Strolling down the street just the other day, I began to think of some of the great years I’ve had.
1969 – ten years old, late one July night, at our family’s shore home watching Neil Armstrong step onto the surface of the moon and running to our back porch with my little sister to see if we could spot the flag placed on the moon by the two astronauts. Being a child of the sixties, when our class was ushered into the library to watch every single rocket blasting into space, I was totally captivated by the race for the moon. I honestly think those nights that hot summer were the last time I felt bursting pride in being an American.
1972 – thirteen years old, daughter of two liberals with an increasingly loud voice of my own, I stood up in my eighth grade class and campaigned for George McGovern in a blue collar town that was voting for Nixon. My mother was filling my head with the horrors of Vietnam and was sure, three years before the rest of the country, that Nixon would be brought to his knees by Watergate. It’s the first time I really felt the power of my own voice, even though no one, except for the kooky, World War II Veteran history teacher, seemed to agree with me. I learned to be outspoken and not much has been the same since.
1975 – sixteen years old, and making the best friendship of most of my life with Kathy C. Sharing secrets, pain, joy in all night conspiratorial chats and learning the power of friendship between women, it was a year which shaped me greatly. I was a woman’s woman then and I still am.
1976 – seventeen years old and in love for the first time with sweet, sensitive, brainy Jim Murphy who would write me beautiful poems and love letters and make little wooden carvings of animals. I haven’t seen him in thirty years, but my heart can still break a little at the thought of him or the mention of his name. Nothing beats your first love, when you feel as though you’ve invented it.
1987 – twenty eight years old and living alone for the first time in my life. Making next to no money, I still managed to live in a charming old apartment with beautiful old woodwork, creaky floors, and hissing radiators. That place was home to me and I lived there for nine years.
1993 – thirty four years old, recovering from the death of my father I knew I had to start really living so I took my first overseas trip to England with my sister Gina and her husband John. Dozens and dozens of trips later, I still remember that one as eye opening and totally whetting my appetite to learn about the world beyond the end of my own nose.
2004 – forty five years old and madly in love with Chris, the man who was to become my husband, I moved to Germany to be with him. I had an amazing time filled with travel and fun and the joy of finding someone I could really share my life with.
2005 – forty six years old and back in the USA, buying the house of our dreams in Haddonfield in which later that year we would marry one another with only our families and our dog in attendance. At the time, I thought I had it all, and despite life knocking me around a little, I still feel that way.
They were all good years, filled with new experiences and people, but I’d still have to vote for 2003 as the best year of my life.
2003 – forty four years old and the constant dining companion of Jason Wilson who had the job of reviewing food for Unnamed Magazine. Oh to have that year and all those meals back. Pontificating drunkenly on the merits of al dente pasta, I was amazed at my great fortune to be Jason’s friend in the year his wife had a small toddler and was positively sick of being his guinea pig. I think Jason chose me because I was single and could be ready for almost anything within fifteen minutes of a phone call. Frankly, I didn’t care why he chose me as long as he did.
My favorite words ever uttered from his mouth were “Order whatever wine you’d like, it’s on the magazine.” At least ten years older than Jason, he and I were fast friends from the start. I’d heard of his legend from others and absolutely bright green with envy, was prepared to despise him. With a great job as a food and travel writer, and a sterling professional resume, this aging legal secretary thought he’d be some pompous ass wearing a monocle and looking down on “the little people”. Years and many drunken nights in the gutter later, I’m here to report that I was wrong. We got on blazingly and brilliantly well, shared many interests, and had a blast firing bon mots in each other’s directions, most of which were barbed and disparaging. At times, he’s been like a little brother to me.
The kind of little brother who takes you on an all night pub crawl on the quest for the regions’ best hamburger, feeling like Bluto Blutarsky after an all night drinking and eating orgy.
The kind of little brother who orders five entrees for three people and urges you to “eat up” almost menacingly and means it.
But also the kind of charming and nice little brother who helps you order the perfect aperitif and a wonderful meal accompanied by the appropriate wine.
I thought I would die when his gig came to an end. It was the close of one my life’s best chapters and I really mourned its passing. So you can imagine my absolute unfettered joy at hearing these words spoken to me this week “I’m reviewing again for Unnamed Magazine. Wanna go to lunch at Fuji?”
