boys’ school before I was banned from walking Charming Baby all the way to his classroom. Last winter I was alone with Jim on the front concrete steps while he shoveled rock salt out over the ice.

“Oooh-weee, it’s a cold one.” He gave a long whistle as he rhythmically scooped and tossed.

“It’s our first winter. We are really enjoying the snow.”

“Well you can have it.” He chuckled as he spoke.

“Oh, yeah?  You tired of Ithaca winters?”

“Yes I am. Yes I am.  As soon as I retire, I am moving south.”

“To where?”

“I don’t know, but someplace warm!” He laughed again.

I remember looking at him, all bundled up in a giant, hooded Yankees sweatshirt, and wondering how many people actually make it out of upstate New York. The cost of living here doesn’t exactly translate to cushy retirement on a beach, but what did I know about this man? I hoped that he would end up somewhere warm and nice.

Jim suffered a heart attack in the staff break room last Wednesday. None of the students were around and he was taken away without them even knowing in an ambulance. He died quietly later that afternoon in the hospital. It was 84 degrees.

Pledge Allegiance

On Memorial Day I realized I left more than my mother, a permanent tan and friends who like to party with white wine in San Diego. I left my American flag.

I noticed there was no flag bracket on our house here. I think flag brackets are standard issue back in La Jolla. Not sure if the reason is that San Diego grew up around the U.S. Naval base or because we lived in a neighborhood that rivals Norman Rockwell storybooks.

Driving around Ithaca over the holiday, I didn’t see much in the way of red, white and blue. I thought I would at least see a few porches boasting the symbol of the free world. I guess no matter where you live, for the majority, the day means sales at the mall, baseball or a reason to BBQ. If I want to teach my kids patriotism, I have to fly my own flag.

I get this from my mother who did things like make us all stop for a moment on Thanksgiving before the fight over drumsticks to bow our heads, or, spent her Christmas reminding us of the “reason for the season.”

Now it’s my turn and with the kids asking me questions about Afghanistan and Iraq, and now Korea, I feel it’s more important than ever to talk about the fallen soldiers and what serving your country means.

It’s a big concept and makes for good conversation when you have a day off.

Voyage en Voiture

Traveling by auto can be very relaxing. Except when there is an oil well gushing uncontrollably in the Gulf as you set out on your adventure.



Once over the guilt, I was excited about tossing casually packed bags into the boot of the car, plotting a route that took us over scenic waterways, and stopping for lunch at a funky roadside cafe.



Everything except the fossil fuel consumption and actual driving part fits into my vignette of a perfect road trip. Slipping into a car that has a radar detector mounted on the windshield and a nav system talking at me makes me feel more like Lieutenant Uhura than a cute passenger on a romantic getaway.



We arrived in Montreal in record time and enjoyed a very French experience with lots of walking, talking and eating.



The city is beautiful and as progressive as it is historic.



The pièce de résistance was the last evening when we tried a tasting menu at a trendy restaurant. There was no description about the meal—and when we asked, the waiter in a pitch perfect accent told us, “No, no, it is the chef’s surprise.” I was never more happy in my life to have chosen the vegetarian option than when they presented a pigeon leg over foie gras to the Professor.

Bon Appetite!

Secrets and the City

I am a little nervous about this post because I did something sneaky.

No, I didn’t swap out strawberries from my pint for better ones from another at the market or feign an injury to get out of chaperoning travel lacrosse.

I went to NYC to meet up with friends from La Jolla for dinner and a show and didn’t call my in-laws who live there. In my defense, I made this decision because I knew I was going to see Grammy & Grampy the very next day in Ithaca and wanted to just dart in and out.

So now I am in jeopardy of all sorts of horrible outcomes, the likes of which you’ll never guess unless you have been a part of the Jewish family guilt system.

Big thanks to Sabrina, Heather and Ali for inviting me and planning a really fun girls’ night. The show was pretty good, even if we did have to pinch ourselves to keep from taking really expensive naps!



I enjoyed my time with the ladies (two of them are in the book club that I sorely miss). Between the pre-theatre drinks and post-theatre dining, we managed to catch up on the past 11 months, check out some happening places, spot a star and solve most of the world’s problems…

Except the one about how to not offend your mother-in-law.

Dear John

My friend forwarded me her lover’s kiss-off e-mail. He signed it with a dash, then his initials, in all caps.

-JRB

That was how he chose to end a chapter of his romantic life? With a dash and capitalized monogram?

Either the guy has no imagination, is terribly stiff, or both.

I told her it was his parting gift—perfect closure to a relationship that wasn’t fulfilling enough for her in the first place.

The lack of passion makes me cringe. Call me old fashioned, but I’d rather have someone slap me in the face than send me a cold, preppy e-mail.

Thankfully, my friend has happily moved on to someone new, someone more her speed.

I dare say that if you take the time to get know a person, and actually figure out what makes them…laugh…or…cry… would it really be too much to use an emotional word, or at the very least, type out your entire first name when saying good-bye?

Love,
Lisa

Steep Hollow Farm

My friend and neighbor (aka Godsend) turned me on to a local farm that delivers beautiful eggs to your door every week for only $3.50 a dozen, or, as the farmer joked, the bargain price of 10 weeks for $35.00.

My first delivery arrived on Monday. It feels scandalous to be getting fresh eggs from happy hens so easily.

Except not all of them are happy.

The owner of Steep Hollow Farm, home of the Sustainable Chicken Project, e-mailed me to explain:

Broody Mysteries

We have about 90 hens right now. 14 of them have gone broody, which means they think they are/want to be incubating eggs. They stop eating and drinking, stop laying eggs and just sit in the nest boxes, with their wings a little spread and feathers all puffed out. They keep other hens out of the nest boxes and are generally grumpy. We take them out and set them on the roosts at night but they simply hop off and motor back to the nest boxes, clucking steadily, like little robots. It’s such a phenomenon! We collect the eggs three times a day, so they are seldom actually sitting on any eggs. It’s just a hormone induced trance that they have gone into...these are a heritage breed called Black Australorp, and they are very good at some of the normal chicken activities which may have been bred out of more modern domestic chickens. For instance they are very good at foraging, which is why we chose them. They eat grass readily and scratch and find lots of bugs, which are a good source of protein.

This was an explanation I asked for in an e-mail exchange, but I was still impressed that this very busy lady took the time to write out a thoughtful answer.

We are full circle now, as that was the first thing I noticed about Ithaca--how much of that precious commodity people have here--and are willing to share.

Time is on my side. Yes it is.

Show Me the Money

I have loved this poster since the first time I saw it in my pediatrician’s office when I was in junior high school. Since then, whenever I see it—schools, museum gift shops, rec centers—I get a fuzzy feeling inside. It is the exact opposite of the feeling I get when a no-talent person dressed in everything expensive and brand new for his or her thing prances around in front of me.

I saw that Cornell was hiring for their “Life on the Hill” blog. Even though I do not exactly fit the student blogger profile, I decided to check it out. I was excited about the opportunity to contribute my voice to a collective that I admire and respect. When I saw how much it paid, the weight of my decision to be a writer hit me like a bag of quarters.

A friend of mine joked that what they pay won’t even cover the cost of Road Runner to do the work. But hey, you have to start somewhere. Trying hard to build a career means showing up at square one, working your ass off, and sometimes, accepting bubkes in order to make a name for yourself.

The Professor asked if I would be disappointed if I didn’t get the job. That’s when I realized where the little warm feeling from the poster comes from. I do care. I value the connection between passion for achieving something and the trade-offs you have to make to get there. Even though most dancers worry about paying rent and grocery bills, they are not getting out of bed for the money.

Ten years ago I wouldn’t have set my alarm for what I will probably make as a writer but now I am ready to pimp myself out for pennies on the dollar.

I am starting to see the sparkle of something besides coins.