Burnt Chocolate Stories

Eleven month old Henry, 2007 Just the other day, I was looking through my files, trying yet again, to get organized. I ran into a story I wrote during my early grand-parenting days when challenges were still in their early stages. Not much is written about being a grandparent, but I suppose, just like parenting, each of us has to find our own way. Somehow, our nine grandchildren, like their parents, have grown into delightful, intelligent human beings with whom we enjoy visiting each Sunday afternoon on Zoom and hope to hug in person one day very soon. Finding and reading these stories tickles my memory and brings me right back to those wonderful days.  July 2007 Memory resides throughout the body in the strangest places. Not long ago, I sat down at the piano and watched as my fingers picked out Fur Elise, a piece I haven’t played for years. A week or so later, I was bathing our eleven-month-old grandson Henry. One moment, he splashed happily in the bathtub, the next he wanted ...

Lately, I find myself day dreaming about a simpler life, when we had confidence in our leaders and believed they would keep us safe so we could concentrate on important family matters.  Like Saturday afternoon movies and Brownies, piano lessons and skating events, gymnastics and hockey, homework, birthday parties and Little League tryouts. When Ben was eight, he practiced in the backyard for weeks in hopes of making a team. Having seen his wild throws and fumbled catches, I didn't think he'd be picked to play on a team but said nothing, hoping for a miracle.  We arrived at the baseball field early but I was told, along with several other nervous mothers, to 'vacate the premises' until noon.  Prepared for a rough afternoon, I returned to find Ben part of the Optimist team, managed by two brothers who valued heart above skill. I had the great pleasure of seeing them practice that belief many times, but here's one of my favorite stories about that time so many years ag...

With just 3 weeks to go before the election, the anxiety has reached a fever pitch for pretty much everyone.  The threats and intimidation coming from the White House has increased in direct proportion to Biden's winning lead which looks like anywhere from 12 to 16 points. Trump is flailing around, striking blows randomly, reaching for any weapons in his tool box.  He's a full grown bully, with techniques learned 70 years ago in the sandbox that are now failing him.  Here's a story I wrote many years ago about a four year old bully. I wonder sometimes, what's become of him.  ************************ Park Bully Eddie is the park bully at age four. He throws sand, squishes castles, pinches arms, pushes babies and ignores his mother's pleas to be a good boy.  Bad boy Eddie is the scapegoat of Goudy playground, the source of all angst, beyond control and blamed for any bad behavior that the other children exhibit. No one intervenes or supports this family.  Ins...

  The service for Ruth Bader Ginsburg left me in tears. I felt the loss as deeply as that of a close friend. To see a Jewish woman of her stature being revered so deeply by so many left me sobbing. Her clerks standing vigilant over her casket in silence was riveting. The care and love by so many.  Just thinking about it gives me hope.  Because these days there's so little of it and so much fear. I can think of little else than the election looming ahead.  We've adorned Trump with so many adjectives and yet none of them seem to be enough.  He's a Stalin, a Hitler, a monster, a tyrant, a fool, a despot, an ignoramus.  But he's really just a frightened man/child looking for scapegoats to blame for his own ineptitude.  Instead of the Jews or the Capitalists, it's the Democrats or Socialists who are to blame for whatever needs blaming. Or it's the protestors who will take away your rights and destroy your homes. Only Trump can save you from whatever he thin...