dona's 365

I spent the first 13 years in this neighborhood thinking Senta didn’t like me. She never said much when she walked her dog past our house. I thought she avoided me at neighborhood gatherings. Then after someone told me she was shy, I understood. Now we talk whenever we meet.

Our neighbor, Sue, blames NIH for the cancer that has touched four of her five children. One son died of Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. One daughter survived breast cancer, the other, uterine cancer. Another son survived testicular cancer. She also cites cancer cases of similar-aged people who grew up in the neighborhood .

We met her on the Liverpool to Dublin ferry. She insisted we visit a pub in Galway, called The Keys for its great music. While in Galway we searched, unsuccessfully, for The Keys . When we heard music coming from a pub ( The Quays ) we’d passed several times, we felt foolish.

We met Swedish national, Jens, and his Austrian girlfriend in Holland while staying on an Irish run botel in Amsterdam. The four of us got along very well, despite the difficulties in communication — Jens translating his girlfriend’s German for us. They said we didn’t act like Americans — a true compliment.

Unlicensed bed & breakfast host, Ulick found tenants by approaching them at the Dublin train station. Although his wife was gravely ill in one of the bedrooms, he managed to provide clean sheets, a bed and a filling, if somewhat disorganized, breakfast. He laced his morning tea with homemade Poteen .

I guess I was going through a bad-boy stage when I dated Rick. He lived a slum apartment, sold drugs and had been arrested more than once. I don’t remember where we met nor the circumstances of our break-up. That was quite probably the most dangerous time of my young-adulthood.

Arrogant and condescending, Tom was the night-shift manager at the restaurant. He thought my disdain for him was amusing, and threw a goodbye party for me at his place before I left for England. When no one else came because of the blizzard, we entertained ourselves the best we could.

A Georgetown professor and Arieh 's wife, Sandy, was born and raised in NYC, but reluctantly moved with Arieh and their daughter to Arieh’s native country, Chile, when Arieh felt the need to go back home. After 9-11 her reluctance changed to relief, believing herself safer in Chile than in Bethesda.

The first time I met Arieh, was at a bonfire night at CMU . We went to the bonfire, walked with actors from Hill Street Blues saw Moscow on the Hudson then went to his tiny apartment for tea. Since he’s a dead ringer for Robin Williams it was pretty surreal.

My very first teaching job began as a long-term substitute for Sr. Jane. When she returned, I stayed on as a co-teacher in her classroom. I couldn’t have asked for a better mentor. She was knowledgeable, funny, and caring. She gave advice in a way that didn’t seem like advice.

Until I’d met Sr. Margaret, I didn’t realize that nuns could be vain. Not that she primped or anything, but she refused to tell her age. When I mentioned that my mom remembered her from high school, she seemed distressed, and swore me to secrecy. Oops, the cat’s out now.

Sr. Barbara was one of the first nuns I got to know well. We carpooled to school together my first year as a teacher. She shared an apartment with Sr. Margaret , the first grade teacher. Sr. Barbara was the principal and because we were friends some other teachers distrusted me.

Howard taught 4th grade on the other side of the retractable wall from Carolyn and me. We got the special Ed kids, he got the ESOL kids. Howard and I used to talk for hours after school. He introduced me to Michael Franks, I played some Dan Bern for him.

How sad it is that I have no real memories of my cousin Julie. I remember her face. I remember being at her house. I remember hanging out with her. But I have no stories to tell about Julie. Of course it is only sad for me. Others knew her.

My cousin Pam and I used to pretend we were grown-ups and take dolls for walks. I’ve not seen her in years, but still have a letter she wrote me when she lost her impossibly tiny premature infant. I still cry when I read her words. Sometimes growing up sucks.

If you’ve ever heard Tom Chapin’s song, Cousins , you know what it was like when my aunt and uncle stopped by with their crew. Someone always ended up hurt and something was always broken. It was a relief when they moved to Mississippi, but I always kinda missed the excitement.

In Chris ’ family, only two kids out of five were not in Special Ed. The mother was a character and readily admitted she didn’t know how to handle her offspring. It was said the last two were conceived after conjugal visits to her incarcerated husband; someone she claimed to hate.

We asked the graduating sixth-graders where they thought they’d be in ten years. Chris wrote: in jail . We thought he was being difficult. When I heard he’d stolen a teacher’s car from his middle school lot and crashed it into a police car, I suspected he might have been right.

Mom called tonight to say Auntie June died. Auntie June taught me the secret to lump-free mashed potatoes. Mash the potatoes (electric mixer ok), add some butter, mash some more. Add milk when the potato mixture is smooth, never before. She had a lot of opinions, but had great advice.

Brian never seemed happy. He wrote in his journal about a monster that lived in his house and broke his toys. His mother cried when she read the entry, and told me about her once normal daughter who, after a high fever, was diagnosed with Autism. She was Brian’s monster.