WriteRunRead Blog

I love what technology can do - mostly.  It enables me to write and read virtually anything in the world, with just the touch of a screen.  I can watch movies and listen to music and escape with the Internet at my fingertips. And yet, upon looking around my kitchen, all I see are chargers and blackberries and iPods and laptops.  It's disturbing, truly.  How did all this metal and plastic and batteries pile up?  Gradually, for sure, but nonetheless, it's all here.  We're connected.  I feel the technology zapping through the air in my house.  Someone mentioned to me recently that all of this "wifi" floating around the airwaves is not good for your brain.  When will we witness the ramifications, the "side-effects?" Ironically, while we don't really know how and to what extent the digital delivery of information and music and other such entertainment will affect us, we're happily tossing it at our children, without a second thought.  Sch...

I was driving the other day and trying to get out of a parking lot and onto a busy road.  Traffic was heavy with frenzied shoppers filled with holiday spirit.  Not one car would slow down to let me in (or out).  I figured everyone was in a hurry, in a big rush to meet their deadlines and that sort of thing. Finally, traffic slowed as the cars were reaching a red stoplight.  I thought, "Hey, this is my chance, somebody will let me in now, since all of these drivers are soon to reach a red light."  My car was clearly sticking out of the lot, trying patiently to get into the road.  But no one slowed down. Then a car approached and when it got near me and saw that I was waiting, the driver sped up quickly (to the red light) so that I wouldn't get the wrong idea: he was not letting me in, no way! Well, as it happened, I was able to pull into the road right after this not-so-courteous driver.  And guess what his bumper sticker said: "Keep Christ In C...

My parents decided to skip Christmas in New York this year.  They have a home in Florida, where the climate is milder and the pace is mellower.  They can golf, see their friends, play cards, swim -- you get the picture.  So they left yesterday.  That's it. Several months ago they informed my sisters and me of their plan to leave on December 14th for the entire winter season.  Eleven days before Christmas.  While we were never the most religious family, we did observe the big holidays and celebrated in a big way.  Growing up, Christmas eve was always the most memorable night of the year.  We'd have family and friends and fish for dinner.  It was fantastic.  I still hold it as one of the highlights of my childhood. So I was very sad when I learned that they were leaving.  Before.  What about the grandchildren, the festivities, the wine and the being together?  It took me some time, but I've finally come to accept it...

What should your title be when you are not sure where the words are going to take you?  Do you keep writing without a title?  Does the sun shine without knowing whether she'll warm anyone up? I guess you keep writing.  Any writer knows that.  Keep writing.  Keep going, on and on.  Whether or not someone will read it.  It's so great when you read someone's work and it's good...  There's nothing like it.  You read something great, sit in wonder, and then wonder, "Wow, can I ever do that?  Or, if you don't write, you might wonder, "Will I ever read something like that again?" I've been doing that.  Wondering.  Reading and wondering.  Not writing so much.  But I should. It doesn't matter if anyone will ever read it, writing is the process, the art, the end product.

I was delighted today to drive past a car with the license plate: READ4FUN.  It made me happy.  A small thing like that.  Just when I started to feel that people were giving up on reading for fun, and choosing instead to text and play Call of Duty or something else that squanders your brain rather than nourishing it. Speaking of brain nourishment, if you happen to be looking for a holiday gift for a child, I highly recommend "The Invention of Hugo Cabret " by Brian Selznick.  It is a wonderful tome, seemingly lengthy and intimidating for less-than-eager readers, but while it is an ample book, it is full of gorgeous illustrations. I came across Hugo Cabret at my local library, brought it home for my daughter (10 years-old) and she read it immediately.  The drawings drew her in.  She literally could not put it down.  It's a beauty: the words, illustrations, the feel of the book.  When she was half-way through, she said, "Mom, you have to read t...

As I was folding a set of twin sheets, fresh from the warm dryer, it occurred to me that I have no idea how to properly fold a "fitted" sheet.  I never did.  Every time I make an attempt, it turns out looking like one big bundled mess that hopefully will de-wrinkle once it's spread across the mattress. I realized that my mom never taught me how to fold a fitted sheet.  She also didn't teach me or my two sisters how to iron anything -- or to sew.  She did work four to five days a week, running her own "shop" (a beauty parlor or "salon" as it would be called today).  She was a hairdresser, on her feet all day, making women look pretty.  I remember wishing my mom spent more time at home.  She was always busy:  working, cooking, food shopping, etc. On this eve of Thanksgiving, I am grateful for my mom and for all that she didn't teach me.

So, my almost 12 year-old plays travel ice hockey.  He's been playing the game for five years.  It's a fairly rough sport, lots of aggressive plays and skating and all that.  When you reach age 11, you are considered a "Pee Wee Minor." What that means is, you are allowed and expected - to "check" opposing players, when you see fit. Usually, the checking is for purposes of regaining possession of the puck (although sometimes the checks are gratuitous).  It can be brutal, but if it's a clean "check" then you're okay with the refs.  Kids get hit, shoved, pushed down, crushed even, and it's all just part of the game.  You can sometimes even hear some of the parents yelling, "Hit him!!!" from the stands.  Or, "That's a great hit!!!" Barbaric sounding, I know.  And it is - to an extent.  Especially when you see kids who have not hit puberty take a nasty hit from another 12 year-old twice their size. So, my almost...

Yoga is special to me, it's essential for my mind and body.  After a few years of bopping around from class to class, trying out one studio or another, I came upon a local mom who teaches yoga to some other local moms. Last year, I tried to attend her class once a week.  Every Tuesday morning, upon leaving her studio, I would feel grounded and serene, ready to re-enter the real world.  It was very pleasant.  But something more has happened this year, as I get to know her and learn the practice better: she is a very skilled instructor. A few weeks back, I was reluctant to go to class, as I had an aching muscle in my upper back.  I thought it would be too painful and perhaps I would injure it more by practicing yoga.  My teacher insisted I come, saying she would be mindful of the injury and help me through it. Well, this local yoga-instructor-mom took care of me.  She modified the poses for my temporary condition and even massaged some miracle oint...

My last blog detailed an unanticipated, panic-infused detour through unknown and dizzying streets.  Funny thing is, sometimes I feel that way right here in the suburbs. I feel that way when I walk into an indoor tennis establishment and the woman behind me shoves right past me to follow her child into the building.  Literally, she nudges me aside and only excuses herself when I say something out loud (albeit quietly, not even meaning for her to hear), something such as "Oh my, excuse me."  She was caught off guard, not expecting to be called on her rude behavior.  No wonder her kid was shoving past mine. Or the time at the deli counter line in the grocery store and I was asking the man about the cold cuts he just sliced for me (making sure they were mine) and some woman said indignantly and rather loudly, "You know, I have a baby in the car."  And just when I was about to say, "Oh my God, take care of her order  she left a baby in the car!" She added, ...

So, I'm driving into the city from Long Island today, fairly routine, heading to the Triboro (a.k.a. the RFK Bridge) from the Grand Central.  I don't know what happened but I must have taken the wrong exit and I ended up on Astoria Boulevard.  Once I realized that I had taken a wrong turn, I called my sister in a frenzy, ready to cancel our plans. I couldn't find my way back to the Parkway, so I went in and out of a bunch of Queens streets without any clue as to where the main roads were located. I had my daughter in the car and no G.P.S.  Fortunately my sister happens to have a very good friend who lives in Forest Hills.  She heard even more panic in my voice after I approached my second detour in a community that was completely unfamiliar to me.  She had her friend Adam call me. He's kind of a jokester and when he called me while I was driving, he started kidding me about the "crack" neighborhood I was driving through.  I lost my sense of humor while ...

If you've been reading my blogs over the past several years, you may remember a posting or two (or three!) about personalized license plates.  It's an admitted obsession of mine, ever since I had my very first car and personalized plate in 1984: JEWEL-2 . So anytime I see one on the road that is particularly clever or confusing, I jot it down in a small notebook I carry around for just those occasions.  Well, this past week I saw some really good ones.  Sometimes the setting within which the car is located adds to the plate's allure.  Just last weekend, at the Tanger Outlet in Riverhead, there was a Toyota with the plate: SHOPNROL. Farther down the island in Montauk, was a tag identifying the town with some local flavor: MONTALK. I was afraid to meet the woman behind the wheel of the SUV with the mean plate: EVLWOMAN.  Her car was adorned with all sorts of skulls in various shapes and sizes. A strange one that I didn't understand read: THE SOFA.  Wh...

My mother-in-law and I were in one of those Town Cars, being driven into the city for my husband's birthday dinner.  As the driver was veering onto an exit for the Grand Central Parkway, the traffic slowed a great deal, perhaps unexpectedly.  Within moments, a car slammed into the back of our Town Car.  That driver must have been moving pretty fast, because the impact was harsh, startling and caused a great deal of damage to both automobiles. It was frightening, but we were both okay.  So were the drivers of both cars.  That was a relief.  Next came the exchanging of information on the shoulder of the Grand Central, with dense traffic all around.  The men decided they were going to call the police.  As we sat there making sure we were both alright, considering our necks and any aches we may have developed, we were also wondering how long we might be waiting for the two drivers to work it all out. At that moment, a NYC taxicab alighted on the s...

My last blog about time is the perfect precursor to a blog about my recent high school reunion. Time.  It's difficult to measure (even though we have clocks, that's not what I am getting at), it's impossible to grasp.  It is sort of like the wind: you feel it, know it's there but can't hold on to it.  Time keeps us company and yet leaves us no matter what we are doing. A strange and surreal way to measure time is to attend your high school reunion.  It's been 25 years -- 25 summers, New Year's Eves, Christmases...  By virtue of seeing old friends (some very special), some just acquaintances (but still a trip to see!), looking into their "maturer" faces -- proves that time has been passing. It was a fun night, filled with reminiscing and laughter.  What's that saying, "there's nothing like old friends?" We're all 25 years older.  But isn't everyone the same?

After being introduced to a woman who was getting ready to conduct an informational program at the Bryant Library, we got to talking.  The person who introduced us, explained that I was a Trustee on the Board at the Library and proceeded to tell her that I was in a Master's Program for Library and Information Science. She asked how long it would take for me to complete the program and earn the degree.  I said I wasn't sure, that it's 36 credits and who knows how many classes I'll take each semester.  Maybe she read the dismay on my face, as I was automatically considering that nagging question: wow, how long is it going to take me ? Because the next thing she said went something like this, "Well, time is going to pass by no matter what you're doing, so -- that's great." I can't get that statement out of my head.  Time is going to pass by anyway.  It is. That's one certainty.  So why not fill it with things that enrich and enlighten us? So...

For almost three years, I've been conducting an ONLINE book discussion for the organization, Gotham City Networking, Inc.  (www.gothamnetworking.com).  It all started with the book "Water For Elephants" and author Sara Gruen.  We didn't start out thinking that the author would be involved.  It was your basic book club meeting with a twist: our group would read the book and meet online to discuss the novel virtually .  It was all set. I decided to try to contact Sara Gruen's publicist or agent (by email), to see if Ms. Gruen would care to provide a comment or quote for my summary of the book, the few paragraphs I had planned to use to kick off the discussion.  Within 30 minutes, Sara Gruen herself emailed me back indicating that instead of providing merely a quote, she would happily participate in our online book discussion.  Wow!  Really?!  And she did. I was pleasantly surprised.  More than that, I was in awe.  Having Sara G...

This morning we brought our puppy Lucy in to the veterinarian's office to get spayed.  I know it's routine and good for her and all that, but it's still a surgical procedure, and she's still being left at a place where she doesn't know anyone and will hear a bunch of dogs barking all day.   A few days ago, I started to feel anxious about the procedure.  I felt protective of Lucy for the first time.  I was instantly reminded of the way I felt when my son was born and not 24 hours later, my obstetrician told me they were going to perform his circumcision.  I was tired and still delirious from the lengthy and painful labor.  But I felt intensely protective and possessive.  Seeing the fear in my expression, the doctor reassured me that it was routine and he'd be okay.  That was the first time I felt like a mother. As for Lucy, my 10 year-old daughter insisted that she come with me to bring her in for the appointment.  I said okay, but I was sec...

When I was a kid, then a "tween" (how aggravating is that term?), and then a full-fledged teenager, girls talked more than boys.  I'm not stereotyping here, that was my clear cut experience, hands down.  We were on the phone more, gossiped more, passed more notes (that's communicating!). I'm sure there are evolutionary reasons for this and I'm also aware that every rule has it's exception or two, so while not every single female talks more than every male, there is an element of reality here. Well, it's my theory that things are changing.  And it's Apple's doing.  The iChat has revolutionized communication in more ways than one.  I know not every kid has a Mac (or even any type of computer), but I'd bet that those who do, chat and communicate in unprecedented numbers. My son (a boy) was doing homework with his laptop on (and apparently the iChat program open) so that all of his "contacts" would know that he was "availab...

My son's inspiring coaches inspired me to write this blog entry.  These entries usually stem from something that stands out in my mind as extraordinary or enlightening.  This one is no different. My son moved from playing Tier 2 travel ice hockey for three years to playing Tier 1 for the first time.  He (and we) were not sure what to expect.  We heard about the commitment, the time and energy we would need to expend, as well as the demands on our son, the player, to work hard and improve his game, his skills, his speed. As he moves through these changes, learning and growing at every turn, I am sure we made the right choice for him.  The intensity of the game, the practices and the coaches, are worth every ounce of effort. His coaches demand and expect his respect, a solid work ethic and an appreciation for the rules. While at a tournament this past weekend, the boys had a 6:30 a.m. game scheduled for Sunday morning.  The quarterfinals.  The coac...

As I was putting away some folded laundry, I heard the shrieks of four 11 year-old boys echoing through the house, yelling, "Oh my God, did you see that!?" and "Wow, no way, did you see that tree fall!?" I dropped everything and went running. Apparently a small tree was uprooted by the wind and saturated earth and fell across the road, the only ingress and egress to and from my house.  At the moment the tree was falling, one boy's mom was about to drop him off here.  The tree fell right in front of her car. To add to the drama, my 10 year-old daughter was about to be dismissed from school and she was expecting me to pick her up within moments.  But the tree was blocking the road. One of my son's friends suggested that they walk to the school to pick her up.  Another offered to help move the tree.  My son volunteered to get a saw out of the garage. The five of us worked together to move the tree off the road and we broke limbs and branches so that car...

Are you a "dog" person?  I'm really not.  We had a couple of dogs growing up, they were around, sort of just took up space.  No one walked them or cuddled with them or even talked to them as far as I can remember.   My 10 year-old daughter has been begging for a dog ever since she could talk.  She has a love and an affinity for any dog she sees.  Pasted on her bedroom wall, right next to her bed - inches from her pillow - were computer printouts of random Pugs that she found on the Internet.  Her dad is allergic to dogs.   She was relentless in her requests: last spring, as her proficiency in computer program-use expanded, so did her requests for a dog.  She created a powerpoint presentation indicating various reasons and explanations as to why our family would benefit from having a dog.  She even included a section on how to deal with pet allergies! My husband caved.  We found a breeder of "schnoodles" who are supposed to be as ...

I don't watch a lot of T.V.  Who has the time?  But my sister and her kids were raving about Glee - an hour-long musical comedy-drama about the struggles of a resurrected Glee club at an Ohio-based high school. The show depicts the glee club's struggles to survive in an environment where the jocks and "cool kids," and even the school administrators, look down upon this group's musical endeavors.  But it also chronicles the glee club members' individual struggles to continue to sing and pursue their interests while the butt of intense and unbearable ridicule and harassment.  A lot of what goes on is overly dramatized and almost seems surreal, but there is a grain of truth to almost every situation and conversation and humiliation that these characters experience. I think the crux of the show, the message for everyone is to have tolerance, to let kids pursue their interests, have an open mind, live and let live. And Sue Sylvester is hysterical.

This morning I ran the Great Cow Harbor Race in Northport, one of the most beautiful places I've visited on Long Island.  At the start of this well-organized race, the sky was a rich blue, but the breeze a little too sticky and warm for my race goals. The community was out in numbers supporting the runners along the route with cups of water, sprinklers to run through and the "Rocky" theme blasting from giant speakers.  It was a lovely day.  Did I mention the heat? I don't know, I wasn't prepared, didn't realize how hot it was, didn't drink enough electrolytes, FORGOT MY IPOD at home, what-have-you - but it was a struggle.  And when I say struggle, I mean dizzy, felt faint and beet red by mile 5.  It was the first time during a race that I was considering walking. I didn't.  I continued running through the heat and weak legs and vertigo until I finally caught a glimpse of the finish line.  I sped up a bit to try to finish a little better. I was ...

Here's an entry I posted last September on the Gotham City Networking Blog page: "This past Saturday, my friend and I planned to run the semi-infamous 10K road race together. We don’t see each other often enough and race days are always a good way for us to “catch up.” We figured between the drive from Roslyn to Northport (and back), and the hanging around before and after the race, we’d have ample time to find out what we’ve been missing in each other’s lives. I sent my friend an email the night before the race, explaining that she would need to be at my house by 6:45 a.m. in order to make the shuttle bus from Northport High School to the start of the race. According to the directions, the shuttle ceases to run at 7:45 a.m. so that the Village can fully close the roads in preparation for the race. I woke up extra early, eager and excited for the race. My adrenaline seemed already to be kicking in and I had not even left my house. At 6:45 a.m., my friend had not arriv...

Over the summer, my blackberry got washed over by a wave in Atlantic Beach.  It was all salty and sandy and wet and useless.  It was over: every contact and notation and photograph wiped away as quickly as the flow of the surf. Yes, I had backed it all up on my Mac, but as it turned out, the version I had did not support the downloaded blackberry software that I used to back it up in the first place. What? Now you tell me?!  Anyway the point of this blog is not about backing up your information (although you must, in some form or another!), but rather that 35 minute drive home from Atlantic Beach to Roslyn in my car, alone, with no service.  Ha!  Sounds insane, yes?  Well, it is, but it's also true. I had a stirring anxiety in my body for that entire trip.  I had no phone, no way to contact another living soul.  And that caused me stress.  It was an involuntary reaction.  I wasn't thinking about it, I just felt it.  I can still r...

In all the months that I've conducted interviews of staff, trustees and administrative employees of the Bryant Library, I never once asked the "interviewee" what their favorite book is.  It would seem to be the most obvious question.  In all likelihood, people who work at libraries would have at least one or two on their list. Not only is it something that I'm curious about, but I think it would reveal a thing or two about that person.  Possibly expounding on "why" that's a favorite book choice would be a nice follow up query. Readers of this blog: would you care to tell me what your favorite book is -- and why?

The last time I set foot in a classroom (as a student!) was in 1992.  We had looseleaf paper and binders and maybe some yellow legal pads.  We sat in a lecture center or some form of a classroom and took out our paper, pens, textbooks, etc.  All hard copy. My experience last night as a graduate student at C.W. Post was remarkably different.  Set atop each "desk" or individual "table" was a 22" iMac.  Yes, an iMac.  I immediately texted my 11 year-old son (who I knew would be equally impressed) and told him.  He wrote back, "Can I come?" I was so excited to be in a classroom again.  I hung on to every word the professor uttered.  And it's a good thing I was paying attention.  She introduced "Blackboard" - a program that will be our lifeline to assignments,  our syllabus, various other weekly notations and tools, and -- to our professor. A young woman next to me, probably in her early 20s was zipping through Blackboard the way I zi...

It's been a long road: first they were babies, then preschoolers, now full-fledged elementary and middle school students.  (Hopefully, I'm on the middle of the road somewhere).  Years went by and I'm not sure what happened.  During those years when my children were tiny, I hardly noticed the time, the day, the month, even the year. There wasn't a moment that I wasn't doing something for someone else.  My entire existence became intertwined with that of my family's.  The lines were blurring, the experiences were another's, not mine.  It was getting more and more difficult to determine where the kids ended and I began. Maybe that's good, in a sense, to be so utterly connected with your children that you feel as one.  There's a special bond.  One that will last a lifetime.  So, yes, it is good.  But there's has to be a separation. Over the past five years I have volunteered to serve my local public library as a Trustee.  It's bee...

Is competitiveness a genetic trait that you either have or don't, that can be cultivated or not?  If you don't have it, can you ever truly know the will to win, to be the fastest, the best, at almost any cost? Watching the U.S. Open over the past two weeks has me wondering.  Especially yesterday's match between Federer and Djokovic - two talented, fierce tennis players, neither one relenting for a moment.  Then there was Kim Clijsters - who seemed to gracefully pummel her opponent with nary an inkling of sympathy.  Watching that one-sided match, I felt badly for Zvonareva, even though she was lacking decorum and sportsmanship throughout her breezy defeat. I've always loved sports, tennis especially.  I like to compete and test myself, but I don't feel the will to win at all costs.  I know many people who do.  Is it not in me?  Can it be taught effectively? What do you think?

The date will always give me a chill and evoke feelings of dread and sadness.  Time stood still that day.  Things happened in slow motion.  It was all so surreal and horrifying and unfathomable. Tomorrow, on this day, my son will be playing in his first Tier 1 ice hockey game.  He's been playing the game for over 3 years now, but never at this level.  It's a new experience for him, full of intense challenges.  When I heard the team had scheduled a game for September 11th, I felt uneasy.  Was it right to be playing a game (after all, it is just a game), on this sad day?  Would allowing our son to play indicate irreverence?   There's an article in today's "Newsday" about the topic (http://www.newsday.com/long-island/nassau/mixed-feelings-across-li-over-sept-11-youth-games-1.2274986). After giving it some thought, I decided that participating is okay, as long as we remember -- and remind our children.

ONE DAY by David Nicholls is a book about one day.  Each chapter chronicles the events of the same day each year - in this case it's July 15th (St. Swithin's Day in England). It's a love story, funny -- yet poignant and served up with just enough British humor.  We get to know Emma and Dexter, Em and Dex, our two protagonists, through an alternating narrative.  They seem like real people to me, with faults and hopes and dreams that sometimes don't work out.  When characters come to life like this, it's hard to believe they've been invented or imagined by another.  The dialogue is funny - and though I hate to say it, often "laugh out loud" funny. ONE DAY is a clever title: it connotes the one day on which we find out what has happened throughout the past year.  It's editing at its finest!  But I think David Nicholls also means for us to take something else away from his title and story. That is, one day our dreams may actually be realized, our ...

In the end (and I guess in the beginning too!) it's your family that you can count on.  What a cliche, right?  But most cliches are cliches for a reason - because they ring true far too often. Upon starting this blog, one of my sisters immediately became a "follower" so that she would be notified whenever I posted a new entry.  To me, that indicates loyalty, interest, respect, and caring for what I do.  For my writing.  For whatever I write.  I value that.  A few days later, my other sister also became a "follower" of my blog. I can count on them for this and for many other things.  I know that.  And they can count on me. When I had my first child, I was typically overwhelmed and having great difficulty nursing him in those early, blurry days of motherhood.  After just a day or two when I thought this new baby was starving and malnourished from my inability to feed him naturally, my sister (on to her third baby at the time) insiste...

Do you remember the scent of a freshly sharpened #2 pencil? The subtle combination of wood shavings and metallic lead? Does the sheer mention of this bring you back somewhere?  To another place and time, entirely? I can't remember what it was like to just write, you know, with simply a pencil or pen, exclusively.  The days when keyboards were barely an idea -- still infant typewriters.  Our handwriting mattered, we practiced it with our sharp pencils for inordinate amounts of time it seemed. Now there's keyboarding.  Kids take a course called keyboarding.  Penmanship is falling by the wayside.  Quickly too. In my very old house, inserted on the inside of a small oddly-shaped closet door (in the kitchen) is a metal pencil sharpener affixed to the interior door.  The kind you have to "crank" to operate. I think I'll leave it there.

Upon stepping into the sunshine today, I was instantly reminded of the beautiful Leo Lionni children's book, FREDERICK, about a mouse who is clever enough to soak up the sun's rays to store away for the cold, dreary impending winter days. It's too easy to take these beautiful sunny days for granted, especially given the summer of sunshine we have been fortunate enough to experience.  Frederick is a smart mouse with some poetic ideas about taking what we're given and keeping it within you to savor now and also later.

Dear Google: With all due respect, I am writing to inform you that the term "followers" is not complimentary and may put off some otherwise willing "followers" if only the term was something more encouraging and less demeaning. There are probably at least half a dozen or so more readers out there who would be "followers" of my blog if only the category were not so stigmatizing.  Perhaps you (Google) could try a new term, something less pathetic sounding, more enticing, such as: "readers," "fans," "groupies," -- get the picture? Not too many people are proud to be followers.  Aren't we taught -- as early as grade school -- not to be a follower, but instead, to be a leader? Respectfully yours, julie

As Labor Day weekend creeps in, with all its ominous hurricane predictions, I begin conjuring images of crunchy autumn leaves and new textbooks and frenetic kids and school buses flooding our roads. The delirious dad skipping down the aisles in a STAPLES commercial sums it up for many parents.  Yippee, school's open, "Drive Safely" and all that, but make no mistake, school's OPEN!   Funny though, what I hear more and more often as my kids grow and take on more responsibilities, both with homework and extra-curricular activities, is that parents are not excited for school to begin.  It seems that many of the moms I know are dreading it all: the schedules, the homework, the driving, packing the lunches, the snacks, and so on. Our kids responsibilities have become our jobs.  One friend has said on several occasions, "I can't talk now, we are doing homework."  I really don't understand how our kids' homework has become "our" homework.  ...

Maybe it's my faulty memory creeping up on me again, but I don't remember decorating the interior of my middle school or high school locker.  Do you? I had one of those recurring, "we didn't do this (have this, you insert the appropriate verb) when we were kids" moments.  At my son's middle school orientation, there were five-foot long tables set up with all sorts of "stuff" with which students (read: their parents) could buy to decorate their lockers. The items ranged from mirrors to shelving (of varying sizes and colors), to magnetic sport team clings, "wall paper," pencil and cell phone holders.  Yes, there was a little contraption for sale that magnetically clings to your locker that will hold a child's cell phone. It's just another way of turning something simple into something not so simple.  We used to just put our books in our lockers, and maybe tape up a ripped out page of Shaun Cassidy from "TIGER BEAT." Th...

As my son begins middle school next week, his first year out of elementary school, I am eager and excited for all that he will likely experience.  Part of this happy anticipation is the result of a school directive to all incoming sixth graders:  their required summer reading. Every single student in sixth grade was expected to read the "young readers edition" of  "THREE CUPS OF TEA" by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin.  THREE CUPS OF TEA is an account of a climber's efforts to build more than sixty schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan.  According to the summary, Mortenson has dedicated "his life to building literacy and peace, one child at a time." If that is the message, then how lucky are these kids?  Literacy and Peace.  If each student takes just an iota of those sentiments away with them as they embark on a new experience of learning and friendship, then we'll all be lucky. My son loved the book. Thank you Greg Mortenson and the R...

Because books are my passion (along with running and writing),  I thought I'd begin my first blog on this site describing a newly discovered treat: the audiobook! I've been running for a couple of decades now, mostly for fitness - but more importantly for a clear mind.  Before the iPod, I favored the SONY Walkman as company along my solo runs.  It should have been called the RunWoman.  No matter, it played whatever lovely music I chose throughout whatever distance I conjured. And just when I thought running couldn't get any better, I discovered the audiobook.  My first selection, albeit influenced by the current cinema, was EAT PRAY LOVE by Elizabeth Gilbert.  Running in suburbia through Rome, India and Bali was remarkably satisfying.  I explored foreign lands and experiences in "my own backyard." It has been amazing.  So great in fact - that my run would be over and when the chapter wasn't, I would take a detour down another road, so that I...