Earthenware on the road to Abydos, Egypt. 2009.
The Saturday Blog: Urns
18 Saturday Jan 2014
Posted in Art
Tag Archives: The Write Side of 50
Michelle, Let’s ‘Tini
17 Friday Jan 2014
Posted in News
She dances too. Photo courtesy of theguardian.com.
First Lady Michelle Obama turns 50 today. Front and center in today’s New York Times is a feature about how she’s “finding her own path.” But what impressed me most about this piece is what reporter Jennifer Steinhauer, and her editor, chose as the lede. Because what it put front and center, and told us at the top, is that Ms. Obama is a girlfriend.
She has perfected a mean forehand, is working on her yoga poses, dishes with girlfriends over brussels sprouts and dirty martinis (one olive) at the Mediterranean hotspot Zaytinya, pushes her two daughters to play two sports — one of her choosing and one of theirs — and said this week that the wonders of modern dermatology, like Botox, are in the realm of possibility for her.
While I’m already a fan of hers (even more so, since I’ve learned, like me, she “dishes” over dirty martinis), I’m giving her an extra nod because she’s in touch with her female-friendship side – crucial for aging well. Smart women know this.
And while this is not new news, and I realize Julie and I trumpet incessantly about how much we love, and need, our girlfriends, its value is always worth noting. Let this piece on our first lady nudge all women in middle age to put front and center – along with keeping ourselves fit, eating right, staying mentally engaged, nurturing our families, saving the planet, doing for those less fortunate – time with our gal pals.
So Happy Birthday, Ms. Obama. (Can I call you Michelle?)
I’m Not a ‘Senior,’ But I Have My Moments
16 Thursday Jan 2014
Posted in Confessional
Birding is one thing that trumps those “senior moments.”
A few weeks ago, I was writing an e-mail to a friend that my older niece, who only the other day fit comfortably in the crook of my arm, is getting married. I was merrily typing along, and then went back to re-read what I wrote. As a copy editor, that’s second nature.
I was shocked by what I saw. As I speed-typed along, I had put in words that sounded like, but were not the words I’d intended, dropped letters or words, and transposed letters. It looked like someone’s cat had walked across the keyboard.
I’m sure that, like me, you’ve dashed off an e-mail, briefly scanned it, and then hit “send” only to later see you’d put in an extra letter or dropped a few. Most people don’t care about this. In my line of work, such errors could get me fired.
That’s bad enough. I’ve also been guilty of walking into the kitchen to do something, get about halfway in, and then not remember why I came. I am forced to backtrack, and hope something will remind me. Senior moment.
I don’t consider myself a senior. Seniors are people over 65 – what used to be retirement age until the 2008 recession wiped out enough of our nest eggs to force us to keep working. But someone – no doubt under the age of 50 – coined the phrase “senior moment” and that has stuck.
My mother-in-law recently turned 80. For a long time she feared she was going the way of her mother, who died after years of Alzheimer’s. Now, she doesn’t care. Her excuse for whatever she forgot: “senior moment” trips off her tongue.
I’ve gotten into my car, and started driving and then pulled over in a panic, unable to remember my route. No, I don’t use GPS, I use my brain. And a map in the glove compartment.
Working out how to overcome these moments is an exercise in memory, like doing crossword puzzles. As with physical exercise, it’s hard work.
I’ve tried to slow down. When I write, I wait for the software program to alert me, in red, that I’ve misspelled something, although that doesn’t work if I write “punish” when I mean “publish” or drop several words I’d intended to include. Before I leave for someplace, I work out the route in my head. It forces me to cope. And then I come home to do more crossword puzzles.
However, I do not get senior moments when it comes to birds. I know which “life birds” I’ve seen, and which I’m seeking. I know the areas where I can successfully find particular birds depending on the season. I remember where they like to hang out, their calls and field marks. There is no stress involved, and it’s something I love to do.
That must be the connection.
Allow me to coin the phrase “junior moment” for those times when you are doing something you enjoy, and feeling like a kid again.
It’s Gonna Snow! Get the Bread and Milk!
15 Wednesday Jan 2014
Tags
It’s all about the white.
What is it about snow that makes people crave bread, milk, and eggs? Whenever the forecast in the New York/New Jersey area calls for more than a dusting of snow, the supermarkets fill up with frenzied shoppers “stocking up” on bread, milk, and eggs. Is this really necessary?
Does everyone plan to sit out the snowstorm munching on egg sandwiches and glasses of milk? Or are they going to bake cookies with the milk and eggs? Then why the bread? And why no run on baking flour? Why isn’t everyone out there buying chicken, yams, and asparagus? At least you can make a decent complete meal out of those.
People also fill up their cars with gasoline before a storm – even though they’ll do little or no driving if there’s a significant snowfall. Does it make them feel more secure knowing that rounded lump buried in the driveway under three feet of snow has enough fuel to take the vehicle to Cleveland and back – if only you could drive it down the block?
In any event, when was the last time it snowed so much you were trapped in your house and couldn’t dig your way out to the store before your existing, everyday, supply of bread, milk and eggs ran out or went bad? Even the worst blizzard in New Jersey is cleared away, and the roads are passable within a day – or at most a day and a half – of the last flakes falling. Are people afraid the supply trucks can’t get to the supermarket after a big storm, and our local quota of bread, milk and eggs will dry up so we’d better stock up while we can? But when has that ever happened? Not in my lifetime.
I’ll tell you what has happened, though: my local supermarket runs out of bread, milk, and eggs just before a big snowstorm because of all the panic buying. Or at least they run out of my favorite brands – I’ve been reduced to buying skim instead of 1% or 2% milk, wheat instead of good old nonnutritious white bread, and those weird brown eco-eggs that cost twice as much as regular white ones.
That’s it! It’s a white fetish! In anticipation of the world being covered in snow, everyone wants to be sure they have an ample supply of white foods. And bread, milk, and eggs just naturally top that list. White rice, shredded coconut, and lemon sherbet can’t be far behind. Heck, if snow were brown there’d be a run on chocolate, Brazil nuts, and day-old ground beef.
There isn’t a big snow event in the New Jersey forecast for the next few days, so we can all rest easy. For now. But when it all comes down, don’t get caught without your stash – be ready to white-up and hunker down for the long haul. All two days of it.
Years Disappear When Family Shows Up
14 Tuesday Jan 2014
Posted in Confessional, Men
Cousins Joe and Kevin.
After more than half a century on the planet, the odds are that each of us has made some friends with whom we have lost touch for many years. The amazing thing is that when we finally get together, often it seems like no time has passed at all. I found out recently that the good-friend phenomenon extends to some family members as well.
Those who read this blog regularly may remember that in 2013, after 40 years, I met up with my cousin in Denmark who shares the same name . Well, it so happens that he has two brothers, Joe and Kevin, whom I also have not seen for long periods of time. I last saw my cousin Joe in 1987, and my cousin Kevin in 1977. There was no reason for the lack of personal contact – we were all just living our lives. Our common grandparents had died, and we just lost touch.
So when my cousin Joe’s wife Loretta contacted me via Facebook a few years back, it was a pleasant surprise. Joe had married Loretta after the last time I had seen him, so Loretta and I had never met. But she found me on Facebook, and we kept in touch that way.
Then, in December 2013, Loretta let me know she was planning a surprise 65th party for Joe. She didn’t expect me to come. She was just hoping I would write a message that she would place in a book of good wishes she was preparing to give Joe for his birthday. But I recognized that we are all at an age when we can’t be sure there will ever be another opportunity to get together. Illness or other impediments might make it impossible sometime soon. So after talking it over with my wife, we decided to fly for the weekend from New Jersey down to Charlotte, North Carolina, where Joe and Loretta make their home.
We were booked to fly down early on Saturday morning, and home on Sunday night.
That Thursday night, a snowstorm hit New Jersey. On Friday, we dug out from the six inches of snow and packed our bags. Saturday morning we awoke to a temperature of 8 degrees and headed to the airport with our fingers crossed that the flight would not be canceled. It turned out that not only did the flight leave on time, we arrived early. The 38 degree temperature we were greeted with in Charlotte seemed tropical by comparison.
That night we found our way to the site of the surprise party, and were greeted by Joe’s daughter, Leslie. My wife and I had met up with Leslie in 2012, but before that, we had not seen her since she was six. It’s interesting to see how kids turn out, and Leslie has turned out great. Of course, I missed all the drama years in between 6 and 32. I think that old adage about not wanting to see how the sausage is made applies to kids as well. It’s the end product that matters.
Pat met Pat.
Soon, other guests arrived, including my cousin Kevin. As soon as he walked into the room I knew him, even though I had not seen him in almost 37 years. We embraced, and began to catch up on each other’s lives. Kevin introduced his wife, Pat, and I introduced my wife, Pat. It was a “Pat Terranella meet Pat Terranella” moment that reminded me of my meeting with the other Frank Terranella in Denmark last year.
Kevin and I found that we both married our Pats in the same year – 1978. Then came the main event. My cousin Joe entered the room to a thunderous “Surprise!” and a round of “Happy Birthday.” I was standing towards the back of the room with my cousin Kevin. Joe immediately spotted me and called out my name. As with Kevin, we embraced and began the process of updating each other.
It was amazing how the years fell away. We were soon reminiscing about our youth spent at Lake Hopatcong, and remembering our common grandparents. By the end of the night, it was just as if Kevin, Joe and I had seen each other regularly for all those
decades.
I was happy we had made the effort to fly in for the party. It felt good to re-establish some old relationships. It felt that the karmic balance had been restored and I think our grandfather, the senior Frank Terranella, was smiling down on “his boys.”
But, of course, no good deed goes unpunished. Our flight back was delayed seven hours, and we got home at 3:30 Monday morning. Maybe our next reunion will be in New Jersey.
They Come with a Walk in the Park: A Piano Man; The Pigeon Man
13 Monday Jan 2014
Posted in Concepts
Washington Square Park.
On New Year’s Eve day, I walked through Washington Square Park. Perhaps you are familiar with it – either because you have been there, or have watched the movie “Barefoot in the Park,” and especially that final scene where Robert Redford, adorable and all of 31 years of age, runs barefoot through Washington Square Park to prove to his wife that he likes to have fun.
That image of him jumping drunkenly over the benches that surround the fountain, and giving away his shoes in sub-freezing temperatures never fails to enter my mind as I cross under the the Arc de Triomphe-like arch that graces the north entrance to the park. Years ago, I planned to walk though the park barefoot. It never happened, and now it won’t. It is definitely not on my post-55 to do list, unless Lois, who loves to walk barefoot, wants to go for a barefoot stroll one day after martinis.
And then I heard music: a piano trickle. I turned around, and there was this guy playing away on a portable grand piano. 
It is not unusual to hear live music in non-traditional venues in the city, like subway stations and street corners. But this scene, on a somewhat chilly day in the middle of the park, struck me as particularly enjoyable. It was such a nice way to mark the last day of 2013. I put some money in his bucket, took in the concert for awhile, and went on my way.
Two minutes later, I stopped again because I had never seen anyone take on pigeons quite this way. This man was standing in the middle of a pigeon pool wearing pigeons from head to toe, completely undaunted by the thoughts of Alfred Hitchcock’s film, “The Birds.” 
I assumed he was not my discovery, and that his reputation was legendary. Well, perhaps not quite legendary, but his name is Larry, and he is known as the Pigeon Man of Washington Square Park. Photos of him and the birds are well represented all over the Internet. 
He made me wonder: how does one even begin to connect with a pigeon, assuming one wants to connect with a pigeon? I guess it starts with a piece of bread, and then day after day the trust grows? Who knows? But from that point on, it was an uneventful walk to Market Table for lunch, which by the way, is a delicious restaurant for farm to table dishes.
The Saturday Blog: Color
11 Saturday Jan 2014
Posted in Art
Colorful Antigua, Guatemala.
Bursting (Pants Included) Through the Holidays
10 Friday Jan 2014
Posted in Confessional, Food, Men
Tags
Bob Smith, confessional, Food, Holidays, Men, The Write Side of 50
Okay, it’s over. I’m 10 pounds overweight, feeling miserable, and resolving, like 29 million other Americans, to fight off the ravages of the recent holidays before (or rather, as) I bust out of my pants. I’ve got to at least put a dent in it before I have to put on a bathing suit again. And that could be as early as next month if I get my wish to go to Florida for the second half of this ugly New Jersey winter.
I admit it – I’m a victim of that giant end-of-year holiday “Hallothanksmaseveday,” which starts with the candy and costume ads on October 1, and runs right through to the blowing of the last noisemaker early on the morning of January 1. Four holidays are telescoped into a dizzying three-month orgy of candy, turkey, pumpkin pie, cookies, sugarplums (whatever they are), hams, yams, nog, logs (cheese and Yule), lights on trees, gifts galore, champagne, shrimp, long brunches, and tall Bloody Marys.
We’ve now entered a brief no-holiday season. Sure, there’s Martin Luther King Day and football playoffs and the Super Bowl in early February, but otherwise, the stretch between New Year’s and mid-February is relatively holiday-free. That brief respite looks like my best chance to get a serious start on losing the holiday fat before the parade of celebrations begins again.
Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Mother’s Day, Easter, Father’s Day, Memorial Day, and the start of summer, followed by the Fourth of July – that covers February to mid-year. August and September are relatively light, with only the traditional Labor Day lamentation of summer’s end to break up the monotony. But throw in the occasional birthday, anniversary party, or wedding, and the summer can be full of overindulgence opportunities, too.
Then it’s October 1, and the holiday marketing machine cranks up “Hallothanksmaseveday” all over again. What a life.
Happy New Year!
I’ve Faced It: I’m Wrinkled
09 Thursday Jan 2014
Posted in Confessional
It’s my birthday. I’m 59.
This year, I’ve decided to blow up the face part of a photo a friend took of me this past New Year’s Eve, one half at a time, and post them both for all to see. So, way at the bottom of this post (and smaller, and awash in sepia tones), is the other half of the picture on the right. The wrinkled, droopy-eyed, and crooked-toothed half. I would never have done this on my 58th birthday.
I take great pains to make sure a bad picture of me never circulates past the delete button on a camera. I have always hated having my picture taken (“No look!” I would yell when I was two. “Don’t put me on Facebook!” I yell today), but I traditionally make sure I do something singular for myself on my birthday. So my gift to me this year is to get over it, already. Face it. Of course I have wrinkles. I’m practically 60.
Those of you who know me well are most likely aghast at my courage. This cannot be understated. I can be vain, and prefer to keep my fading face off the grid, and out of my mind. Obviously, it’s a sham that I’m as ageless as I am in my mind’s eye – walking around with an eternal youthful glow that doesn’t even need candlelight. But what’s the use of an imagination if not to blur lines?
But I’m also right-minded. And while a picture never lies, a picture is also all about the angle. So, for my birthday, I’m pointing my point of view on aging and all that it can do to a face as a good photographer does with a camera – towards the truth in the shot; the subtleties that underlie what is in plain sight. My truth in the shot below being: those extra-long facial fissures illustrate a lifetime of smiling. And, I’m practically 60.
In a recent article by Gina Kolata in The New York Times on a study of aging skin was this quote from scientist, Dr. Adele C. Green:
“After 55, aging’s effects on skin start to predominate.”
Translation: Unless you fill it, freeze it, or lift and tug your cheeks to the back of your head, your skin is going to pucker, furrow, fold and groove all the way to the grave.
So, at least for today, and until I have a chance to check out Retin-A, I will share my (yes, sepia-ed, but otherwise untouched) bad shot. It’s written all over my face – I’m practically 60.
My 50s May Be Behind Me, But I Have the Theater, Front and Center
08 Wednesday Jan 2014
Posted in Art
I believe I, who is further right of 50 than the rest of you Write Side of 50 contributors, has earned the right to say that getting old has its challenges. That being said, there are some perks I would not give up – such as being able to indulge all my passions for live performance in all its forms, be it at early-morning rehearsals, middle-of-the-day concerts, and every once in a while, an evening gala.
Give me human flesh over digital synthesis any day, and I am in a good mood! So I attend a lot of New York Philharmonic concerts. Here’s a short synopsis of what thrilled me, and what I truly believe will thrill anyone, on the right or left side of 50:
The Philharmonic’s final concert of the fall season was its magnificent performance of Handel’s “Messiah.” Along with the full orchestra, the Westminster Choir belted out music that soared through the Avery Fisher auditorium.
Then there was the gala opening concert with the cellist, Yo-Yo Ma, who played Osvaldo’ Golijov’s, “Azul”, which had been written just for him. That, combined with a series of tangos by Astor Pantaleón Piazzolla, made it a double-header afternoon.
I had never heard of Piazzolla before (he was an Argentinian tango composer), and this was my first time having the privilege to hear Yo-Yo Ma. I do not know if any of you have ever watched him play. It is not merely his technical virtuosity of working his bow, and the cello’s strings, but his face and body. Nothing is sacrificed to make music.
One piece of music that will be on my list of favorites for ever and ever is Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Not just because it is one of the greatest symphonies ever written, but because it will always connect me to my late husband, who cherished this work above all others. So this season, when I saw that Alan Gilbert was conducting his first performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, I absolutely had to get a ticket. Again, none of my many recordings of the Ninth compare to experiencing the genius of this symphony played by the New York Philharmonic, and sung by the symphonic chorus of the Manhattan School of Music, including the outstanding soloists.
And in between I caught a little popular music- Thus sprach Zarathustra, by Richard Strauss (better known to us peasants as the music for the movie,”A Space Odyssey”), and a little romance via Strauss’s, “Don Juan”, which featured the retiring concert master and violinist, Glenn Dicterow. The music was beautiful, and beautifully interpreted.
I can hardly await the winter and spring season!
The Write Side of 59 