sea salt

Moment of silence, April 22, 2013, 2:50pm On April 10 I was on a plane. Kevin and I were returning from a 2-week trip to the UK, where we had visited England, Wales, and Scotland. As we settled into our seats for the long flight home, I flipped through our guide book and itineraries, reliving each interaction, each long walk, each wonder that left us speechless, overtaken with beauty and history. One night I couldn't forget was the first night we spent in York. Famous for being the most haunted town in all of England, York seemed an exciting place for us to visit (Kevin loves all things haunted and spooky, while I shudder at night when the wind blows through the trees. We're quite a pair.). After a long walk through the city, we ate dinner at The Golden Fleece - the most haunted pub in York, with over 100 different ghosts reported through the years. The interior was dark and cramped, and the air was heavy. I got chills just looking at the photos on the wall, the "B...

At the Hyannis Half Marathon, two months before I ran the 2007 Boston Marathon Yesterday I watched in horror as the TV screen at our office showed live footage of the explosions at the Boston Marathon. I texted my cousin, who was running, and then I just sat in disbelief. Even though I was two miles away, safe in my office, and would return safely home (thanks to a friend giving me a ride so I could avoid the trains), it felt so close. My beautiful city stained with blood. The beautiful tradition of the race forever haunted. A beautiful day marked by terror. I went home and cried into Kevin's arms. And then we prayed for the families of the victims, for the city of Boston, for the first responders...and for the people who would no longer stand, walk, or run on their own two legs. Like many people, I was horrified to hear stories and see graphic images of people who had lost limbs in the explosion. But I couldn't help thinking about what would happen next for them. For...

Next week I am going to make my own wedding cake. No, I've never made a wedding cake before. Yes, I am already married. On October 2, I'll be celebrating two years of marriage with my wonderful husband. We had the best wedding either of us has ever been to (that's the point, right?), and of course that included a delicious cake. Admittedly, we let our moms pick the flavors, as we let them decide on everything except flowers (I insisted on sunflowers) and music (we picked our own live band). Neither of us wanted a cake that was too fancy or fussy, so we asked the decorator to simply pipe on the design from our invitations, a simple orange outline of leaves on a vine, topped with two birds in wedding clothes. It was perfect. Per the custom, they sent us away with the top of the cake to freeze and eat on our first wedding anniversary. But not per the custom, we couldn't take the cake with us, as we were leaving the next day on a one-way flight to Nashville , wher...

“The fish is cooked really well. And the mushrooms have a perfect blend of oil and salt - not too much of either.” Our waitress beamed when I said this, and hurried off to bring the next course. My husband Kevin and I looked at each other across the small candlelit table and waited until the waitress was out of earshot before laughing. I wrote a few notes in my notebook, sitting conspicuously next to my plate, and Kevin took a few pictures with his iPhone. We were at a special, sold-out, reservations-only chef’s tasting at a new bistro about to open in Jamaica Plain. A glowing review from an influential food critic would probably help the future of the restaurant. For $10 each, we sampled 8 plates of savory and sweet creations. From candied brussel sprouts to rabbit ragu, to honey caviar and hazelnut mousse, we felt totally in…which meant everyone else was out. And literally, too. The doors were locked and passers-by peered in the window at the cozy arrangement of tables and coupl...

I walked into our bedroom and the bags were packed. Suitcases bulging with t-shirts and socks covered the bed, and trash bags filled with old clothes lined the wall, waiting for their trip to Goodwill. I burst into tears. Heavy sobs and an intense panic took over my body: what will I do now? My husband is not leaving me. In fact, I knew that today, while I was at work, he was at home packing, preparing for our trip tomorrow from Nashville to Boston. His new job starts on Monday, and so he is going first, to settle back in, to find us an apartment, to prepare for my arrival a month later. We joked about how the time would fly, how we would Skype everyday as we did during our engagement, half of which we spent in different states. I know I will be fine, and I know this is the most practical way to move, and I know that in one month, when we are reunited, it will seem that no time has passed at all. But that didn't make the sight of packed suitcases any easier to bear. I t...

Pellegrino was not my grandfather.  He was not even related to me.  He was an old man with broken English who smoked on the porch and wore a red knit cardigan from September - May.   Every morning I came down from my third floor apartment, left the house and said, "Buongiorno!" and he would check his watch and say, "You late!  You sleep all a-day!"  Every evening I'd come home and say, "Buona sera!" and he'd say, "You late!  You been sleeping all a-day!"  Some days I thought he might really be crazy; other days I thought he was just being silly; most days I thought he was a combination of both, so like my grandfather in the years before he died. Today I found out that Pellegrino died in January.  He was in his 80s, he had bladder cancer, and he had been living with his daughter since last year.  I moved out of the apartment in 2009, and missed him when I came down from my new third floor apartment every day to an empty porch, wishing ...

We arrived in Nashville a week ago. This time it was a one-way flight, a permanent move, a plan to stay. He has been living here, and now I live here, and so we will live here. Here is where we are. The list of things to do grows every day. I am used to changing my address (I had four addresses in the five years I lived in Massachusetts), but this is a new geographical identity. The first order of business is the car that brought me here. Beyond the obvious changes (Tennessee license plate, Tennessee license, local car insurance), there are the minor adjustments: remove at least one ice scraper from the trunk, store the shovel, snow brush, and insulated gloves, and peel off the parking stickers that have become a part of my peripheral vision while driving. Like all major cities, Boston and its surrounding neighborhoods have limited space for parking. People move to the cities faster than the cities can create more space, so the solution is to zone off streets for resident park...

(Photo courtesy of: Marie Gabrielle ) My parents didn't remember under which weeping willow my father proposed to my mother, forty years ago on the Public Garden in Boston.  To prove that he's not a jerk, my dad listed off several of their early dates: to the movies to see The Graduate , dinner at the top of the Prudential Center, a day trip to Cape Cod.  "Do you remember when you said 'I love you'?" I asked. "Yeah, three or four times a day," my father replied. "No, but when?  Where?  The first time?" "I don't remember." "Mom?" She laughed.  "I don't remember, either.  One of those things you think you'll always remember." I was disheartened.  I remember the proposal like it was yesterday.  The jeans, the red striped shirt, the Styrofoam cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee, the cold sand under our feet because April in Boston is still not beach weather.  I remember the "I love you...

This morning I kept repeating the dreams to myself so I wouldn't forget them: sharks and wedding, sharks and wedding, sharks and wedding... I wanted to remember the dreams so I could ask a friend at school what they meant. She is an amateur dream interpreter, a businesswoman, teacher, mother, and wife. I trust her opinion. It was a restless night, and I never slept for more than an hour at a time. Each time I fell back asleep, I re-entered the dream I'd been having, one of two vivid dreams that I'd never had before. Dream 1: We are in a boathouse at the end of a dock leading back to a house. The boathouse and dock are surrounded by choppy water rising up in angry waves around us and splashing the dock. We hold hands and run from the boathouse to the new house, but as we run along the dock we are attacked by sharks. The sharks are everywhere, and there seem to be millions of them - they jump up and snap at us, they land on the dock and thrash their bodies, they b...

A few weeks ago on the train, I tried not to read over the shoulder of the young woman next to me.  I couldn't help it, though - she was reading the glossary of her book, and I had to know the words she was trying to learn. I saw one word and stopped reading.  I stopped because after one word I knew she was reading a book about music, and I stopped because the definition was so arresting I spent the rest of the train ride thinking about it: Monophony: a musical style employing a single melodic line without accompaniment. A single melodic line.  Without accompaniment.  Single.  Accompany.  Melody.  This concept was beautiful to me, as it defines both a musical style and a style of life.  Can one person - one single melodic line - create a melody?  Is it always necessary to be accompanied to give life to musical notes, bars, rests, and melodies?  Can a single melodic line resonate as powerfully as harmony?  As melodic li...

To confirm the actual date of the end of the Civil War, I consulted a history timeline. While the war officially ended in May of 1865, a series of events led up to the important day on which, in theory, a divided nation was reunited. This morning I came to an important realization: I am from nowhere. The date is February 16, 2010; the location is Boston, MA; the battleground is the train. Like the Civil War timeline, my own important date (today) is preceded by a list of previous events and circumstances that, while I didn't know it at the time, prepared and shaped me for the moment on the train. I call this moment my Civil Observation, which in turn led to the Realization that I am, in fact, from nowhere. I grew up in South Florida in a true melting pot that included many different groups of people: Jewish, Indian, Asian, and Latin American (I didn't have a crush on a white, American, Protestant boy until I got to college). My parents are from New England, like so many...

I. I've often considered how lucky I am to be a woman today, and not thirty, sixty, two hundred years ago.  I have never had to fight for my right to vote.  I was expected, not forbidden, to receive a quality education.  I'm praised for my job and my independence and for living on my own.  I only cook when I want to, and there is no earl, knight, or lord who can demand my body on the night of my wedding.  I'm a free woman. Next week I begin my second semester as an adjunct professor, teaching English Composition and World Literature.  Preparing for these courses has allowed me to dive back into the literature I studied as an undergrad, and has also introduced me to some wonderful literature from around the world.  I am teaching two stories by Sandra Cisneros - "Girl Hollering Creek" and "There Was a Man, There Was a Woman."  Cisneros is the American-born daughter of a Mexican family, and the Latino and Chicano woman'...

At Government Center train station, where I transfer from the green line of work to the blue line of home, I am privileged to hear free performances by a few of Boston's growing number of train station musicians. Some of these are quite talented (a guitar player at Park Street who sings country songs, a trumpeter at Davis Square who plays Beatles and Van Morrison tunes); others simply play and sing because they know how. Either way, they are hard to ignore - they are singing to get your attention, and hopefully, your money. A few weeks ago someone got my attention - he was softly playing the guitar, looking down, not singing. Yet when I heard the notes my heart stood at attention, this familiar melody calling me to a deep peace that I'd known since childhood. The song was "Trust and Obey," a hymn composed by Daniel Brink Towner in the late 1880s. I have known every word of this song since I was a child, though I have never sung it in church. My mother used to si...

This morning I made a very conscious decision not to help someone.  This is, I'm proud to say, fairly out of character for me, as I really try to keep an eye out for people who need a hand with the door, people with one too many bags in their arms, parents trying to maneuver their strollers on and off the train.  This kind of active helping and awareness has been modeled for me my entire life, and is now almost an instinctual reaction - someone needs help, so let it be me. This morning, I did not help.  I looked at him long and hard, lingered for a moment, and kept going. I didn't see him right away.  I exited the blue line train at Government Center, where I transfer to the green line.  There was a crowd of people backed up on one side of the staircase, and the clog seemed to be halfway up the stairs.  Slowly the people moved to the left and weaved between the people coming down the stairs to make their way up.  I followed them until I sa...

Winthrop is not known as a surfing community.  We have the ocean, beautiful and active, but it is cold, and the waves are not remarkably big, except during storms.  We're no California. This morning I went for a chilly run along the beach.  It was a gray morning, and the low cloud cover swallowed up the tiny orange flash of sun at the edge of the horizon.  A thin stripe of pink stretched between the clouds and the ocean, and the water was calm.  Seagulls whined as they trolled the beach for food, and a black Labrador ran in and out of the surf.  I haven't seen my iPod since the first week after my move to the new apartment, so I've been running to the tune of the sea, the wind, the gulls, the "good morning"s of other runners, the cars, the stomp of my feet as they hit the sidewalk.  Strangely, opening my ears has allowed me to see better, my vision constantly directed to the subtle noises of life around me. As I jogged south towards Po...