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Using Our Wallets to Protest

I used to teach a story in my high school English classes called “Thirty-eight Who Saw Murder Didn’t Call the Police.” It was a 1964 New York Times article about a woman who was killed by an assailant because her neighbors, who heard her being attacked, never called the police. 

It later turned out that key details of the story were misreported, but the article led to interesting discussions with students about apathy, responsibility to others, and the role of a bystander.

I thought of the story recently and realized that I’ve been feeling like a bystander for the last year.

As I’ve watched one story after another surface about people and laws being violated by Donald Trump and his administration, I’ve had a growing sense of guilt about my own inaction. It feels like I’m witnessing a crime in real time, but have no power to stop it; it’s a horrible sense of helplessness.

Like many others, I’ve been stunned at how much damage has been done in 12 months. I expected that Trump’s second term would be a revenge and personal-enrichment tour, but its scale has been far worse than I could have imagined. I’ve spent a lot of time staring agape at the headlines and news shows, trying to make sense of what’s going on.  

I’ve struggled to understand how Americans who consider themselves to be devout Christians can turn a blind eye to the cruelty of this administration. As Texas state representative James Talarico pointed out recently, the Bible is crystal clear about Jesus’s teachings to love your neighbor, feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, and care for the sick. Yet those who still support Trump appear indifferent to those lessons. 

I’m particularly astounded by the callous actions of Trump’s closest advisors.

I’ll never understand why there wasn’t more outrage about Elon Musk, the world’s richest man, cutting off life-saving aid to some of the world’s poorest people. After he dismantled USAID (or as he called it, fed the agency “into the wood chipper”), 500 tons of emergency food already approved by Congress, paid for by taxpayers, and ready for distribution by USAID, rotted in warehouses. 

It’s now estimated that millions of people will die, including more than four million children, between now and 2030 as a result of USAID being defunded at Musk’s recommendation. 

Other advisors have also made decisions that will have a lasting, tragic impact. Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., who has no medical training, has pushed through changes in vaccines that have been widely rebuked by physicians. He has also slashed funding for critical medical research and disseminated dangerous misinformation concerning measles that may have contributed to outbreaks.

Stephen Miller, Trump’s deputy chief of staff, whose ancestors fled Belarus before the Holocaust to escape anti-Jewish violence and who were spared the fate of those who stayed behind, now aggressively works against people who have fled their own countries to find safety. He was an architect of the “kids in cages” policy separating children from their parents during Trump’s first term, a policy that involved such sloppy record keeping that more than 1,000 of those children have never been reunited with their parents, even after their immigration cases had been resolved.

Though Miller was reckless with other people’s children, he’s sensitive about what his own kids are exposed to. He recently sold his $3 million Arlington, VA, home and moved to a military base, saying a small community group had created an unsafe environment for his children because they wrote in colored chalk on the sidewalk in front of his house. 

A few of the messages on the public sidewalk near the Millers’ home

Perhaps what has confounded me most over the last year is that some people still see Trump as a great American. I don’t think we’ve ever had a less “American” president. Even the least respected of his predecessors pale in comparison in terms of ignoring court orders, suppressing the free speech of anyone who criticizes him, using the office for personal financial gain, and turning Americans against each other.

Part of the paralysis I’ve felt since last January stems from a deliberate strategy called “flooding the zone.” Advisor Steve Bannon bragged about it in 2018, and the plan is in place once again. The goal is to throw critics off balance by introducing an unending wave of initiatives. Just as people absorb one shocking piece of news, it’s displaced by another. This strategy has definitely left me feeling overwhelmed on more than one occasion.

But it’s been a year since Trump’s chaotic second term began, and the time for being incredulous, for trying to make sense of what’s happening in our country, is over. 

After watching the horrific videos of Renee Good and Alex Pretti being shot to death by federal agents in the streets of Minneapolis last month, and hearing the disgraceful government smear campaigns against both individuals afterwards, I know I need to do more than gnash my teeth with family and friends. I’ve contacted my (Democratic) senators and Congressman multiple times over the last year, but that is not enough.

One idea I heard last week sounds promising, especially if many people take it up. Scott Galloway, a professor at New York University, has organized a month-long economic strike. He points out that Trump doesn’t respond to outrage, but he does respond to market shifts. 

As with all authoritarians, Donald Trump doesn’t operate in a vacuum. He’s surrounded by people and corporations who’ve helped carry out his agenda. Galloway proposes protesting the events of the last year and the acquiescence of CEOs, especially in the tech field, by cutting off economic support for companies who have aligned themselves with the Trump regime.

Examples include Apple, whose CEO, Tim Cook, went to the White House hours after Alex Pretti was killed and smiled for pictures without a word of pushback about the brutal killing. Cook has participated in other fawning incidents recently, such as presenting Trump with plaque atop a gold base. 

Amazon is another example. Andy Jassy, the current CEO, was also at the event with Tim Cook. Founder Jeff Bezos was an honored guest behind Trump at the inauguration, and his company paid the Trumps $40 million for the rights to make a documentary about Melania, then spent $35 million promoting it. 

These are just a few examples of many where “tech bros” and others are sidling up to Trump in hopes of currying favor that will benefit their businesses.

An economic boycott is not a new idea. But after seeing how quickly Jimmy Kimmel was put back on the air after thousands of people canceled their Disney subscriptions last fall, it seems like this type of activity could be effective.

Scott Galloway’s Resist and Unsubscribe website explains the concept in greater detail. Briefly, his point is that 70% of our economy is driven by consumer spending. Small, coordinated changes can make a noticeable impact. 

Both parties in Congress have inexcusably failed to check Trump’s abuses in any meaningful way, so everyday people must step in to push back on his unconstitutional conduct. The most powerful weapon of nonviolent resistance may be to speak to Trump and his sycophants in the only language they seem to understand: money. 

Removing my financial support from companies that are affiliated with this frightening regime may not be enough to stop Donald Trump and his allies from being who they are, but given the corporations’ devotion to profits, this economic strike could lead to corrective action.

In addition to canceling a number of my subscriptions, including everything I have with Amazon and Apple, I’m also going to look for other ways to participate more actively in resisting the rot currently underway in the United States. At the very least, I’ll feel like less of a bystander if I am taking steps, however small, to make things better.

If you have also felt powerless and disgusted, I encourage you to consider joining me in this economic boycott in any way that feels right to you.

Goodbye and Hello

Losing a beloved pet and beginning a new chapter with another

I spent the last weekend of October in a small town in western Virginia with three friends for our annual peak-leaf-viewing getaway. 

The second night we were there, I had just poured myself (another) beer when I was called to the phone. As I walked over to take the call, I wondered who needed to speak to me at 10 p.m. 

It turned out to be my friend Kelly. She was very upset.

“Susie, Stuey died!”

My mind went blank.

“What?”

Since 2020, Kelly and I have had an unusual cat-sharing arrangement. She had wanted to adopt a cat but was concerned about her busy travel schedule; I had also wanted a cat, but my son, who was still living with me at the time, was allergic, so it would be hard to have a pet full-time. 

I suggested that Kelly get a cat, and volunteered to be the permanent, free pet sitter whenever she was out of town. She adopted a kitten named Stuey, and we had been happily co-parenting for the last five years, with Stuey splitting his time evenly between our two houses. 

But now Kelly was calling to tell me that the young woman staying with Stuey at Kelly’s house for the weekend (we were both out of town) had come home from dinner and found Stuey lifeless on the kitchen floor. He was gone.

Stuey’s death didn’t make any sense to me; he was only five. We later learned from the vet that he likely had HCM, a heart condition in young cats that usually goes unnoticed and can take them suddenly and without warning. 

It was too late for either of us to drive home that night. Kelly’s next-door neighbor went over to help our cat sitter and put Stuey in a box in the living room.

I immediately began trying to digest the devastating news. As I talked with my friends, who all knew and loved Stuey, I heard myself saying things like “Well, he had a great life” and “I guess he was only meant to live for five years. I’m still glad we had him.” 

It wasn’t until I went to bed a couple of hours later and started scrolling through the 1,923 pictures of him on my phone that the tears welled up as the loss began to sink in.

Dozens of pictures reminded me of his personality.

The next morning, I met Kelly outside of her house as she returned from her weekend destination, and we walked inside together. 

You find out a lot about yourself in moments like this.

I adored Stuey, but didn’t want to see him. He had been dead and in a box for more than 12 hours, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get that image out of my mind. I didn’t want to remember him that way.

Kelly did want to see him, and she said goodbye to him in her living room as I waited in another room. Then she moved him into the carrier we had used to transport him between our houses. Together, we were going to take him to the vet, whose office was only a mile away.

I offered to drive. When she suggested putting Stuey in the front seat, where he had always travelled, my spine stiffened, but I reluctantly agreed. 

The sides of the carrier are mesh. As I walked around to the driver’s side of the car, I flashed back to all of the times I had picked the cat up at her house and baby-talked to him as I drove him back to my place. Now he would be sitting in the same position, dead.

I pictured myself driving to the vet with my head out the window, trying not to feel sick to my stomach. I was wishing I could crank my head up and sideways out the window, so it was completely outside the car. Just as I was taking a deep breath and trying to steel myself for the drive next to my fallen soldier, Kelly saved me. 

“Or do you think it would be better to put him in the back seat?”

“Yes,” I garbled, “I think that would be best.” And then I promptly rolled down all of the windows. 

When we got to the vet, Kelly went inside to handle the paperwork, and Stuey remained in the back seat. I got out and stood next to the car in the parking lot, providing as much company and protection as I could. 

“Do you want to come in?” Kelly asked when she came out to the parking lot to get the cat. The vet was going to provide a room for a goodbye. I told her I would come into the office with her, but not the goodbye room.

Even in that moment, it struck me as weird that I could love an animal so much and want as little to do with the end arrangements as possible. 

Why would I rather gnaw my hand off than face a dead cat? I wasn’t sure what that said about me, but I didn’t feel proud of how I was responding.

After we left the vet’s office, we went to Kelly’s house and spent some time reminiscing about Stuey. Then I went home. Even though it had been a couple of weeks since he had stayed with me, the house felt empty when I walked in. Quiet. Still. 

I spent the rest of the day on the couch in a haze. It still didn’t even make sense. Stuey was so young. He was generally very healthy, except for being overweight. (But who isn’t?)

I eventually contacted people in my life to let them know. I phoned my son, who was shocked and sad, but also relieved to hear that I wasn’t calling about a human relative. 

About an hour after we talked, he texted a handful of pictures he had taken of Stuey that I had never seen. 

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he wrote, “I know he kept you company.” 

And that was just it. The cat kept me company. 

One of the pictures from my son

I’ve always heard that pets are especially good for old people and for people who live alone, and that was certainly the case for me. Even though the cat was only with me part of the time, and I wasn’t even his official owner, like most pets, it felt like he was part of the family. 

Before Stuey came along, it had been more than 20 years since I had had a pet. Now it felt like there was a gaping hole in my life.

In the weeks after he was gone, I thought a lot about Stuey, and also about the arrangement of essentially sharing a pet with Kelly. It had worked out so well. When either one of us was out of town, with very few exceptions, the other person was around. And it was just fun to raise an animal in a little village. I hoped she would be interested in adopting another cat together and was happy to learn that she was. 

We didn’t talk about timing. I know we both wondered how long we should appropriately remain in mourning before getting another cat. We were both really sad about Stuey, and neither of us wanted to be disrespectful to him by “replacing” him too quickly, if that were even possible. 

A couple of weeks later, there was a cat adoption event near us, and Kelly asked if I wanted to go, just to start looking. I was on board. 

The weeks without Stuey had coincided with the beginning of November, which is typically a low time of year for me because of the diminishing light and shorter days. The idea of starting the process of bringing life back into the house made me feel hopeful.

On the day of the event, as we were getting out of the car at the pet shelter, we agreed again that we would not be getting a cat that day. We were just dipping a toe back into the pool.

An hour and a half later, we came out with a kitten, a soft, seven-month-old tabby cat who likes to play and who purrs loudly. He’s a Mackerel tabby, we were told, so we settled on Mackie as a name. 

He has adjusted quickly to life at both houses, doing lots of inspecting, pushing things onto the floor, and finding the best places to take naps. It’s been great to have a furry friend around the house again.

I’m glad we didn’t wait any longer to get our new guy, because waiting wouldn’t have changed how I feel about Stuey. I still have 1,923 pictures of him on my phone, and no one will ever replace him. 

Stuey in his favorite blanket
Mackie, who looks a little like his predecessor, minus the white paws
Important business: attempting to catch a fly on the window
My new companion also seems to like sports

Giving Up the Ghost

Christmas and Expectations

When I was a young adult, I remember hearing that the holidays were hard for many people. I understood what the words meant, but because my family’s holidays had always been uncomplicated and upbeat, I didn’t appreciate what people were talking about when they said it.

Then I got married, adopted a child, and got divorced. And I began to understand why holidays might be hard.  

I distinctly remember the first several years after my husband and I split up. We had decided on an alternating schedule for our son. He would have Thanksgiving with one family and Christmas with the other. The following year, we would do the reverse. 

We had also agreed to stay in Virginia for at least part of Christmas Day, even though both of our extended families were from New York, so the off-year parent could see our son for a few hours, exchange gifts, and have some version of a meal.

When my son was about five, it was an off-year Christmas on my end, so he was with me for a few hours in the morning. Then he went to New York with his dad. I had a girlfriend at the time, and she went to visit her family in another state. 

That left me alone by about 1 p.m. It was a weekday Christmas–a Tuesday–and I remember sitting at the kitchen table, paying bills like it was any other Tuesday. It was pretty depressing.

Each year since then, I’ve been sure to make plans that involve something other than paying bills, and some of those holidays have been lots of fun. But none of them have had the look or feel of the Christmases I grew up with and expected to replicate as an adult.  

Christmas was a big deal in my house when I was a kid.

Every year, my parents put up a tree a few weeks before the holiday, and we all decorated it together. My dad made two big wreaths and hung them on either side of the front door, then strung lights in the bushes outside. Inside, my mom put up greens and holiday decorations collected over the years. The stockings she had knitted for each family member were hung on the mantle.

Even the cat and dog got in on the action — the little red stockings are theirs

Dinner on Christmas Eve was usually spent with family friends. When we got home that night, we drank eggnog and sang Christmas carols from songbooks I can still picture. 

My sister and I slept in the same room on Christmas Eve, even after we moved to a house where we had our own rooms. Whoever was up first woke the other person, usually at a ridiculously early hour. We then had to wait until 7 a.m., when my parents allowed us to go downstairs.

Next to the Christmas tree in the living room was a crèche. Baby Jesus spent the weeks leading up to Christmas lying next to the manger. On Christmas morning, my father read a very long Bible passage about the Nativity, and then one of us got to move baby Jesus into the manger. Then we (finally) got to open our gifts before going to Mass.

After church, my mom made a big brunch, and we ate on special Christmas plates her father had collected one by one over a number of years.

One of my grandfather’s plates

 Christmas afternoon always involved a big gathering with my father’s brothers and their families. It was a busy day with cousins, aunts, uncles, grandmothers, food, gifts, chatter, and laughter.

My childhood Christmases probably had tensions I don’t remember or didn’t even realize were there. I just remember them being lively and full.

I have replicated a few of those traditions as an adult. I get a tree every year and put up some of the ornaments that used to hang on my parents’ tree. I also put out some decorations around the house, though in a style more minimalist than my parents. But the day is much quieter than it was when I was young, and the way I celebrate it has changed every year.

Some years my son has been with me, and some he hasn’t. Some years I’ve been partnered, and many years I haven’t. Since getting divorced from my husband, I’ve never developed a consistent, happy Christmas Day routine like I had when I was a kid or during the years we were married.

Instead, I’ve found myself cobbling together plans each year and getting through Christmas Day, rather than looking forward to it. 

I recognize that other people have far weightier reasons for struggling through the holidays, especially those who have lost someone close to them.

Ironically, some of my family’s happy routines likely grew out of my mom’s response to the glum holidays she experienced as a child. 

My grandmother’s father died of tuberculosis when she was four; nearly 20 years later, her mother died in a psychiatric institution; and when my grandmother was 30, her first child died of pneumonia at 19 months.

I know early death was much more common in those days. Still, that was a lot of loss for a young person to handle, and I can see how someone would feel low during the holidays many years later, thinking of all the people they were missing. I believe my mom went to great lengths to make our holidays celebratory and special so that we wouldn’t experience them as she likely did as a child.

I’m sure many people who struggle through the holidays have things under the surface that they’re thinking about, as my grandmother undoubtedly did. Holidays can shine a spotlight on anything that isn’t right in your life; any emptiness feels worse at Christmas.  

It dawned on me recently that I’ve been focusing on emptiness for the past 20 years. When I was young, I always assumed I would be married for life, to a man, and have three or four children. (Wrong, wrong, and wrong.) 

While I know that divorcing my husband and living a gay life was right for me, I realize that I’ve spent decades feeling sad that my makeshift holidays bear no resemblance to the Norman Rockwell-ish Christmases from my youth. 

And I think it’s about time for me to give up the ghost, as they say, to stop feeling that my Christmases these days are “less than” because they don’t look like they did 50 years ago, under entirely different circumstances. 

So, here’s to the setting of a new tradition from a person who has spent a lifetime seeing the glass as half empty. Here’s to recognizing that all of my Christmases, every single one of them, have been incredibly abundant and privileged.

And here’s to letting go of the expectations of how things were supposed to be and appreciating and celebrating how good things actually are.

My dad the night before my brother’s first Christmas
Lamby, my first favorite Christmas gift
My second favorite Christmas gift — a cowboy hat
The mildly lopsided tree at my house last year
An ornament I made as a child, along with others from many different years and places

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

My friend Jane once shared the expression that baseball is 20 minutes of excitement crammed into three hours. Like most people I know whose eyes glaze over at the thought of the game, the end of the 2024 Major League Baseball season a few weeks ago was not a source of sadness for her.

But it was for me.

I spent most nights this past summer watching the Los Angeles Dodgers. Through the magic of the MLB app (and $75), I was able to see all of their games live or on replay. If I didn’t watch the game, I tracked the statistics on my phone the following morning, usually before I got out of bed.

Following the Dodgers this closely was a relatively new phenomenon for me. The New York Yankees have always been my team. When I was 10, I even wrote a book about their 1978 season, which culminated in a World Series victory over the Dodgers. Many of the lines in my book were plagiarized from Sports Illustrated, but since I didn’t sell any copies, it wasn’t a problem. 

Cover and Page 1 of this 12-page thriller written on typing paper

If you had bumped into me in the summer of 1978, I would’ve happily bored you with statistics of my favorite players–Ron “Louisiana Lightning” Guidry, Chris Chambliss (who signed my baseball mitt at a local car dealership), Thurman Munson, and of course, Reggie Jackson. 

A highlight of that summer was the playoff game on the last day of the season that pitted the Yankees against the Boston Red Sox. I watched it with my next door neighbors, my tackle football mates, and we all lost our minds when a terrible Yankee hitter named Bucky Dent (or Bucky F*cking Dent, as many Red Sox fans call him) smacked a home run to win the game.

This summer, as I watched both the Yankees and Dodgers have successful seasons, I hoped for another World Series between New York and Los Angeles. Though I spent most of my time following the Dodgers, I expected to root for the Yankees if the two teams played head to head. To my surprise, when my wish came true and the World Series started, I found myself rooting hard … for the Dodgers.

Did this make me a turncoat? A traitor? A jerk?

Maybe. 

If so, I’d like to place part of the blame on the Washington Nationals. I moved to Washington in 2001 and gradually became a fan of the adopted hometown team. Each season, I went to at least a few games. One of the best days of 2019 was going to Nationals Park for a Game 7 Watch Party the night they won the World Series. 

My feelings about the team abruptly shifted in 2021 when they traded two of their best players to the Dodgers in July, the first of several “business decisions” that effectively dismantled the squad. Partly out of spite, I decided to watch the ex-Nationals’ games instead of the Nationals. I discovered that a couple of players I liked from teams I hated (the Red Sox and the Atlanta Braves) were now playing for the Dodgers. 

I also found that watching the Dodgers brought back fond memories of the late 1970s, when I was at the height of my fandom, and of my charmed childhood.

I understand why the large majority of my friends and family find baseball unbearably boring. A Wall Street Journal study showed that players are standing around doing nothing during 90% of the average baseball game.

But for me, the sport is not just about how much action there is on the field, or even following a specific team. I love it because it’s tied in with so many happy memories.

I’m not just watching the game in front of me when I watch baseball, though I’m doing that too. I live alone and work from home in the summers, and baseball gives structure to many of my evenings. 

It’s also a continuing drama, with storylines and characters. In the same way that many of us get attached to famous people we’ll never meet (and feel sad when a television series is over, for example), I come to care about players and their stories.

This season I came just short of falling in love with Shohei Ohtani, the Japanese superstar in his first season with the Dodgers. I stopped what I was doing every time he came up to bat, read dozens of articles about him, and followed him on Instagram. My feed is full of video clips of Shohei, his wife, and his dog Decoy. He became my Taylor Swift, someone I watched with unadulterated joy. 

Shohei Ohtani prayer candle a friend made me for my birthday in October

I came to admire Ohtani not just for his tremendous athletic skills, but also for how he conducted himself. He was meticulous in his preparation for games. He was respectful to teammates and opposing players, tipping his helmet to the umpire and the opposing manager and catcher before his first at bat in each game. He was at least outwardly humble. 

His demeanor brought back fond memories of the year I spent in Japan in the late 1990s. I saw in Shohei Ohtani many of the qualities that had impressed me 25 years ago when I worked with Japanese people of all ages.

He is expected to be named the National League Most Valuable Player this week. If he is, I will feel proud, as if I helped him win the award.

The Summer of Shohei aside, my most happy baseball memories connect the game to my family.

My parents’ first date was at the Polo Grounds in New York, at a Chicago Cubs-New York Mets game. The easy conversation they enjoyed that day led to 59 years of marriage and three kids. 

When each of us turned 10, they took us away for a weekend by ourselves. For my “10 Trip,” my parents took me to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. Many years later, when I had a son, I took him on a “10 Trip” to Cleveland to see the Yankees play the Indians. 

He’s 22 now, but I still cherish the many hours I spent watching him play baseball, from the time he was four through his freshman year in high school. He loved playing, and I loved watching his games.


A line in an article I read recently resonated with me: “Baseball binds generations like no other sport.” I don’t know if this is true for everyone, but it seems about right for me.

With my dad in Cooperstown

A Small Number of Days

A week before Mother’s Day, I walked out of a bookstore in Washington, D.C., got in my car, and backed straight into a parked pickup truck. I actually watched the whole thing unfold on my car’s rearview camera; it even took me a moment to stop after my bumper made contact. The gentleman sitting in the pickup truck seemed as surprised as I was.

The bookstore I had just come out of had a prominent display of Mother’s Day cards that caught me off guard. I found myself tearing up at the sight of them and left in a hurry, only to notice as I walked to my car that there was a mural painted on the side of a building that read “Call Your Mother” in giant letters. (I later learned it was the name of a delicatessen in that block of stores.)

Earlier that day, I was thinking that I was doing better than I expected just three weeks after my mother’s death. But maybe that’s how grief works. One moment you’re feeling fine, the next you’re in a fog because you’ve had a reminder of the person you’ve lost.

My mom’s death on April 21 was not unexpected. She was hospitalized in early March with a blood infection and moved from the intensive care unit to hospice five days later after doctors shared her prognosis: the only fix for her infection was major surgery, and they weren’t sure she was even a candidate. My dad and siblings and I ultimately decided the only choice was to honor my mother’s wishes in the living will she signed years before dementia set in. There would be no extraordinary measures taken, no artificial feeding tubes or intubation, no waiving of the Do Not Resuscitate order.

It was to be a tough end to a tough few months. As we anticipated, she didn’t understand why she had to move in January to the memory care unit at Brightview, a senior living facility, or why she and my father weren’t in the same room. She never stopped asking to go home.

I believe each member of my immediate family will count the first few months of this year as some of the hardest in our lives.

My parents both caught Covid three weeks after moving in, and what was left of my mother’s cognitive skills never returned. It was only a few weeks later that she was hospitalized and subsequently transported by ambulance from the ICU near Tarrytown to Calvary Hospital in the Bronx, a facility devoted to caring for people with advanced illnesses, many of them terminal.  

We didn’t expect her to be at Calvary for long. A palliative care doctor at the ICU who met with our family to discuss options examined her and said she expected my mom would live “a small number of days.” 

She cautioned that it was impossible to predict exactly when the end might come; it might be sooner or much later than a few days. She was right about that. My mother ended up living for another 5 ½ weeks. 

Morning walks to the water near my sister’s house brought a welcome dose of serenity

During those weeks, we spent more time together as a family than we had since my siblings and I were in high school. Expecting the end to be imminent, I stayed at my sister’s house near Calvary for three weeks, then went home to Virginia for two weeks and returned for another week. My brother came back and forth from Boston and was also a lodger at my sister’s house. Throughout our comings and goings, my sister and dad went to the hospital every day.

My brother and I commandeered the office in my sister’s house for remote work

I’m not someone who always looks on the sunny side of things. The month and a half my mom was hospitalized was a profound and dark period, to be sure. What surprised me, though, both at the time and in reflection, was that there was some beauty amidst the suffering. 

One unexpected bright spot was the people we encountered at Calvary. Compared to the ICU, with its flurry of beeping monitors and people rushing in and out, Calvary was quiet and calm. But more impressive than the atmosphere was this group of individuals who have the capacity to work with the terribly ill every day. When I could bring myself to glance into other rooms as I walked up the hall, I saw people who were bloated, hazy, listless. It takes a special person to give compassionate care to the sickest among us day in and day out. And yet the nurses, aides, doctors and the social worker were, to a person, competent, gentle, and respectful with patients and their families. I found it stunning.

One of the first mornings we were there, I said to one of the nurses, “This must be a hard place to come to work every day.”

She looked confused. “No it isn’t. It’s a good place to work.”

Her brow furrowed and I was immediately embarrassed. I mumbled something about not being good with medical things before moonwalking away from the nurses’ station. 

In the lobby of Calvary Hospital

In addition to the superb group at Calvary, I was also touched by every kindness shown to me and to our family. Friends dropped off food, puzzles, bags of groceries. Drove me to and from the train station. Called, texted, and sent cards and flowers letting us know people were thinking of us. Arranged to have a meal delivered. Invited us over for drinks. Brought over a meal and spent an evening with us. 

Gestures from my immediate family touched me too. My brother, who has made more than 30 lasagnas since the pandemic started as part of Lasagna Love, decided we needed a lasagna, brought down the ingredients from Boston, and made one for us. My sister, who quietly kept us all together, did scores of thoughtful things, including making me a sandwich and putting a Diet Coke in the car for me as I got ready to drive to the hospital the morning we were told that my mom was close to the end. My father continued to think about others during the saddest period of his life, showing up one morning with a birthday card and three wrapped books he had carefully chosen for my brother-in-law.

The small things mattered. 

A book I read about palliative care as I traveled between New York and Virginia helped me feel more at peace with the situation. It was a reminder that death is natural and certain, and sometimes the best we can do is make sure our loved one is as comfortable as possible and then just walk alongside them. 

My last real interaction with my mom came two weeks before she died. I walked into her room, took her hand, and said hello. Though it’s been quite a few years since I crossed a street holding her hand, it felt familiar. “Hi Toots,” she said softly, her voice hoarse but clear, and she pulled my hand up and kissed it, then smiled. 

At the lunch after my mom’s funeral. It felt a little weird taking a smiling picture for such an occasion, but the wake and funeral truly felt like celebrations of her life. She would have loved the fact that we were all together.

Perhaps the most unexpected outcome of my mom’s time in the hospital was that it made me less afraid of death. That may be in part because she was so diminished – so small and vulnerable, not at all as she was during the rest of her life – that there was no doubt this was her time to go. The mental and physical aspects of her life were over. We do only get a small number of days, after all, and hers were clearly done. 

As with most mothers and daughters, ours was not a perfect relationship. There were frustrations and arguments over the years. But these last few months I have found myself coming back to one simple thought: I’m glad she was my mom. 

I’m not sure either one of us could have hoped for more.

This Old House

I learned recently that my dog helped our family buy a house.

In 1977, when I was nine, my parents put in a bid on a house two blocks away. The house went on the market in the morning, and before noon, the sellers had four identical offers. 

After weighing their options, they decided to accept my parents’ bid when they learned that my father was the man who always walked a three-legged dog past their house. Our dog, Inky, had been hit by a car the year before. She survived, but one of her back legs had to be amputated. While some of our neighbors didn’t know us, many of them recognized Inky, and that turned out to be the reason we ended up at 138 Kelbourne Avenue.

The rest of my family was excited about the move, but I wasn’t. I was happy that I’d be getting my own room – my sister and I would no longer have reason for regular turf wars – but I wouldn’t be able to look out the window to see if my friends were outside playing kickball or Kill the Carrier. I groused about having to walk two whole blocks to find playmates.

Little did I know that this house would serve as the backdrop for most of our family’s important life events for the next four decades. 

Two months ago my parents moved out of the house and into an assisted living and memory care facility. My siblings and I have spent a lot of time at the house since then getting it cleared out so it could be sold.

Eloquent birthday poem I wrote for my dad

Going through the closets and boxes was like opening a time capsule. We discovered that my mother kept EVERYTHING. In neatly labeled boxes in nearly every room upstairs, we found drawings, music programs, and elementary school report cards (my teachers wrote things like “Susie is trying to control her silliness!” and “Susie will have to be careful of ‘attitude’ and ‘behavior’ in the future”). There were poems, postcards, letters home from college. I even found the book of cut-out letters and pictures that my mom and I made together when I was learning the alphabet in kindergarten.

In addition to the volume of memorabilia, I discovered that my siblings and I are remarkably in-sync as adults. Even though we have very different personalities and have been spread out over the Eastern Seaboard for the last 30 years, as we’ve come together to clear out the house, we have been in lockstep about what is important and what is not important. Important: supporting my dad, trying to ensure that my mom is being well cared for, breaking down the house efficiently and respectfully; not important: claiming furniture, jewelry, and other material goods from the house.

If you had told me when I was a kid that my siblings and I would be so aligned as adults, I might have been surprised. After all, some of my clearest memories in the house are the epic fights I had with each of them.

Banished to the basement

My brother Charlie was in the room next to mine and hated listening to me practice my saxophone. He claimed he couldn’t concentrate on his studies over the sound of scales and repeated renditions of “The Pink Panther.” My parents took his side and I was sent to the basement to practice so he could concentrate on his homework. That lasted a few weeks. Then he got caught listening to records instead of studying, and the jig was up. Every time I see a picture of the band KISS or hear a song from Frampton Comes Alive, it brings a huge smile to my face. Show me the way, Chibs!

My sister Kathy and I fought bitterly about the telephone. Whenever I was on the phone, she needed it. To get some privacy, I would pull the phone across the breakfast table and squeeze into the powder room, closing the door hard on the cord. Inevitably, my sister would pick up another extension and shout, “I NEED THE PHONE!” and I would shout, “I’M ON THE PHONE!” and then my mother would shout, “GIRLS! STOP SHOUTING!” Whoever I was talking to would get an earful – usually my friend Sandy, who would say, “Your sister always needs the phone!”

On days when I got in big trouble at school, my siblings were eager to get away from me. Most nights we ate dinner as a family at a small table, and you could really feel the tension when something was awry. The night after I got suspended for smoking cigarettes in 8th grade was especially unpleasant. My father dismissed my brother and sister from the table so he and my mother could interrogate me about what on earth I was thinking. I can still hear the clanging of the dishes as my siblings jumped up to get away from the table and out of the line of fire.

Apart from leaving me alone to clean up my own mess, they were generally very kind to me and the three of us were on the same side. We were The Kids and my folks were The Parents, and there was never any confusion about who was who. My parents didn’t involve us in their adult concerns, which allowed us to just be kids together.

After we finished high school and went off into the world, to college and semesters abroad and living in other cities and towns, we always came back to the house, and to my parents. The place continued to be the hub of family activity. When each of us got married and had kids, we brought other people around, and they became part of the history of the house as well. 

Because I live the farthest from New York and have the least flexible job, most of the work in breaking down the house has fallen to my sister and brother. I honestly have never admired them more. They have selflessly worked to take care of detail after detail. They are reflecting back the devotion that my parents showed to us during our childhood.

One of the few things I could do remotely was to go through the many hundreds of pictures that were in photo albums and boxes. Doing that has given me a sense of the continuity that comes when a family lives in a house for 45 years. The photos showed how rituals and traditions passed from one generation to the next.

My dad was always up for having a catch with any of us in the back yard. When we had kids, he had catches with them in the back yard. Then the grandkids grew up and had catches with each other. My mom and sister did puzzles together a lot, and then my mom did puzzles with the grandkids. At Christmas we always hung the stockings my mom had made for the five of us; in later years, when spouses and children joined the family, she knitted a stocking for each of them.

I also remember watching mass on TV with my grandmother when she came to stay with us after a fall. In the last few years, I have watched mass on TV with my parents when my mom was no longer able to go in person.

When the time came to move out, the house was staged and made into a blank canvas so that others could picture how they would make a life there. Though it was very tastefully done, seeing the house on the internet as a real estate listing felt a little jarring. 

When I was looking through the MLS pictures online, I caught myself clenching my jaw involuntarily when I came to the photo of what we called the “family room,” a place where we spent so much time together. It was strange to see a picture of the room all cleared out, without my parents in it. 

“Wow,” I said to my dad a few days later, “Another family is going to live in the house. That’s going to be different.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “but that’s what these houses are for. They aren’t for a couple of 88-year-olds who have trouble getting up the stairs.”

He’s right, of course. Nothing gold can stay, as the poem goes, and it is time to let go and pass the house along to someone else. It’s been such a great house for our family, and hopefully the next owners will love it as much as we have.

Off to a Yankees game with some visitors from Holland
In the back yard shortly after we moved in
With my grandmother, Aunt Pat, and cousins – part of the Maine contingent
Mr. Snazzy Cumber Bun before his prom
Kathy in her high school graduation gown, with a cat who doesn’t care
The Sibs
KTG before her wedding
Awkwardly displaying a wine glass at wedding shower #1 with my sister-in-law Chris, sister, and mom
Aunts, uncles, and cousins joining the immediate fam to celebrate my dad’s 65th birthday
Invasion of the garden helpers
All seven grandkids carefully posed in the backyard
Trying on Nonna’s jewelry
Little Rachel all glammed up
Grandad fielding a serious question in the driveway
Young O’Connors in the family room
Danny and Nonna doing a Scooby Doo puzzle
Teenage O’Connors and a pandemic birthday celebration
Measuring Chibs one last time before the house clearing started
So long, 138

NOW IT’S MONDAY MORNING

My Mother’s Struggle with Dementia

My sister warned me that my mother’s face would probably look bad, but I still wasn’t prepared. When I arrived at my parents’ house for Thanksgiving last month, I saw from the side that she had a black eye. When she turned fully towards me, I almost stepped backward. The other side of her face was completely black and blue, including the eyelid, with bruising on her forehead as well.

My mom had fallen the day before as she got out of bed. Apparently, she didn’t react quickly and consequently landed on her face. She didn’t remember what had happened or the trip to the emergency room where she had X-rays that confirmed nothing was broken. Each time she touched her forehead that day, she noticed it was tender. “Did I fall?” she asked my father.

She was quiet the rest of the weekend, though that wasn’t unusual. The house was full of kids and grandkids and she seemed overwhelmed by the banter and activity around her. Once very sociable, she’s now reserved in a group setting, only chiming in occasionally.

After I returned to my own home in Virginia from the holiday weekend, I called my father to tell him I had arrived safely.

“Hi, Toots,” my mother answered, “How are you?” I was taken aback. She sounded completely normal. If I hadn’t seen her the night before, I wouldn’t know anything was out of order.   

This is a pattern that has become familiar to my family over the last decade – moments of clarity followed by moments of startling confusion. 

I first became aware that something was really wrong with my mom in 2011. She mentioned that she’d like to travel to Ireland someday. My parents had taken a 10-day trip there in the late ‘90s and we had discussed that trip just weeks before her comment.

Like more than 50 million others across the globe, my mom was eventually diagnosed with dementia, a diminishing of cognitive function that isn’t a normal part of the aging process. Because the number of people who have dementia is accelerating in every U.S. state (and is expected to triple by 2050), my family has joined scores of others who have had or will have the experience of losing someone who is still physically present.

The signs were subtle at first and got progressively more pronounced: not remembering a name became forgetting how to get to a place she’d been to dozens of times. Then she started to forget entire interactions with people on the phone or in person. Today, my father is her full-time caretaker, along with home health aides at night, and she is completely dependent on others.

Dementia has robbed my mother of things she loved and did well. Friends were always an important part of her life, but her social circle has dwindled because it’s now nearly impossible to have an extended conversation with her. She enjoyed painting for decades, crafting portraits and scenes of the Hudson River. Her painting supplies have been collecting dust in the basement for years now. Math was a strong suit from an early age and she graduated from college with a math degree. She now struggles to tell time. 

My sister got her a clock that reads NOW IT’S MONDAY MORNING on one setting. On the other, it displays the day, time, and day of the week. Lately, she has been setting and resetting her watch (or her “clock,” as she has started to call it), but can’t remember that 10:15 is said as “ten-fifteen,” instead calling it “ten-one-five.”

The details of my mother’s decline are not unique; all of the elements of memory loss that we have witnessed with my mom seem to be commonplace for those with dementia. What has surprised me is how much shame she seems to feel about her condition. 

From the onset of her symptoms, my mom has not wanted to discuss her progressive memory loss. In fact, the only direct conversation I’ve had with her was a number of years ago. I was hoping to talk about what was happening to her, not to be nosy but to let her know she didn’t have to face it alone. So I asked if she sometimes found that she didn’t remember things.

“I guess, sometimes …” she trailed off as she looked away. Another question received a similar answer that clearly signified she was done talking about the subject. I felt as if I was invading her privacy.

To this day, she tends to chalk up any lapse in memory to momentary forgetfulness, and we have all politely obliged.

On the phone, I’ve learned to steer away from questions that require recall, such as what she and my father did during the day. Instead of acknowledging that she doesn’t know where she’s been, she asks my father. (“Paul, where did we go this afternoon?”)

I now only ask questions about what is physically in front of her when I call home. We always talk about the weather. She spends most of the day in a chair by a big window, and she can look outside and answer. 

My mom’s self-consciousness about her condition does not seem to extend to her appearance. As her ability to keep up with personal hygiene has started to fall away, it’s hard not to feel that she has lost some of her dignity. 

This was a woman who would touch up her nail polish in the car on the way to church, who always had makeup in her purse, who always carefully chose what she was wearing, whether she was going to a party or out to do errands. The mother I grew up with would be upset about her appearance these days.

My mom’s condition has left my father with agonizing decisions. In an effort to keep my mom at home and not move her to a nursing home, he has taken on a daunting list of  responsibilities. He does the day-to-day household tasks such as paying the bills, doing the grocery shopping, cooking, serving, and cleaning up meals, and organizing the laundry; he also helps my mother get downstairs in the morning and fields repeated questions from her all day.

My siblings and I (or “The Syndicate,” as he refers to us when we’re out of earshot) have had many conversations with him about what would be best for her and for both of them. Like many families, my family has struggled to find a solution that feels right. There are no easy answers.

The events over Thanksgiving weekend made it clear, however, that her needs exceed what can reasonably be provided through in-home care. Though it feels like a betrayal to my father to bring my mom to a facility, which will likely leave her even more bewildered and out of sorts on a daily basis, she needs to go and he wants to be with her. 

And so, my parents, who got engaged the Saturday before JFK was assassinated in 1963 and who have been navigating the world together ever since, will take their next journey together. Next week they will move out of the house where they’ve lived for 45 years and into a memory care and assisted living facility a few miles from their home. They will be on separate floors but will be able to see each other and eat together every day.

A few months ago I was sitting in my parents’ living room with my mom when she asked, “If I wanted to go to the kitchen, how would I get there?”

I tried to hide my shock and was explaining where the kitchen was when my dad walked through the living room.

“Are you going to the kitchen?” my mom asked him.

“Yes.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Sure,” he responded.

“Ok. It will just take me a minute to get up.”

“That’s fine,” he told her. “Take your time.”

And then he slowly walked with her into the kitchen, making small talk along the way.

As the move date comes closer, I see that my father will once again be gently shepherding my mom through a world that is no longer familiar to her. She doesn’t know where she’s headed or what day or time it is. Thankfully, for her sake, she doesn’t have to make the journey alone. 

My Month in the Land of One Hundred Thousand Welcomes (Round 3)

Kenmare

My third and fourth weeks in Ireland were the “sightseeing by myself” portion of the trip. I made two separate treks during those weeks where I left most of my stuff at the Airbnb in Dublin, threw on my backpack, and took the train across the country to see new things.

The first trip was to Galway. I saw the gorgeous Cliffs of Moher, one of the country’s most-visited sights, and spent two nights in pubs listening to traditional Irish music. I really enjoyed my time there.

But it was in Kenmare, a small town in County Kerry, that I had some of my best days in Ireland. Along the way, I was reminded that sometimes the most memorable experiences can result from not having everything planned out ahead of time.

My natural inclination is to make sure things are in order. I make lists. My house and my classroom are organized down to the inch. I am most comfortable when I know exactly what to expect. I know this is connected with anxiety – controlling the circumstances and environments around me makes me feel calmer.

This presents obvious problems. It’s one thing to have a maniacally organized closet; it’s another to be thrown off when you’re not able to prearrange the details of every situation.

I kept a journal in Ireland, and as I reread the earlier entries last week, I was surprised at how many times I mentioned feeling unsettled that I didn’t know where I was going for the third and fourth weeks of the trip.

And yet, forcing myself to sit with a little bit of uncertainty paid off.

My original plan was to go to the writer’s retreat in Donegal, then spend one week in Dublin, one week in Galway, and one week in Cork. It would’ve been easy to map out my steps for each city before arriving in Ireland.

But then a friend suggested getting a place in Dublin for three weeks and using it as a home base for short trips to other cities instead of dragging all of my luggage around and moving each week. That sounded like a better idea.

I also decided it would be best to wait until I arrived in Ireland to determine where to go during the last two weeks. That would allow me to get a sense of what else I wanted to see besides Donegal and Dublin. It seemed logical at the time, but as the trip grew closer, I started to worry about it.

The night after I arrived in Ireland, I asked my new Irish friend Catriona and her husband Jim where they would suggest going, and both spoke highly of a town on the Ring of Kerry called Kenmare.

I was only vaguely familiar with the Ring of Kerry, a 110-mile route around the Iveragh Peninsula in the southwestern part of the country. I first learned of it last year while reading Dave Grohl’s memoir. I was intrigued to hear a shaggy-haired rock ‘n’ roll drummer call the place “a corner of the earth that I have always adored: a place of serenity and natural beauty.”

After hearing what Catriona, Jim, and Dave Grohl had to say about the area, I decided to spend four days there during the last week of my trip.

A common way to see the Ring of Kerry is to take an all-day bus tour. The weekend before traveling to Kenmare, I tried to line one up. I called a local bus company and spoke to a driver named Andy.

On their webpage, the company advertised tours of both the Ring of Kerry and the Ring of Beara. I had never heard of the Ring of Beara and asked what the difference was. He was covering the phones for the owner and couldn’t speak to availability, but was helpful in answering questions about the two peninsulas and suggested I call back on Monday.

If I couldn’t line up a tour, he told me, he could give me his number and he’d be happy to take me out to see either route on Tuesday or Wednesday evening. Because it stays light out until well after 10 p.m. in Ireland, timing would not be a problem.

I was hesitant. This guy was very friendly and knowledgeable, but would it be safe to be in a vehicle one on one with a man I had never met?

I called the owner Monday morning before my train left for County Kerry and there were no tours I was able to join. I had not been able to set up anything else with other local companies either.

I decided to call Andy back.

I was still unsure about trusting a stranger but decided to go with my gut feeling, which was that he was a driver for a well-established company in the area and it would be fine.

So Andy and I chatted and agreed to meet up on Tuesday night.

When he arrived in his Range Rover, we introduced ourselves and I hopped in. We had texted a bit about specifics, but we didn’t decide to go to the Ring of Beara until just before we pulled away.

After we crossed over from Kenmare onto the Beara Peninsula, the views were stunning.

Andy told me a lot about the area and pulled over anywhere there seemed to be a good place to take a picture. Since there were very few other cars around, we sometimes stopped in the middle of the road.

At one point we came across a bar and café and Andy suggested we could stop for a beer if I wanted. I was thinking it over, but felt we were getting a little short on time. He had to be back to another town by 9 p.m. to pick up some hikers, and we were a good distance from where he needed to drop me off.

“Or you can get a Guinness to go,” he said.

That sounded like a perfect idea, so I agreed, and he turned the vehicle around. As we walked into Helen’s Bar, I said, “You’re going to be the ambassador for this Guinness to go business, right?” He assured me he would.

Helen’s Bar

Andy knew Helen and introduced me. We talked with her for a while and then headed outside to hear a bit of the music “session” in progress (what we might call a “jam session”) before continuing on.

Several musicians and a three-legged dog were seated at table on the right for the “session.” The dog didn’t have an instrument, but several of the people did
Guinness in the wild
Final shot of the first evening
The iPhone map of photos gives an idea of the route we took on the Ring of Beara. The numbers indicate how many pictures I took at each spot

We ended up driving around for about 2 ½ hours, which was a perfect amount of time. When it was time to wrap things up, Andy offered to take me out again the next night so I could see parts of the Ring of Kerry, and I was happy I would get to see both routes.

Our first stop the following evening was the Blackwater Bridge. As I got out of the car to take pictures, Andy pointed out that he was in the poster on the side of the road.

Andy also works for an adventuring company. He is the second from left in the red helmet

The weather on the second night wasn’t as clear as it was the previous evening, but I still got to see the parts of the Ring of Kerry that were close to Kenmare.

I couldn’t believe how blue the water was.

We eventually turned around because the clouds were moving in and the visibility was poor. On the way back to Kenmare, we stopped into a pub that Catriona had mentioned.

I love the Guinness sign
The Ring of Kerry towns we drove through before turning around

Part of what was great about both nights was learning about the area. Andy was very knowledgeable about the history of Ireland and County Kerry in particular.

In addition to the spectacular views, doing the tours at night allowed me to explore Kenmare during the day. It ended up being one of my favorite places in Ireland.

The atmosphere of the town was relaxed and friendly and the triangular shape of downtown made everything walkable – restaurants, bakeries, pubs, and other shops. The Kenmare Stone Circle, Reenagross Park, and Kenmare Pier were also within easy walking distance.

This map captures the highlights
Looking down Henry Street — one of the three streets of the triangle
My Airbnb was the middle floor above the Purcell Gallery on Main Street. I was pleased when the owner of the gallery and the unit told me I had an “Irish face”
Kenmare Stone Circle
Kenmare Pier
Reenagross Park

An added bonus to the week was the fun night I had at O’Donnabhain’s Pub listening to music and yukking it up with a group of people I met from Donegal who were there on vacation.

My Kenmarian companions

Kenmare was the perfect place to close out my travels within Ireland. The pictures of both peninsulas speak for themselves, but even they don’t do the area justice. It was honestly the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, and I would’ve missed it altogether if I had insisted on planning everything ahead of time.

I’ve had a blank wall for a long time in my “writing room” that I was hoping to fill with pictures from Ireland. Framing my favorite photos from my time in County Kerry seemed only fitting – an extended reminder of what can happen when I loosen my grip and allow things to unfold.

My Month in the Land of One Hundred Thousand Welcomes (Part Deux)

Week 2: Friends and Family

Each week of my month in Ireland felt like a different chapter. Chapter 2 began in the lobby of the Fleet Hotel in Dublin.

My friends Christine and Gwyn had flown over to join me for the Pride parade, an idea I had proposed in late March the night I got confirmation I would be going to the writer’s retreat.

They arrived the Wednesday before the parade and I met them at their hotel that afternoon. It was weird and wonderful to see them across the lobby, so far from our usual surroundings.

That was the beginning of five days of laughter and conversation. If the first week of my trip initially involved adjusting and being out of my comfort zone, the second week included a handful of days that felt a little lighter, where I could relax in the company of old friends.

Highlights of our time together:

Guinness Storehouse

The Guinness Storehouse is one of the most popular tourist attractions in Ireland, and it was easy to see why. We joined the herd of visitors the first afternoon the ladies were in town.

The place is enormous. It’s also carefully laid out.

The tour of the Storehouse is mercifully a “self-guided experience.” Visitors walk up six stories without a rambling tour guide, so everyone can decide how interested they are in the details of milling, mashing, and boiling ingredients.

Along the way, there are plenty of opportunities to check out old Guinness advertising campaigns and pose for pictures.

The view from the top almost makes circling the building six times on the way up seem worth it. You can sample the “black stuff” while you admire the clear view of Dublin and its surrounding areas out the windows of the Gravity Bar.

On the way out of the building, you and the other mildly inebriated guests are funneled through a well-stocked retail store.

We participated in all of it, and I have to say it was a lot of fun. Hats off to the marketers at Guinness.

P.S. My dad and I enjoyed drinking out of his new beer glasses last weekend.

Take #42 and still blurry
One of us posed at every opportunity
… every single one
I remember this slogan from my angry feminist days
Not too shabby — arrived at in the country at 5 a.m. this day and still up 12 hours later
Gravity Bar view

Trinity College/Book of Kells

Thursday morning we walked around the campus of Ireland’s top-rated university, which is located in the middle of Dublin. The Book of Kells, an illuminated manuscript of the four Gospels of the Bible, is housed on campus and is considered a national treasure.

We relaxed on the lawn in front of the Old Library while we waited for our entrance time to see the Book of Kells. That gave me time to recover from my harrowing trip to the men’s room. Long story, but as it turns out, “leithreas” does not mean “ladies,” as in “everything beyond this point is a ladies room.”

But anyway, back to the Bible.

Picture lifted from the internet — visitors are not allowed to photograph the book

The Book of Kells is kept in its own darkened room, like something out of a Dan Brown novel. I don’t know why, but I was surprised that we could only see two pages. (Did I think we’d be allowed to leaf through a book that was created in 800 A.D.?)

Hopefully it’s not sacrilege to say I was much more impressed by the library upstairs than I was by the famous book.

The Long Room was one of my favorite places in Ireland.

The Long Room – a working library

We did almost have a minor international incident in the Long Room.

Christine and Gwyn were ahead of me when one of their phones spontaneously started blaring the Indigo Girls. Loud lesbian folk music is generally not appreciated in a library built in the 1700s. It wasn’t clear which person’s phone was the source of the music, so angry accusations were exchanged through gritted teeth until it was determined whose phone was to blame.

Like a good friend, I kept my distance while that got sorted out.

Blitzkrieg Tour of Dublin on the Hop-on/Hop-off Bus

Because time was limited, the Hop-on/Hop-off Big Bus tour seemed like an efficient way for the Virginians to see as much of the city as possible. It did end up being a good choice, especially after our Trinity College/Book of Kells extravaganza. We kicked back on the upper deck of the bus and rode all around the city, hopping off only once to get some lunch.

(In fairness to them, the ladies did hop back on the next day to take in some additional sights while I relaxed at my Airbnb.)

The Big Bus gave us a chance to experience imposing views of cathedrals like this
Hop-off destination

Dublin Pride Parade

This picture captures the tone of the day

There’s a lot to be said about the Dublin Pride parade. It was colorful, well organized, relatively easy to navigate, free of protestors and commercial organizations, and generally well done.

But more important than the nuts and bolts of the event was the atmosphere. I would actually call it joyous. All three of us were taken with how friendly and supportive the crowd was. As Gwyn said, it seemed like the whole country was there and ready to celebrate.

There were rainbow flags all over Dublin, and the general sense of acceptance was really touching, especially when I think back to what things were like when I was in my teens and twenties. Being gay at that time was considered strange and embarrassing. Now it’s really not a big deal for most people.

The shift in public perception on this topic has been incredible to watch over the last 20+ years.

The parade was a lot of fun. We saw some of it from O’Connell Street and then moved to an establishment right on the parade route on the banks of the River Liffey.

The most photographed dog on O’Connell Street
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A block-long flag
Bagpipes on Eden Quay along the river
This helpful young man had a gift for Oscar Wilde
He seemed skeptical
Merrion Square post-parade concert, where Christine got us a loaf of sourdough bread at one of the concession stands.
Move over, corn dogs and funnel cakes

The day after the parade, the ladies’ last in Dublin, was relatively low-key. They toured an art museum and the Jameson Distillery and then I joined them in the late afternoon for dinner, swapping pictures, and rehashing our adventure.

What a great week it was. There’s something to be said for making memories with old friends in a new place far from home.

After the Virginians headed home, I took a day trip to Dalystown, about an hour west of Dublin, near where my great grandmother was born and where my grandmother spent some of her early childhood years.

My initial plan was to see if it was feasible to hire a driver from Dublin to bring me there and drive me around; when I couldn’t line that up, I decided to just get to Mullingar and figure it out.

Train to Mullingar

I took the train to Mullingar and then got a taxi to Dalystown, about seven miles away.

It did take the taxi driver a minute to understand what I was trying to do. I’m guessing he doesn’t get mumbling New Yorkers popping into his cab every day, looking to roam the area in search of old relatives.

Once he did understand, he knew exactly where to take me. First, we went to the pub where my parents visited in the late 1990s.

My mom and Mr. Wallace in the 1990s
A wider shot in front of the same building
The building today. The post office is gone and the façade is updated; otherwise, it’s basically the same after 25 years and is still surrounded by farmland. It seems to be the hub of the village

Next, the driver took me to Clonfad, my great grandmother’s birthplace. It was also farmland with no central village. He brought me to the only church in the area.

Church of the Sacred Heart, Meedin, built 1831

I got out and walked around. The only sound was the wind and the bleating of the sheep on the farm next to the church. It was incredibly peaceful.

Farmhouse next to the church
My great grandmother, Katherine Farrell

I thought about trying to find gravestones marked Farrell in the cemetery next to the church, but we had already been out for 30 minutes, and I sensed the driver was anxious to leave. The church was closed and the cemetery was large.

The only Catholic church in an area that small was most likely my great grandmother’s family parish, and that alone felt like a valuable discovery. I was happy to have come to the area.

The cemetery beside the church

This was the first of several experiences that worked out better because I didn’t have the details all mapped out ahead of time.

The taxi driver, James Farrell (a possible relative? I knew better than to ask), was from Mullingar and knew the area very well. A driver from another city wouldn’t have known the back roads or where to find the old Catholic church.

The second week of my trip was obviously a very mixed bag, with a nice balance of connecting with friends and time for exploration on my own.

I had deliberately left the remaining two weeks unplanned, and though that gave me a pit in my stomach heading into the third week, it proved to be the best approach.

My Month in the Land of One Hundred Thousand Welcomes

Week 1: Arrival and Retreat

I was more than 3,000 miles from home, at the writer’s retreat that had brought me to Ireland, when I heard a saying that stuck with me:

Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine – We live in each other’s shadows.

Other translations or interpretations: Through the shelter of each other, people survive. We shade each other from the sun.

The takeaway: Humans rely on each other for support.

When I heard it, I was reminded of the importance of connection and the fact that the best times of my life have always been with other people. And yet, I had chosen to spend a month in a place where I didn’t know a single soul.

I had been in Ireland for five days and had already questioned my choice to travel alone. Quite a few of these unsettling moments came the morning I arrived. 

After an easy trip from Washington, D.C., to Dublin, I checked into my hotel in the early morning feeling good.  

“I’m doing this!” I congratulated myself, looking around the room confidently, “I’m in Ireland!”

Two hours later, after settling in for a needed nap, I woke up feeling nauseated and terribly anxious. 

The rest of the day was a struggle.

I was surprised at how familiar the feeling was. It was almost identical to how I felt the morning I arrived in Japan some 25 years ago – something just short of wanting to stay in bed all day and pull a blanket over my head. However, that time I was with my spouse, and he would be handling many of the details of our one-year stay because we were there for his job. This time I would be handling everything solo.

I tried to calm myself down by turning on the TV, but I kept finding channels where everyone was speaking with Irish accents. Worse yet, some were speaking Irish, a language I couldn’t comprehend at all. It served as a glaring reminder that I was in a foreign place.

I also had to figure out where I was going to eat. I had been told that breakfast was served at the hotel restaurant from “half 7” to 11 a.m. I didn’t know what “half 7” meant, but it didn’t matter. It was already 10:30.

Floors -1 and 0 threw me for a loop

My room was a weird distance from the lobby and I was wishing I had left bread crumbs to help navigate my way back through a series of hallways and two different elevators. 

Nevertheless, I persisted, and made my way towards the lobby. Just ahead of me around the last turn was a man in a skirt. 

“Wow,” I thought, “I’ve heard Ireland’s gotten very progressive. Well, OK! Well done, Ireland!”

Then I turned the corner and came across a pack of burly, tattooed men in skirts. Or, as I quickly realized, kilts. And matching navy blue jerseys.

Oh! Right. Sports fans. (Scottish soccer fans going to a game in Dublin that day, as it turned out.)

This specific guy wasn’t in the lobby of my hotel, but he could have been

I had to slip through the burly men and their matching ladies to get to the hotel restaurant. I was the only customer. 

It was 10:45 and the buffet had clearly been out for several hours. I was looking for something simple like eggs and toast. The eggs looked suspect.

This was hardly the time for food poisoning, so I took a couple of oddly curled pieces of meat (ham? bacon? I wasn’t sure) and the waitress brought me toast and tea. 

And that was my first meal in Ireland, sitting alone in an empty restaurant.

After I finished (six minutes later), I retreated to the safety of my room to lay down again and watch TV. I knew it was absurd that the Irish accents on Irish TV were throwing me off, but I couldn’t help it. My heart thawed when I came across a couple of channels showing American programs. 

I watched an episode of Friends (which I never liked in America, but now Joey and Chandler were really hitting the spot), then the movies Dirty Dancing (Baby, still not in a corner) and Beaches (which I hadn’t seen since 1989). 

Around 4 p.m., it was time to find food again and I decided I really did have to leave the hotel and walk around the area a little.

I stepped out onto O’Connell Street – a busy road with lots of shops, people, busses, and trams – and had some bright moments while heading towards the river. It was cool walking around in a new city, and I had an inkling that I would enjoy the place once I settled in. 

The sky cleared minutes before this photo

After crossing the bridge over the River Liffey, I walked through a touristy section called Temple Bar, which felt like a frat party on a city street. Enough of that! I crossed back over the river, and once again, seeking out familiar things, I ducked into a music store full of guitars. 

After about an hour I felt I could check the box that I had “explored” the neighborhood. On my way back to the hotel, I picked up another nutritious meal – a sandwich from the Subway inside a Circle K. 

On the way back to my hotel after my lengthy jaunt. I liked how all the lines intersected on this part of the street

Not surprisingly, the first day in the new place was challenging. I was exhausted from jet lag. I’m also a creature of habit, so having to get my bearings, make sense of new sights, navigate new streets, and forage for food, all alone, was tiresome. I just kept reminding myself that it was going to be worth it.

I was here to grow. 

I would need to get comfortable being uncomfortable.

The tradeoff was this, I felt: Traveling solo would open possibilities and connections that wouldn’t happen if I were with a partner or a friend the whole time. 

And fortunately, the next day, things got much better.

I met up with my sister’s friend Catriona, who lives in Dublin and who had kindly offered to show me around. 

I was nervous to meet her, but she set me at ease right away. Chatty, warm, smart, and fun, she brought me to the Museum of Literature Ireland, which had a ton of interesting information about Irish writers, and then to her house for dinner.  

Though I had only been two days away from my own home, it was so nice to be in a house, with a family, having a home-cooked meal. Catriona and her husband Jim told me lots about Ireland and answered my many questions. I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon and evening.

On the way back to the hotel, Catriona drove past Dublin Bay and explained a bunch of other things about the city. I ended the day feeling much more comfortable about where I was. When I got back to the room, I ended my journal entry for the day with this simple note:

Grateful for today. 

The next morning, I flew to Donegal, where my writing retreat would take place.

In addition to my first-day nerves, I had felt plenty of anxiety about the retreat in the weeks leading up to the trip. I was happy to start my month in Ireland with a week where I would be interacting with other people rather than sightseeing by myself, but I was also unsure of who else would be there and what we would be doing each day. There were only ten participants, so I knew we would be in close quarters. 

I met most of the other participants after we had landed in Donegal. I introduced myself at the tiny baggage claim area and we loaded ourselves into a van to the hotel. 

This fancy photo slide shows where I landed — completely different terrain than in Dublin

It may sound corny to say “we came in as strangers, we left as friends,” but I believe that’s what happened. Even though we ranged in age from 30s – 70s and came from England, Ireland, Germany, and a wide variety of U.S. states, the group seemed to gel almost immediately. A workshop where people are writing about their lives lends itself to getting to know people well in a short span of time.

The retreat was thoughtfully organized. Starting with the first night, we got a writing assignment each evening. Mornings were spent sharing our work and giving each other feedback. From our first morning, I was so impressed with the writing of my classmates. Each day there were pieces that blew me away, and I felt I learned a lot just by hearing the writing of others and the feedback given by the group.

We also had instruction and discussions each day about specific aspects of writing – things like story arc, dialogue writing, and ways to make writing clearer. 

Class time
https://tinyurl.com/irelandwritingretreat
View from the van on the way to one of the field trips

On two of the afternoons we took trips to local places that highlighted the culture of the area. The first was to a thatched-roof cottage, the home of a traveler and author from the 1800s. We had a big lunch of Irish stew, brown bread, and scones and cream, followed by a lesson in the Irish language. 

The group outside and inside the old house
https://tinyurl.com/irelandwritingretreat
My notes from this session: “How were ppl not angry and irritable living in these damp conditions?”

The second afternoon we went to Dunfanaghy Workhouse, where we learned about life during the Irish Potato Famine. We walked through a narrated exhibit about a woman from that area who lived through the hardship of the famine. The museum was on the site of an actual workhouse, a place where people could go if they had no food. It was an enlightening and very somber afternoon. 

The replicas of people in this museum were haunting

After the Workhouse, we went to a castle in the area, which I found peaceful and interesting.

View looking out from Castle Doe onto some water

Evenings were spent at the pub in the hotel, which was not only a ton of fun – I really enjoyed getting to know this diverse group of people – but also served as my first view into how pubs seem to play an important role in communities. 

The awesome retreaters. Missing three people in this photo, unfortunately

Because the Teac Jack hotel was set in a rural area, it was clearly a gathering spot for people from the surrounding towns as well as hotel guests. And perhaps most importantly, it’s where I broke my strict allegiance to Coors Light and ventured on to Carlsberg and Guinness.

I didn’t think it was possible to supplant my CLs, but we all have to grow up sometime

During the first week, I was already getting a taste of the experiences that would tower in my memories of this trip: although I purposefully chose to travel alone, the best parts of this adventure were when I found connection with others.

The Irish are known for their culture of hospitality. You can go into any gift shop and find the saying Céad Míle Fáilte (One Hundred Thousand Welcomes) on a variety of plaques and cards. I don’t know how many Irish people walk around actually speaking these words, but the saying represents something I experienced firsthand, especially that first week.

I was left with the strong sense that I was genuinely welcomed and that people I had just met were looking out for me. What a great feeling to take with me as I began my solo journey.