The Things We Take With Us And What We Leave Behind

The most memorable and significant trips in my life have been those from which there were many takeaways, whether they were fond memories of warm times with loved ones, new experiences tried and shared, delicious meals savored, or striking photographs documenting interesting, beautiful or unusual places visited.

We had many, many of these moments on our recent trip to Colorado, including seeing my son Justin perform with the talented 2012 company of Rocky Mountain Repertory Theater, which was the initial impetus for our journey.

This visit was notable, though, not just for what we brought home with us from Colorado, but also, for something very special we left behind.

We will remember so much of what we took away from nearly a week in Grand Lake … the number of stars you can see on a summer night more than a mile and a half above sea level, the look of accomplishment on your niece’s face when she climbs a rock higher than she’s ever seen before, the thrill of spotting a moose and her calf in the forest, longhorn sheep staking their long-held claim to the land you have just discovered, and countless elk grazing happily at the bottom of a mountain.

We’ll remember the rain that chilled us while we were out on horseback, and the smiles that warmed us pretty much everywhere else we went.  The beautiful voices we heard in a regional theater graced with superior talent and unparalleled hometown support.  The locally brewed beer, pulled pork, tequila shots, and chili verde that makes your insides hum.  The way your stomach lurches just a bit as you drive close to the edge of the twisting, narrow dirt road through the mountains.

The mountains. 

The Rocky Mountains. 

Our other reason for gathering as a family these past few days at the end of July. 

For longer than any of us can remember, the Rocky Mountains are where my mother wanted her physical remains to spend eternity after she passed on.  It was a desire she expressed over and over to pretty much anyone who was in a position to do anything about it.  Although truth be told, she was slightly more partial to the Canadian side than the lower 48.

Still, with Justin spending the summer at Rocky Mountain Rep in Grand Lake, at the western entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park, this was our best opportunity to gather the Appollo siblings, spouses and offspring, and carry out Mom’s final wish.  Colorado it would be.

And Colorado it was.

On our last full day together this past Sunday morning, the family gathered for a caravan to the park.  As Mom was in our car, she got serenaded with show tunes on the way up to Medicine Bow, an area my sister-in-law Karen suggested after their visit the day before. 

We hiked to a spot rimmed with snow-touched peaks, overlooking a deep valley dotted with the sparse shrubbery and wildflowers that will grow above tree level.  Only the scrappiest and most tenacious thrive here.  If you knew my mom, you’d know just how appropriate it was.

We shared our thoughts about the moment, some profound, some profoundly funny, and each of us took a turn scattering Mom’s ashes in a place we know she would have loved and will be content forever.  We cried.  We hugged.  We laughed.  And most importantly, we were together.  My brother, his wife and their children.  Me, my husband, and mine.  Also with us -- if not physically -- my mom’s friends and all of our extended family, so many of whom had shared their blessings on our journey.  We felt your presence that day, and it made it that much more special to know you were with us in spirit.

We took so many wonderful things away with us from our time in Grand Lake. And yet we left something -- someone -- precious and irreplaceable behind.

Later that afternoon, we gathered once again, this time, to enjoy more wonderful entertainment from the singers, dancers and actors at RMRT.  To be reminded of the magic that can happen when passion, talent and hard work collide.  To cheer, applaud, smile, and be proud.  To feel. To live. To celebrate life.

For while we left her physical remains behind on those mountains, we know that Mom is, and always will be, with us in our hearts and our souls.  And it is the absolute and utter certainty of that which is, I’m sure, the BEST thing each of us has carried home from Grand Lake.

Justin Doesn't Live Here Anymore

Just over twenty-two years ago, I wrapped up my newborn son in a sweater his grandmother made, strapped him into a brand new car seat, and brought him home.

Yesterday, I packed my car seats (and trunk and floors) with most of his possessions and moved him out.

While it's true that we have had variations on this theme for the past four years while Justin was in college, he has returned here when school was not in session.  Now that he has graduated, he is off to make a home of his own, albeit at first, in a summer sublet.

Sublets, I suspect, will be a staple of Justin's existence for a while.  He's a musical theater actor, and will likely be spending a good deal of his time, at least in the near future, on the road or wherever his work will take him.

This is not the first time he has left home, of course.  That distinction belongs to Stagedoor Manor, the performing arts camp where Justin spent six wonderful weeks for six amazing summers learning his craft, making lifelong friends, and working with a phenomenal group of professionals.  (If you look closely, you may still be able to spot a photo of him in some rather interesting headwear on the website.)

At the end of high school, Justin moved to Northwestern University, for four more years of classes and experiences that have helped him continue to grow into the accomplished young man and talented performer he is today.  He spent freshman year in a dorm, then moved into off-campus apartments for the remainder of his time in Evanston.

But always, he has come home.

Here.

Where he eats everything in sight in the refrigerator (along with things that may possibly have been hidden to escape easy detection).  Where he always parks a water glass on the kitchen counter by the microwave oven.  Where he never pushes in the piano bench after he's done playing.  And where the floor of his bedroom becomes increasingly less visible the longer he stays.

Where he sings in the shower, and mindlessly, everywhere else.  Does pirouettes in the den.  Makes me laugh.  Makes me think.  Makes me proud.

I know that my son is ready -- more than ready -- to move out and begin this next phase of his life.  I know that much of what I have done during the past twenty-two years has been to help prepare him for just this day.  Roots ... wings ... check.  I know this is a time to be much more happy than sad, and what I am feeling is more about nostalgia for the things we have shared than any kind of sorrow for what I might miss.

Justin is moving to New York City to pursue his dreams and share his gifts.  He has been wanting this and working toward it for years.  I am grateful that his future looks so bright.

And as he begins this next stage of his life, I am beyond thankful that the first stage was such a profound and wonderful part of mine.

Besides, now I won't have to hide my leftovers anymore.

Remembering What's Important

There’s a relatively new supermarket near my home I’ve been shopping at since it opened. It’s got a great produce department, a well-stocked deli, a fresh fish counter and a nice selection of meat. Unfortunately, the one thing it lacks is the most conscientious cashiers. They’re kids, mostly, so I try to give them a break, but I’ve already had a few experiences when coupons haven’t been applied and I’ve had to go back with the receipt for credit. It's annoying. 

The store manager and I have already become fast friends, and it’s almost a running joke at this point, although I’m sure he doesn’t actually think it’s funny when he sees me, and I am not amused that it keeps happening.

Like yesterday.

I had two manufacturers’ coupons, each for a dollar, and I handed them to the cashier before he began ringing up my items. I then went to the end of the belt and began bagging. Quickly enough, he gave me the total, and as soon as I swiped my credit card, announced he’d forgotten the coupons. Aargh. Again?? At least this time, I was still in the store.

I headed over to the “Courtesy Counter” where I found … no one.  My mild irritation began to morph beyond aggravation and veer toward exasperation. I walked back to the cashier and asked how to get someone to help me. A search ensued, several minutes passed, and finally, a young man appeared to process the transaction. Did I want the credit on the card I’d used or would cash be okay? Cash, please. Much quicker, and this has taken FAR too long already.

Now, before you think I am making way too much of this, you have to understand this is at least the fourth time I’ve had a problem like this in this store. Corporate knows about it, the cashiers have (supposedly) had extra instruction, and I’ve been assured they’re being vigilant.

Oh, yeah, I can see that.

I took my two bucks, turned my wagon around and, fueled by a roiling sense of indignation, rolled out of the store.  

Smack into a slim, distinguished looking older man holding a handful of small silk flowers. Not gonna lie -- the same man I brushed right past on my way in, and had already plotted how to avoid on the way out. A former serviceman collecting donations for the Veterans of Foreign Wars. 

VFW "Buddy Poppies" are assembled by disabled, needy and aging veterans in VA Hospitals and Veterans Homes across the country. The money raised from the campaign is used for the welfare of veterans or their dependents or orphans. It helps maintain rehab and service programs for these men and women who risked, and sometimes lost, their lives for our country. 

Suddenly, the two singles I got back for my coupons had a whole lot more meaning, reminding me that it's really not that big a deal to forget some things, but we must always remember some others. Umbrage gave way to gratitude. The scowl I’m sure I was wearing became a smile.

“How much are the flowers?” I asked. 

“Whatever you care to donate,” he said.

Two bucks it is, sir, and thank you VERY MUCH for your service.

Gifts

Last week, I had the pleasure of attending a dinner in Manhattan for my college radio station, WVBR. We hold them from time to time as a way to keep our alumni in touch with each other and introduce us to the Cornell University students who are currently working at the station. The dinners are a lovely way for us to socialize, catch up, meet new people, and perhaps rekindle old friendships.

This time, though, there would be another, very special component.

WVBR is in the middle of a fundraising effort to relocate the station from its inadequate facility in the basement of the New York Holstein Association on the outskirts of the Cornell campus to one that is state-of-the-art and more accessible to students. Until 2000, when the station was forced to move, it was situated just off campus in Collegetown, making it easy to get to and a natural hangout in between (or, in some cases, instead of) classes. Careers were launched there. Deep friendships were forged. Some marriages may even have resulted. ;-)

Since the move, things have been quite different, as its far-flung location required tremendous effort and dedication for the students to get there.

Wanting to address the problem, within the last year, the WVBR Board of Directors amped up its efforts to return WVBR to its Collegetown roots.

Recently, a house became available on East Buffalo Street in Ithaca, just off campus and less than a half mile from our old digs at 227 Linden Avenue. All we needed were the financial resources to make it happen.

Enter the WVBR Capital Campaign, spearheaded by my husband Peter and tended to by some VERY hardworking and generous alumni. Among them, our friend Keith Olbermann ('79), who has made significant contributions to the radio station before. 

Keith indicated he would, indeed, like to help, and he would make a substantial donation to facilitate the purchase. The official announcement was to be made at last week's dinner. Keith's endowment would cover the "naming rights" for the new building, which will be called the Olbermann-Corneliess Studios, in honor of Keith's late father, Theodore, and Glenn Corneliess, a dear friend and former program director of the radio station, who died in 1996 at the age of 39.  

Glenn is largely responsible for my career in radio. He was a friend and mentor to me in a crucially important stage of my life. He was brilliant where radio was concerned, and passionate about it and so much else. He was giving with his time and expertise, and fiercely loyal, although he loved a good argument, even (especially?) with those he liked most. We lost him to a massive heart attack caused by Marfan Syndrome, with which he had not been diagnosed in time.

And so we gathered in midtown for an evening of drinks, dinner, conversation, and the very special check presentation. Among our guests, Glenn's widow Kathy and two of his three children, Brian and Patrick. 

Keith Olbermann and Kathy Corneliess

It was a truly special night. The food was good, the company, even better. Keith sat with the Corneliess family regaling them with stories of time spent together with Glenn at WVBR. Brian and Pat paid rapt attention, soaking up these memories of a father they barely knew. Even Kathy, who met Glenn after college, learned more about the husband she lost far too early.

There was laughter and more than a few tears, especially when Keith made his dedication, noting his gratitude to the radio station and his friendship with Glenn, who, he said, "surely would've objected to the ordering of our names until I told him that this precludes any chance that anybody will ever think there was a guy named 'Corneliess Olbermann'."

Today, the tale of Keith's generosity became public, published first by The Hollywood Reporter, then picked up by TV Newser and the Daily Kos.

The articles are wonderful and a true testament to Keith's extraordinary benevolence. But they only begin to touch on what was perhaps the greatest gift he bestowed that evening and the people who will benefit from it most: Kathy, Brian and Patrick Corneliess, along with their sister Caitlin. What Keith did for the Corneliess family FAR surpasses naming a building after Glenn, as huge as that is ... he brought Glenn to life for them in a way that few others could.

All of us suffered an incalculable loss when Glenn died, but none more so than his family. His children have what Peter's called an "unfillable gap" that those of us who knew and loved Glenn have tried to close in the years since his passing. Last Thursday evening, as Keith sat with them sharing story after story, he went a long way toward filling that hole.

Not to diminish in any way the giant check for "a whole f'in bunch" of money Keith wrote out that night, but that was the greatest gift of all.

L-R: Keith Olbermann, Patrick, Kathy and Brian Corneliess, Peter Schacknow, Dan Zarrow, Drew Endick

I Do, DQ

There is a blizzard in my future.

Of course, this being January, you might not be surprised to read that, although you might wonder how I can state it with such certainty.  Global warming and all, you know.

Or perhaps you have guessed that this is no mere random meteorological prognostication on my part, and there is, in fact, something more profound involved. Thank you for the benefit of the doubt.

I had my first (and so far only) blizzard (or, more properly, "Blizzard") at the Dairy Queen on Palisade Avenue in Fort Lee, New Jersey in the summer of 1998.  I was on a date, having recently been divorced, and it was a warm evening that just cried out for a nightcap of ice cream.  (I scream, you scream ... ) I can't remember now if the DQ was our destination or we stumbled upon it, but we were drawn in by the lights, the crowd, and the anticipation of soft-serve goodness.

We were not disappointed.  We took our treats to a corner of the parking lot bounded by huge trees lying on their sides to serve as benches.  We sat and enjoyed the ice cream, soaking up the ambiance, the warmth of the summer night and this promising new relationship.  There may even have been some kissing going on.

Yes. Yes, I'm sure of it.

Oh, trust me, nothing sloppy or inappropriate, given our family-friendly locale.  It was all very tasteful -- and tasty, what with all that ice cream!  But there was definitely some kissing going on.

The crowd was in high spirits, drawn together as we were by the beautiful evening and DQ deliciousness.  It was the kind of festive atmosphere where strangers feel like friends.  Conversation passed between couples and groups.  There were smiles, laughter and camaraderie.

So it wasn't entirely shocking when a man leaned out the window of his car as he was leaving and yelled over to us, "You're going to have to marry her now, buddy."

A moment in time neither of us have forgotten.

Not then.  Not six months later when Peter proposed -- fourteen years ago today.  Not the following summer when we got married.  And certainly not when I read the article on a local patch.com website that Long Island will be getting its first-ever Dairy Queen this coming May in my hometown of Massapequa ... almost fifteen years after our Fort Lee DQ date.

To this day, we don't know how the guy in the parking lot knew we weren't married. Do you look at each other or act differently together over time?  Do the public displays of affection become that much more rare?  Do you seem less like people who are together because you want to be and more because, well, you just are?

I hope not.  And I really don't think so.

Which is why there is a Blizzard in my future.  We will visit the Massapequa Dairy Queen when it opens this spring, and I will sit with my husband on whatever is their equivalent of that sideways log in the parking lot enjoying both it and his company.

And, oh yeah, there will definitely be some kissing going on.

I Want To Smell Like Ralph

I want to smell like Ralph.

Not the guy, the perfume.  I know I have an old bottle of it somewhere in my bathroom vanity at home, and while it’s not my signature fragrance (that would be Estee Lauder Pleasures), I like it.  It’s fresh.  It’s clean.  It’s youthful.  And it’s beautiful.

How do I know this?  Not from the Ralph Lauren marketing department.  Not even from my own experience while trying it on for size several years ago.  No, I know this from my recent run along the Ibis Trail, a four-mile loop around the University of Miami campus I navigated yesterday while visiting my daughter Jordan, a student at the school.

It was a gorgeous morning, with clear blue skies and a slight breeze.  The campus is really pretty, and running the trail is a great way to see a lot of it and better learn your way around, which I am trying to do, since this is just freshman year for her .

I’m also trying to stay healthy, tone myself up and keep my weight down, although to be perfectly honest, it needs to be about fifteen pounds further down than it is right now.  Trips to UM don’t help, with all the inevitable eating out, but I wouldn’t trade a visit for anything, so I am being diligent about keeping up with my exercise.

And that’s what brought me to campus yesterday morning, running (barely) among the slender, fit, healthy, beautiful young men and women who are students there.  Many of whom were wearing Ralph.  (I know this not because anyone committed the Great Perfume Faux Pas of over-application, but because I was inhaling rather deeply from my own over-exertion.)  How many girls were wearing it was actually quite surprising.  As was my realization that they smelled the way I was running to look.  Hah!  The fragrance itself became a kind of fuel … the scent motivating me, urging me on.  I’d pass another pretty girl and smell it again.  I’d run some more, a little faster.

The sun was warm, the sweat dampened my shirt, and I’m sure I smelled nothing like they did, but I was inspired.  I added an extra half-mile, finished wearily but triumphantly, and went back to my hotel to shower, change and get ready for the rest of the day.  I put on my makeup, blew out my hair and added my customary spray of Pleasures before leaving the room to meet my daughter for lunch. 

"Mmmm, Mommy, you smell good!"

Yes, I smell like Pleasures. 

My kids know it, my husband loves it, and I have come to embrace it.    

But I want to smell like Ralph.

What A Difference A Day Makes

Remember that time I was so optimistic about our HUGE renovation project? Oh sure, I acknowledged, there'd be bumps along the way. Not all the lines would likely be plumb. Pipes would probably leak. Something of value might inadvertently be broken. Misunderstandings might ensue. Tempers could flare.

But still...we'd have a whole new house with a beautiful new porch when we were done, and golly gee, it's all worth it!

Whaddya mean that was just yesterday??

We started out this morning with news of the probability that the ceilings in our master bedroom and living room would have to be ripped out to make room for additional floor joists. Oh, you know, one of those minor details the architect forgot to mention while the plans were being resubmitted for approval.

Not a problem.

Except for the additional cost on top of what is already a project with a budget we are stretch ever so far to accomplish.

Except for the fact we'd need to vacate the room for a week or two and clear it of furniture...with our other bedrooms already out of commission.

Except I wasn't expecting to be hit with something so big so fast.

But life goes on, of course. And I had a work meeting I needed to attend. Which, George (our family contractor after all these many years), bless his heart, was thoughtful enough to interrupt to call to tell me we got lucky with the existing construction, the floor joist gods were with us, the support ran the correct way upstairs, and our bedroom ceiling would be spared. The living room, not so much, but then, we don't have to sleep in there, now do we?

I didn't cry then, but I did -- just a little -- when I got home.

When Mike, George's trusty right hand man, informed me it was far too early in the project for tears...there'd be plenty of time for that down the road.

I'm sure he's right. I'm also sure I felt much better after I was done. I think the enormity of this renovation just hit me. It's one thing to deal with in the abstract, and quite another when there's a demolition crew ripping apart your walls and you're facing the prospect of having to find alternate lodging for a spell.

How lucky am I to have a husband who consoles long distance by telephone, and to have such a longstanding relationship with the men working on my house that they neither panicked nor thought I was crazy, just offered me hugs and the reminder that tomorrow is another day.

And as we've seen, things can -- and probably will -- turn totally around again by then.

Our House Is A Very, Very, Very Fine House

Or it will be, anyway. Just over three years since we moved in, and just shy of a year after our first meeting with the architect, we finally began the renovation that will transform the upstairs and outside of our house into what I only imagined when we first saw and decided to buy it.

We will spend massive amounts of money, inhale countless particles of sawdust, endure days and weeks of banging, sawing, drilling, sanding, siding, painting, and more. We will hate our contractor, love our contractor, hate our contractor and love him again. We will shop for tile, cabinetry, doors, lights, carpet, paint, faucets, toilets, showers and sinks. And we will be awed and amazed at, first, the destruction, and then, the construction.

Already, the pile of debris is accumulating in the front yard. The windows from the first floor bedrooms have all been ripped out and replaced. Tonight, they are hiding behind their temporary plastic table cloth treatments. Tomorrow, they'll get new moldings and the six over six grilles I like so much.

Tomorrow, the dumpster will come and start to be filled with the bricks and shingles that make up the current exterior. Work will begin on the new structural supports for the house that will take the place of the one we have now.

We have already made much progress toward making this house our home. Most importantly, of course, we have filled it with a loving family. When you have that, the physical trappings are just that. But we are fortunate enough to be able to tweak the setting, as well, and this next phase of work will bring us that much farther along.

As you can see, I am under no illusions of what that process will entail. And still, I can't wait.

I'll light the fire. You place the flowers in the vase that you bought today.

How I Spent My Summer Blogcation Part One

Right, so there'll be no more snide remarks about my husband's relative lack of posts.

And without further adieu, we now return to our regularly scheduled program.

It's been two days since we were lucky enough to be among the 65,000 in attendance at The Last Play at Shea, where Billy Joel was joined on stage by Tony Bennet (New York State of Mind), Garth Brooks (Shameless), Steven Tyler (Walk This Way), Roger Daltrey (My Generation) and Paul McCartney (Saw Her Standing There and Let It Be). Oh. My. Goodness.

I think my voice has finally returned to normal. Who WAS that simply squealing with excitement when Paul McCartney's name was announced? Surely it couldn't have been me! I am not a screamer, a shrieker, and I am most definitely NOT a squealer.

And yet.

How many times do you get to be there while history is being made?

I'd seen Billy in concert before. Several times. I'd seen Garth Brooks and The Who and even Paul McCartney before. But to be fortunate enough to be at this, the final concert at Shea Stadium, watching a performer I have long known and loved, and have him be joined in a surprise performance by, arguably, the greatest living music legend of all time, well, there really are no words to describe the feeling.

And when words fail, apparently squeals speak volumes.

Life's A Beach

Before I get to Emmy, the new kitten, who we adopted yesterday and I'll write about tomorrow, a word about the beach, which I've been thinking about for months and finally got to today.

Or, as I confessed to my husband in an only somewhat guilty text message, "I caved...I HAD to get there."

Yes, as you may have guessed, the beach is definitely one of my favorite places. Which is actually kind of odd, since I don't even ever go in the water. Well, unless it's a beach in Grand Cayman, say, or Aruba, or possibly Cozumel, although that can even be kind of iffy.

Today, and most days when I am at home, the beach is Crab Meadow, a relatively small strip of fairly rocky sand in the Town of Huntington on the North Shore of Long Island.

Hmmm...rocky sand, not a water lover, $4.25/gallon gas...I see you asking yourself, "Why go in the first place?"

Sigh. I wish I knew.

Sometimes I just know I HAVE to get there. The weather is perfect. The sky is blue. I've written too many emails, updated too many web pages and schlepped too many kids.

I need to sit down on my tropical chair in the warm sand, grab a sip of my iced coffee, turn on the tunes, open my book and do NOTHING.

I need to smell the sunscreen, the pizza they sell at the counter outside the yummy La Casa restaurant, and the seaweed when the tide is low.

I need to see the mommies with their toddlers just about the same age as Justin and Jordan were when we first started going way back in preschool.

I have to watch the summer campers play volleyball and unpack their lunches, their towels and their frisbees.

And I have to let the answering machine in the office pick up the phone calls. Allow the emails some time to age until I can log in again back at my desk. Put thoughts of dinner on the back burner.

It's hard to totally relax at home. There are chores that need doing and constant reminders of projects and obligations. Not so at the beach.

As a bonus, I am reminded how lucky I am that I can usually steal away for a couple of hours a couple of days a week. It is indeed a great place to be thankful and peaceful and all the things we strive to be but sometimes cannot quite manage. It is why, sometimes, I just have to go.

And then.

I am reminded that supper does have to be taken care of. That Jordan needs to be picked up from her Bio Regents review class. That sweet little Emmy hasn't eaten since this morning. And that I applied SPF 8 two and a half hours ago, and will begin to burn soon unless I put more on or take my leave.

I choose the latter. For as wonderful as this respite always is, what makes it so meaningful is the also incredible life from which I occasionally use it to escape.