The Last Rose of Summer

I had a funny feeling that this would be the last one. I stopped, leaned over and sucked in that sweet scent. Everything that was once summer was packed inside that bloom: rose sherbert, perfect!

I hate when summer ends, fall comes and spoils all the fun! Who wants to get back into a schedule, who cares to go to bed as early as my kids' grandmother? And the beach...the sound of the waves crashing on the shore? There'll be no more of that.

But then, Autumn settles back in and I hear that lone screech owl in the trees at night. The harvest moon shines through my diamond window; there's a tinge of orange on the tips of the maples and a cool breeze wafting through my window. This weekend I had my first taste of fresh apple crisp and I thought about lighting a fire in the fireplace. But...I didn't. It was summer still.

But now? Well, now I'm bowing down to reality, giving up my denial and getting ready for those sweet Indian summer days. There's nothing like a long ride on a river with blazing colors in the background to put me in the mood for fall. I'll savor the warmth, spend a little more time outdoors and live in the moment forgetting, as best I can, that awful season that follows...that which will remain unnamed for now!

Hats Off to the Kennedy Family

My father came to America with the shirt on his back and five bucks in his pocket, or so he'd tell you. But to me, he came with much more than that. He came with great hope and the dream of a new tomorrow. My father's childhood was lived in post-famine Ireland...a time where the few left swallowed the grief and images of the past and got on with the business of living life for the generations to follow. Trouble was, there was never enough. So my father, like many others, left Ireland, but he never forgot her.

Today, the Kennedys come together again in a very public way to grieve the loss of one of their own, Senator Ted Kennedy. As a child, my father would've told you that we, the Murphys, were a member of that tribe! At times, we thought him to be somewhat delusional, but we humored him. On our living room wall hung a portrait of Jack and Jackie, over our door, hung a golden horseshoe wrapped around a small carving of Jack Kennedy, and on our coffee table, lay a Kennedy tribute ashtray.

Were we fanatics? Well Dad was, that's for sure! But now I understand. My father never lived to see the full measure of the Kennedy legacy but luckily, I have.

Over the years, the mere mention of the Kennedy name hearkens me back to Jack Kennedy's call to service, to Bobby Kennedy's valiance and to Ted's longstanding fortitude and commitment to his family's values and to those of the many more who came to America from Ireland. They knew what hardship was and they never turned their back on it. Ted Kennedy's affiliation with the poor of spirit is something that we of Irish heritage feel at the cellular level. That is why hostility lingered for so long on its shores. But the Kennedy tribe rose up and came here, rose in their social standing and brought everyone else along with them. My tribe is connected! And although I'm a Murphy/Lynch and clearly not a Kennedy, my tribe is named hope and the actions of that tribe are the good works that we are called upon to perform in our time on earth. We are asked to never cast a shadow on those less fortunate than us. For there are always the less fortunates, my father would say. And when he said that, there was always a sad and distant look in his eye. Now I understand. For even in this land of 'milk and honey,' there are those without healthcare, without a meal on their table and whose legacy has shortchanged them in their educational opportunities.

My father came from the soil, he came as a farmer, he came with nothing. The Kennedys gave him hope for the possibility of greatness. They modeled for him and for me the actions of good work that can help the least of our brethren. Jack Murphy was the least of Ted and Bobby and Jack's brethren. They sailed yachts and enjoyed the spoils of a good life, living with servants as royalty. We sailed in our Ford automobiles and were called to service for others of greater means. But one thing is for certain...in heaven, Murphys and Kennedys alike have many a great tale to tell! And of course, there's quite a feast to be had! My thanks this day to Jack and Bobby and especially Ted who was clearly not a perfect man, but who took on the work of three men in his short time here on earth!

A Walk Along the Shore

Clouds swirl,

flags unfurl,

waves roll

and uncurl,

a carpet

of water unfolds:

Small scallop shells,

a bit of seaweed,

a mermaid's purse,

a single crab's leg too.

A bounty...

from the bottom

of the sea

to me!

Summer Surprise

Whitecaps rumble

and roll,

the ocean

is the loudest

voice by far

on the beach today.

And even when

an occasional high splash

rises up,

it is gathered up,

and forced

forward

toward the shore...

Where people wait

and watch,

barefoot yet bundled

building sculptures

in the warm sand.

Storm's coming, they say.

Kids and kites

and frisbees too

all tethered

to this wild wind.

But even as grey clouds

gather in the east,

their swirls

are still unformed

and undecided.

And then: Look!

Over there...

in the far-off distance--

a glimmer,

a ray,

and a hint of blue.

A surprise,

a smile...

a letting go.

That storm

blows off,

the beach

fills up,

and swimmers take

their places

along the shore

once more.

Blondes and Diamonds

Stuff. It's summertime...just the right time for getting rid of all the things in my life that I simply don't need. Clear the wreckage, cart it all off, and make things more manageable. Well, the thinking and the intentions were all there. The feeble mind apparently was not.

I looked down at my finger yesterday and noticed that my diamond was missing! I'd just gotten to the mall, stopped in the ladies' room and realized with horror that perhaps it'd taken a trip down the drain never to be seen again. I retraced my steps, ransacked the trash-twice, and went to security to leave all my information. I even had a mother and her four children rolling underneath my car to no avail. My husband sat calmly, watching another chapter unfold...he's been there before with me, but this time, it seemed like the real deal. In fact, he was certain the ring was probably at the bottom of the Great Swamp.

Last night, I was awake at 1:30, 2:00, 2:30...you know the drill: retracing a week's worth of movements in my mind. Mental torture, plain and simple. This morning...I talked things over with a few friends, and everyone agreed that the best we could do was pray to St. Anthony. So...of course I did. And just as the song says--"he's gonna find me some piece of mind,"

that is exactly what happened. I returned home, went through the car and my pocketbook just one more time, and then gave it up. I walked back into my bedroom and glanced in my jewelry box...and of course, you know the rest. Lodged underneath a few other random items, a familiar sparkle caught my eye. My anniversary diamond! It was the first very real evidence that my husband had a drop of money to throw around after...fifteen years of marriage!

So how could it be that anyone would be so stupid as to lose a diamond? Multi-tasking: the art of cleaning the jewelry box while talking on the cell phone. I was slipping off my ring to try on all the old rings of my past...and I walked off and forgot to slip the right one back on! Once again, evidence of my true blondness!

Tomorrow, I'll be off to the food pantry with yet another loaf or two in the name of St. Anthony...patron saint to the abstract-random blondes in this world!

Extreme Summer!

Kayaking for Dummies

This weekend, I went off on a little excursion in my brand new Calypso kayak. We're no extreme kayakers, just quiet water types...gawking, communing with nature, and lots of chatter too. My husband's boat is a fisherman's kayak...with huge pontoons to keep him afloat. He tells people they're his "training wheels." He has a pretty serious neuro-illness...spino-cerebellar ataxia, which has left him with very little balance in standing, and walking is pretty much out of the question. But out on the water...it's pretty darn hard to keep up with him!

We were cruising along having a good old time, when the wind picked up, the sky darkened and huge, storm clouds came rolling in. We raced back to shore. Obviously, Tom can't make a running dash...so we always have to plan ahead and know that there's no time to waste. We hoisted him out, ran for the wheelchair, and basically ran the drill.

Once we were pretty well set, we spied an eager, young guy standing along the shore getting ready to put in. His kayak was a definite rental with marker identification written all over it. He had a bike helmet on his head and in his hand was his single paddle. I didn't get the bike helmet, honestly. But, he was ready to go. I wanted to mind my own business, I really did. But the sky was pitch black and the mother in me worried.

"Are you gonna put in by yourself with the storm coming?" I asked. He bristled. How dare I question him.

"Of course I am," he said. "I'll just pull up along the shoreline and find a spot if it gets bad." Well, that would be fine anywhere else, but not in the Great Swamp. There is no shoreline...just tall weeds growing out of water...thus the swamp.

"There's not really a shoreline for parking," we said. We thought we were pretty funny.

"Well...I'm from NYC," he said, all puffed up. "I know everything about parking!"

Other kayakers were joining us, pulling into shore and disembarking in a hurry. We all chuckled a little bit, while he wobbled away from shore. Rotsa ruck, buddy. This ain't no bathtub, and I'm not seeing a rubber duckie either...but I'm sure it's there under the helmet. You'll be using your expertise parking in the weeds with those nasty junebugs, at least a few skeetoes...oh, and snapping turtles too!

It was, after all, just another day at the pond, where story abounds...and where the rock and roll is the real deal. (Maybe the helmet was to ward off the sparks!)

Got Talent?

Much has been written, blogged, twittered and Facebooked about Susan Boyle. You'd have to be an alien not to have heard of her.

Susan, a forty-seven year old church lady, decided to finally do something for herself. All her life, she'd wanted to be known as a singer. No doubt, she met with a fair amount of skepticism. But she brought her best game that first night on Britain's Got Talent. And you know what? The rest of us are all just a little better because she did. In fact, if you google talent, guess whose face you'll see?

Today Jane Friedman, of the Writer's Digest variety...There Are No Rules poses the age-old question: Does talent eventually get discovered? 

One writer is very candid in her frustration related to the many mountains we must climb in order to become published. Let's face it, there probably is a glut out there. Even if a project truly is print worthy, it has to find its way into the right hands. Luck? Timing? Well, of course.

But add in just a dash of hard work, commitment, a skin made of leather...lots of chocolate and a great sense of humor, oh...and flexibility too--that's all you need. You might as well pack a suitcase, because you're in it for the long haul. What Susan Boyle found on that stage that night was not fame or fortune...of course that will come. But when she lit up the world with that smile, it was all about the validation--YES, you can...and she did. And so...Susan Boyle, in her own small way, made believers of us all.