Burnt Chocolate Stories

. . . was the mantra that blasted the country during the late sixties, early seventies when our sons were babies. The Viet Nam war and the draft drove nearly everyone wild. Banning guns in the playroom was as close as we got to being protesters. Nearly forty years later, we’re in the same place. This time it’s the Iraqi conflict, a more benign word. Perhaps it’s the lack of a draft that’s lured us into complacency. Or maybe it’s that we’ve grown older, more tired and less inclined to act out, although my generation is still outraged. I wrote this story ten years ago, when prosperity ruled and war seemed out of fashion. But after all this time, I'm no closer to having clarity about . .  . Guns in the Playroom “Where’s Jermy?” Four year old Matt asks as we enter the spacious living room of our friends' high rise apartment. Joshua and Ben, my younger sons, nap at home with a baby sitter this rainy afternoon. “Oh, he’ll be here soon.” Jeremy’s mother points to the door of th...

Every once in a while, an event occurs that’s meant to be savored. Not a monumental occasion like a wedding or a birth. Rather it’s a quiet moment that often escapes notice. After the last screening of “Indestructible”, we had dinner together, then watched as Matt, Josh, Ben, Sarah and Rebeccah moved down the street together. They had no great plans for the evening. Maybe they'd catch another film or have a beer. I watched them turn the corner before Steve and I piled the grandchildren into our car and drove back to the hotel. Years earlier, when explosions over clothes, friends, car windows, leftovers, toys or bedroom territory, to name just a few topics, were a daily occurrence, I wondered what would become of their relationships. Would they care about each other? Want to spend time with each other? Call each other on the phone? I know fifty year old siblings who haven’t spoken in twenty years, curse each other to their parents, refuse to be in the same room toget...

Take a moment to bask in the light of Indestructible’s achievement. California Theater in San Jose, where the awards ceremony was held, is a beautifully renovated building. Gilded chandeliers, gold filigree, exquisite murals. Just sitting in the audience was a pleasure. All of the filmmakers were asked to come on stage for the awards announcements. Rebeccah rolled Ben onto the stage from behind the curtain, just ten feet from where we sat in the first row. The audience was filled to capacity, over a thousand.  The announcement for the best documentary began with 'powerful, compelling, inspiring’ and when the words ‘Lou Gherig’s Disease’ was said followed by ‘Indestructible’ everyone in the place rose up and cheered. For a long time. Ben said something into the microphone, repeated it, but Rebeccah was unable to decipher his words. “We didn’t rehearse." Laughter. "My brother thanks you.” (We’ll never know Ben’s exact words because he’s decided to keep that a myst...

“I like it. But don’t you want to write about other things?” Ben’s reaction startled me.  Of course I planned to write about subjects other than ALS. I was certain the center stage this fatal, incurable, horrific disease dominated since it barged into our family nearly five years ago had shifted aside. But the construct of my blog contradicted that belief.  For the first weeks and months after Ben’s diagnosis, anyone I met on the street, at a party, or in the grocery store offered an opportunity for me to dump and ruin their day. The words just tumbled out of my mouth, as if spreading the news might diminish my distress. No one crossed the street when they saw me approach, but I’m sure more than a few people wished they had taken a different route. My husband Steve glued himself to the computer and the phone in search of a cure, a tonic, a reversal.  After a while, we developed the vacant look that comes from feeling overwhelmed. Netflix films arrived and were returne...