This Used To Be My Playground

We sold our family home this week. Yes, it's a miracle. Yes, if you want a realtor who can work miracles, you should try ours. No, our house isn't on the listings. It sold before it was even listed. Just one of those wonderful, amazing strokes of luck.

This used to be my playground
This used to be my childhood dream

I'd post a picture of it, but I forgot to take one. it's a brick four bedroom suburban ranch house. I think you get the idea. About 1900 sq ft. A blazing garden of azaleas in the front, which lasts a whole 2 weeks in the springtime. Rest of the year, a bunch of shrubs. Okay, I did find a "prom photo" from 2006 when I made Roger take me to the prom because I had never attended one. He was coaching at a high school back in those days. I mean, nothing special, just a photograph of an arrangement of furniture that is now in the wind, taken by a lady who sits in a chair all day and has her diapers changed. A quick look back into a past that exists only in a picture.


This used to be the place I ran to
Whenever I was in need
Of a friend
Why did it have to end


Now I feel like an idiot for feeling anything but transcendent joy that this house, which needs massive renovations unless you really feel attached to 1980 decor and cost money to keep up, is gone.


Especially since I hated the place from the minute my eleven year old foot hit the floor in 1970, the year my parents bought it. And the last year has been filled with the joy of disposing of a cumulation of 150 years of STUFF. I wish I was talking about GOOD stuff, but I'm talking about broken ceiling fans, tires so old they aren't steel band radials, or whatever, I don't know anything about tires except that my dad had about a dozen stored in a rotting storage house. Oh! He also had a file cabinet made of wood that was so eaten up by termites that it crumbled when you touched it. Now that was wild!

But I see I'm skipping over an important topic: WHY did I hate that house? Well, it's like this. It was 1970 and Columbia was just a lil ol stop in the middle of nowhere. There were like, twelve houses for sale in my parents' price range in the entire town. (I'm making faces here like I'm being force fed brussel sprouts). The house was designed by a man, I'm sure.


Our old house, in Blacksburg, Virginia, had a kitchen and dining room window that overlooked the Appalachian mountains and there was a deck where you could sit and watch the mountains and think long thoughts. This house had a kitchen window that overlooked THE GARAGE and the dining room window overlooked the driveway. Since I often dried dishes, I had a lot of time to formulate vile thoughts about THAT HOUSE.

And why do they always say
Don't look back
Keep your head held high
Don't ask them why
Because life is short


And before you know
You're feeling old
And your heart is breaking

Don't hold on to the past
Well that's too much to ask

But no matter. I said goodbye to the corner of the room where I wrote in my diary the night before 7th grade started. The corner where I was studying the night I heard that John Lennon had died. The corner where I wrote all those gooney poems that all "sensitive" teenage writers-t0-be are required by law to crank out.


I said goodbye to the room where I faced my mother and aunt the night my father died. To the kitchen where my sister (8) and I (11) broke into a chorus of "Jeremiah was a bullfrog! He was a good friend of mine! He never understood a single word he said, but I helped him to drink his wine! And he always had some mighty fine wine!".....when we were asked to sing "Joy To The World" right before Christmas dinner.


I remember the bathroom where my boyfriend tried to sneak a cigarette. I never smoked a cigarette in the house. Okay, one of the owners is dead and the other wouldn't know if I lit a stick of dynamite in front of her and is stashed in a home 20 miles away (mom has Alzheimer's) but I...couldn't. I thought about smoking a cigarette just for the um..heck of it and I. Could. Not. Do. It.

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I remember the day I opened the letter about my college scholarship and Daddy jumping up and smothering me with kisses and the day I got the Phi Beta letter and I ran into the backyard where Mom was hanging clothes and the dog jumped on me in joy as I screamed and cried and I didn't care that I got my good work clothes dirty..

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I remember the wedding day and the babies playing on the floor and the millions of holiday dinners and the fights and the hilarious jokes and the laughter and corny corny corny corny corny....

Well the years they flew

And we never knew

But I wish that you

Were here with me

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Well then there's hope yet

I can see your face

In our secret place

You're not just a memory

Say goodbye to yesterday

Those are words I'll never say

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Wishing you were here with me, Mom and Dad

A Tribute To Christopher Quackenbush

I wasn't going to republish this again, because it still hurts so much. But then I thought that I once wrote "Never forget" and decided that I would be doing Christopher and all the other victims a disservice if I did not honor that promise.

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I'm not going to pretend that I am some sort of special snowflake; I lost nobody that I knew on 9/11/01--I have since become friends with a very special woman named Sue Mladenik who lost her one and only on the first flight, the Rev. Jeff Mladenik. They had four children and Sue was "paper pregnant" with the adoption application in China asking to adopt their fifth child. Sue has bravely picked up the pieces of her life and gone on to enjoy wonderful family moments with three beautiful daughters from China and her three children born to her and Jeff, and recently became a grandmother for the first time. (although I can assure you that she is as far from the "grandmother" stereotype as one can possibly get!).

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Nevertheless, she must live all the days of her life devoid of the love of her life, and yes, while republishing this isn't going to mean much in the grand scheme of things, nevertheless my little blog can do its little part to honor the victims of cruelty so big that it's still, 8 years later, impossible to wrap my head around it.

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By the way, thank you Michael for tipping me off to a website devoted to Christopher. One day I hope to meet his wife and kids and hear about him from those who loved him best, and still mourn his loss most fervently.

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And so we on earth go on, and the sun comes up, and we brew another pot of coffee and tea, and complain about rush hour traffic, and take the kids to school and violin practice, and share a good laugh with a friend, work, pay bills, enjoy the sunset and fix the brakes in our car, and we think back to that day when everything changed, and we mourn afresh.

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No, I am not entitled to grieve for a personal friend, child, spouse, lover, or parent. But I did walk the streets where the victims walked; I took the subways they used, I visited the building they went to every day. It was personal, man. Every life is precious, but I am only human and I grieve harder for the people who died because so many of them remind me of...myself.

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On September 11, 2001, Christopher Quackenbush, 44, was working at Sandler O'Neill & Partners in the World Trade Center. He had forty years of life stolen from him by madmen with box cutters.

Christopher was trapped in the North Tower above the gash created by the plane that struck the tower, Flight 11. Another successful businessman, Jeff Mladenik, was on that flight. Jeff was happily anticipating the adoption of his second daughter (and fifth child), Hannah, from China. His wife, Sue, is a good friend of mine.

Chris never had a chance. Did he jump? Did he die of smoke inhalation? Did he feel the ground shifting under his feet as the "safe" skyscraper crumbled to the ground?

Did he, five years earlier, watch Titanic with his wife and think ruefully of all the structures made by mortal hands that were, allegedly, "unsinkable"?

I do not know.
This I know for sure.
Christopher was a truly good guy.
Christopher's wife and children mourn him daily.
Christopher should have died in his bed sometime in the middle of the 21st century with his wife, children and grandchildren by his side.
And this much more I know for sure.

We must never forget.

Christopher Quackenbush: 'Christmas Carol' All Year
Most people think of "A Christmas Carol," the Charles Dickens classic, only during the holidays. But the tale of greed and redemption was on Christopher Quackenbush's mind his entire life. As a founding principal at Sandler O'Neill & Partners, Mr. Quackenbush, 44, thrived on sharing his wealth.

He created the Jacob Marley Foundation, which provides scholarships and programs for poor children on Long Island, including annual trips to Shea Stadium for Mets games. The Mets themselves once played Tiny Tim to Mr. Quackenbush's Scrooge: he flew some team members to Washington on his company jet last June to meet President Bush.

In keeping with the story that haunted him, Mr. Quackenbush's generosity peaked at Christmas. "He would give us all a trip somewhere," his sister, Gail, said. "A ticket to whatever we really wanted to do."

Not only that, but Mr. Quackenbush took his wife, Traci, their three children and a throng of relatives to see "A Christmas Carol" at Madison Square Garden every December, reminding them not only of the importance of spreading good fortune, but of having fun doing it. They have resolved to go without him this year. "We're not going to have a good time," Gail Quackenbush said, "but we're trying."

Profile published in THE NEW YORK TIMES on December 8, 2001.

QUACKENBUSH - Christopher. The entire NYU Law School family mourns the loss of our trustee and friend, Chris Quackenbush, a victim of the World Trade Center tragedy. Chris was a special person who combined high values with the ability to inspire others to act for the good. He was a wise businessman and counselor to the great; but still more, he was an example of the finest qualities a person can possess. Even as we use him as a model for our students, we mourn his loss and dedicate ourselves to keeping his spirit alive. Our thoughts, prayers and love are with his wife (Traci), his children (Whitney, C.J., Kelsey) and his entire family. Lester Pollack, Chair; John Sexton, Dean, New York University School of Law.

Paid Notice published in THE NEW YORK TIMES on September 20, 2001.

Over 3,000 bloggers took part in a tribute project in 2006. I was assigned the name of Christopher Quackenbush.

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Thank you Miss Cellania for letting me know about this tribute opportunity.

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin,

let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever:

I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.
-- W.H. Auden

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Death Be Not Proud

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull,

for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think'st,

thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death,

nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleepe,

which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure,then from thee,

much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;

One short sleepe past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more;

death, thou shalt die. -John Donne

A touching picture that gets me in the gut every time I look at it--imagining the towers themselves crying and holding hands, anticipating their downfall, when they should have been around for us to show our great great great grandchildren.

Ground Zero-Spring, 2004

Far better writers wrote columns that will be quoted by generations to come.

"...big friendly flying buses.."-Dave Barry's column

"...But you're about to learn."-Leonard Pitt's column

I Just Called To Say I Love You-Peggy Noonan

"Hallowed Ground"-Dave Barry on Flight 93

originally published September 11, 2006

Don't Worry, Be Happy

So, I read Amalah's post today about how her son Noah got off the bus wearing a backpack after years of screaming refusal and it made me want to write about worry.

Worry. You've heard the old cliche about after having a child your heart is walking around detached from your body, and it's true. If you're reading this, and you have no children but beloved pets, you might be shaking your head and saying, well, I feel that way about Bruno and Felicia and Snuffy too, SO DON'T START PUTTING ON AIRS JUST BECAUSE SMALL HUMANS BELONG TO YOU, MISSY. And you know what? I'm throwing you a bone. (BWAHAHAHA). I felt the same way about my dogs, especially my two dogs who were special needs children. I worried about them and loved them just as much as my kids, but I managed to get over the worst of my grief and loss in four years after their death. Daddy's death took me two years (I had 20 years to prepare for it, as we expected it any day after the then new quadruple bypass surgery he had). I don't want to even write any speculations about how long it would take me...

In fact, our new daughter Callie-the-poodle is NOT special needs, and it's weird. It took me months to "bond" with her. I was so used to dealing with infirm, psychologically scarred dogs that a happy, healthy dog sort of freaked me out.

But anyway, I digress, as I am so often wont to do. I want to talk about worry, and the small creatures that make you worry.

Oh! And it was a total stranger who put Noah's backpack on. And THAT reminded me of a wonderful daycare person who used to be able to feed Madeleine baby food. Why she'd devour it at daycare like a cavebaby who just got fed after the big week long hunt. For us? Fuggettaboutit. I used to say with complete sincerity that I would prefer to change a virulent diaper than try to feed Madeleine baby food. The little booger would allow me to spoon it in her mouth and then slowly, ever-so-slowly, allow the food to oooooooze out of her mouth. Oh! It was maddening.

Now here is the thing that is interesting. Apparently the young lady had something called "oral aversion" which is common among young babies from China. They used to be bottle fed only in China and so many young Chinese babies would refuse to take anything solid in their mouths. So she had a Problem, and I didn't even know about it. So I didn't worry about it. And it went away. Poof!

And then I remember putting myself into a frenzy over private v. public school? I spent about 4,746 hours of my life fretting over that. She's now in public school and tearing the place up. If she does well this year, she will start HIGH SCHOOL CREDIT Algebra and English next year in the 7th grade. She will be 11 when school starts.

Oh, and let's not forget about...

THAT kid, who has spent most of her life being compared to her Sister The Genius Prodigy Harvard Bound, and that kid has never been complimented on anything but her stellar personality. She's coming home with straight As so far in 3rd grade, the first year that she has received grades, and reporting that she heard people saying that she is the smartest kid in the class. She was the only one in the class who got an "A" on some test she took last week. Is she glowing! I knew she needed to be at a different school from Big Sis but I did not expect any immediate payoff, which goes to show you that sometimes life does toss you a bone, and it's all good.

Worry. You can spend your life worrying. Or you can just sit back and enjoy life and your wonderful family. Hey, when you figure out how to do that, can you drop me a line?

I'm working on it.

Backwards, Turn Backwards, O Time In Thy Flight....

Goodbye Summer 2009

(click to enlarge)

Number Nineteen

Yes, the Duggars are expecting a 19th bundle of joy.

This one is for you, Julie, one of the funniest bloggers on the net. Need another laugh from a lady whose name starts with J? Be sure to catch Jane's last post and I'll give you a dollar if you can read it without laughing. Of course there is also Miss Cellania, who also makes me snicker uncontrollably at times.

Seriously, after the disgusting antics of Octomom (I was delighted when her TV show flopped) and Jon minus Kate plus Eight I...um...sorta...kinda....in a weird way.... approve of the Duggars. After all the birthrate is dropping in the US and SOMEONE is going to have to foot the bill for my Social Security checks.

PS Can you please follow me on Twitter so I can have a free washing machine and a pony and a Easy Bake Oven? Please?

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18 and Counting
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