Anecdotes and More – Page 2

April 21, 2020July 19, 2021

Okay Working Parents, Let’s Triage This

Our society tells us that we must be perfect parents. Both spouses are expected to work full time, shuttle the kids between after-school enrichment activities, help with homework, read bedtime stories, smile through it all, and then fall exhausted into an overwhelmed stupor called sleep each night. Then we must rise at the crack of dawn to do it all over again. Sound familiar? Wait, that was life before COVID-19.

One month into our state’s stay-at-home order, which happens to coincide with a cold and dreary Connecticut spring, I was ready to pull my hair out. I still had to do all the above, much of it as a “Zoom cameraman,” AND teach elementary school, AND tend to the emotional needs of children who desperately miss their friends . . . F**k that.

Rather than yanking out large clumps of hair and going bald, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that it is impossible to do everything – those who say that they are on Facebook are LIARS – and I went into working-parent triage mode.

Take care of the gunshot wounds first

Triage happens when you visit the emergency room—a sadly apt analogy these days. Those who have gunshot wounds see the doctor right away; those who need a couple of stitches can wait for hours on a busy day. Take care of life’s gunshot wounds now; the stitches can wait.

Everyone will have a different calculus, but for most people the “gunshot wounds” are doing a good enough job at work to remain employed (if you’re lucky enough to be working these days). Taking care of your kids’ and—this is important—your own emotional needs is also at the top. Submitting completed assignments to teachers in Google classroom is secondary, particularly if the process creates extra work for parents without a countervailing educational benefit for the student. At the very bottom of the list is folding laundry. Your pet doesn’t care if your clothes are wrinkled. If it makes life easier, eat all your meals off disposable dinnerware to cut down on chores. In short, cut any and all non-essential corners that you can. Lastly, I’d put obsessively watching the news at the bottom of the triage list—stay informed, but limit it, or you might curl yourself into a ball and stay in bed until there’s a vaccine.

Keep happiness in the mix

During this time of sadness, depravation, and isolation, it’s easy to feel guilty about having fun. Don’t. While we are in a time of mourning for sure, making ourselves and our families as happy as possible keeps us sane and allows us to endure this seemingly endless marathon. Keeping our spirits up will also allow us to be kind and supportive of our families, friends, and communities.

I love being outdoors, so if it is a beautiful day outside, my kids and I go off the lesson plan and take a field trip to a nature trail, or we collect shells on the beach and I “teach” biology. When the weather warms up, I look forward to boating and spending even more time outdoors.

The vacation may have been cancelled, but don’t cancel your time off

For spring break, we had planned to go to Disney World and had rented a beach condo and (of course) a boat in Florida. It was a long-awaited splurge after several difficult years. Obviously, it didn’t happen. Many families just cancelled their trips and slogged through April break working from home without doing anything fun as a consolation prize. We still took time off, which has been a game-changer. We took long drives and spent every possible moment in nature (albeit far from other people). We cooked ourselves decadent meals, watched movies, and tuned out work, school, and the news. Life felt somewhat . . . normal. Moments of normalcy are so rare now. Grab them whenever you can.

So, these are my two cents as a veteran far-from-perfect working parent. Take care of yourselves, stay safe and healthy, and grab moments of joy when you can. We’ll all get through this together.

February 9, 2020February 9, 2020

Boating Away Those Business Travel Blues

Know what floats my boat? . . .

Hurtling across the country at 500 miles per hour in a seat barely wider than my hips.

Sitting on the tarmac only to learn that we need to change planes because the windshield wiper is broken (a word to the wise, it’s never the “windshield wiper,” it’s probably the engine . . . which might fall off midair if we don’t change planes).

Oh, and my favorite! Trying (unsuccessfully) to curl myself into a sensory depravation cocoon in that very same seat on the redeye home while the teenagers behind me go “blah, blah, blah” into the wee hours. Maybe it’s a sleepover party for you, but some folks gotta work tomorrow.

… said no-one.

Know what does float my boat?

Boating, of course.

So, when the stars align and I find myself on a business trip somewhere warm, by the water, with a Carefree Boat Club location nearby, I make the most of it. As soon as my flight is booked, I reserve my little bit o’ fun in the sun.

Recently, I had the good fortune of traveling to San Diego, which checked all the boxes—plenty of sun and water, a Carefree location, an afternoon free of work, and an old friend from the theatre days– Todd Yocher, photographer extraordinaire.

By early afternoon, we were aboard The Ray, a sprightly little Sea Ray SPX 21 with plenty of horsepower. We headed out of Point Loma marina with tunes blasting, surrounded by plentiful sun and salt air.

San Diego is surrounded by military bases. As we cruised along below, fighter jets and helicopters flew overhead, tracking a path down the channel; our own personal airshow. On the ocean side, we spotted the iconic red roofs of the Hotel del Coronado, a Victorian-era wooden beach resort, which is the second largest wooden structure in the United States and a national historic landmark. Heading back into the bay, we picked up the pace, speeding past San Diego’s glistening skyline and under the Coronado Bridge, dodging navy vessels along the way– thankfully I remembered my training, stayed well clear of them, and brought myself, my passenger, and the boat back in one piece.

Clockwise, The Ray at Point Loma Marina, the San Diego skyline, Seals (the Navy-type), and a pelican swooping in for a meal (photos by Todd Yocher)

I am solar powered. Nothing recharges my batteries like the intoxicating combination of sun, speed, and fresh salty air. Despite the redeye flight home and all the headaches of modern air travel, I returned to the cold Northeast refreshed and revived, ready to endure the two months or so before Connecticut’s boating season begins.

Many thanks to Carefree Boat Club San Diego and dockmaster Vincent for the hospitality and the great float plan!

October 20, 2019July 19, 2021

Spooky Sea Stories

It’s October. New England’s hillsides have transformed from green to palettes of orange, red, and gold. The morning air is crisp and cool (though there’s no frost to scrape from my windshield yet, thank God). Our menu has shifted from lighter fare to stews and soups. And, yes, I’m still boating, trying to eke out every last second on the water before I must kiss my boats goodbye for a dreary, cold, dark five-month hiatus.

Fall on the Connecticut River near Gillette Castle

October also ushers in Halloween- the costumes, candy, and, of course, the spooky stories. It just so happens that my favorite lighthouse is the subject of one. During my first ride out of Black Rock Harbor in Bridgeport, we headed east on a cool, crisp day, just like today. Heading back, I could just make out a ghostly shape in the distance but couldn’t quite see what it was. Shrouded in haze, it looked like a massive ship—a ghost ship, perhaps.

The following spring, I set my course for the mysterious mirage-like shape and found a stately old stone lighthouse, built far from shore with no connection at all to land. The building looked old—from the eighteenth or nineteenth century, and it had a red roof and white tower, which housed the signal light.

Did a lighthouse-keeper once live there, surrounded by water on all sides. Did his family live with him? But then, how did his kids get to school? I concluded that the keeper must have toughed it out alone.

A Google search confirmed my suspicions. Penfield Reef Light was built in 1874, and the light-keeper did, in fact, live there with an assistant, while his family resided onshore. In December 1916, lighthouse-keeper, Frederick Jordan, drowned during a rowboat trip to the mainland to visit his family for Christmas. Poor Fredrick’s ghost was rumored to haunt the structure and its environs, and to appear to successor keepers on cold, lonely nights. And, per local legend, his ghost rescued two boys whose boat capsized near Penfield Light in 1942. At least Penfield Light houses a friendly ghost, not a wrathful, angry ghost, should I ever encounter him.

Perhaps now that haunting season is upon us, there’ll be more than fishermen frequenting Penfield Reef Light.

September 1, 2019July 19, 2021

Fisherwomen

What comes first, the boating or the fishing? Is boating the gateway drug to fishing or vice versa? After hearing the guys wax poetic about fishing, I was more than a little curious. Plus, fishing might (a) cut down (slightly) on my boat gas consumption, and (b) compensate (slightly) for said consumption by putting dinner on the table— a win win!

By midsummer 2019, my curiosity was piqued to the point of action. Why knot? So, on the fishing-and-boating paradise of Martha’s Vineyard, my daughter and I embarked on the traditional father-son bonding activity, but as a momma-daughter duo.

We chartered The Done Deal out of Vineyard Haven and conveyed our utter lack of fishing acumen to multi-generational Vineyard fishermen Captain Jeffrey Canha and his son, Tony.

“What do I do with this spool of thread?”

“Why is a cat toy hanging from the end of the line?”

Ok, maybe we weren’t that clueless, but we were close . . .

Our captains obligingly designed a fishing sampler sunset cruise for us. The evening included using weighted lines to catch bottom dwellers (we both caught several striped bass, but they were too small to keep). Then we trolled the Vineyard Sound using the “cat-toy” plastic squid as bait. The setting sun painted clouds over the Elizabeth Islands in gorgeous shades of orange, swiftly fading to a blue that matched the sea. I was losing hope of catching dinner, but glad to be in motion, breathing the salty air all the same.

And then . . . my daughter reeled in a dinner-worthy bluefish all by herself.

Ah, now I understand those goofy, proud pictures guys take with their catches.

Driving home, I asked her, “What would you prefer: A mother-daughter trip to the mall or going fishing again back home?”

“Definitely fishing,” she replied. During boating season, at least, I’d have to agree.

Now, how to prepare our first-ever catch for dinner?

August 16, 2019July 19, 2021

Sound Waves

Jamming on the Lucky Shucker with John Thomas and his 1943 Gibson guitar

Music and motion go together. You might still recall that first time your dad (or mom) handed over the car keys. Perhaps it was a sultry summer evening. You rolled down the windows, cranked the stereo, and simply drove, headed nowhere, just to feel the elation of being truly free for the first time ever.

Speeding along at the wheel of a fast boat with good tunes and good company evokes that same sense of freedom. And I cannot believe that I’m alone. So many songs evoke the ocean, from the obvious candidates, like Billy Joel’s Downeaster Alexa, to the more subtle— Be Still, by The Killers, for example.

Live music on the water is a rare but special treat. Last summer, Sarah Wise entertained us with her original single, Hang Tight, which we filmed for my Facebook page. This summer, author / musician / lawyer John Thomas treated us to a jam session on his 1943 Gibson Southern Jumbo guitar. The guitar has a long, long history. The venerable old instrument made it back from the trenches in Europe after World War II. More recently, it has traveled across the globe to Greece and Mexico. David Crosby has strummed it.

And now . . . drumroll . . . the guitar has been on a sunset cruise up the Housatonic River in Connecticut. Perhaps an evening outing on The Lucky Shucker was not the guitar’s wildest adventure–it survived a world war, after all– but it was a new experience, all the same. I’m just grateful that I managed to keep our valuable cargo from jumping overboard as we tackled some decent-sized waves enroute to the mouth of the river.

Once we hit calmer waters, John regaled us with tales of meeting the women who built the WWII-era guitar. When the men went off to war, women took over at Gibson’s factory in Kalamazoo, Michigan. The women, whom he interviewed, described working on the factory floor, as well as their lives during a time of shared sacrifice and common purpose to defeat evil- a mindset that seems to have vanished entirely from our fractured society today.

John preserved the women’s stories by turning their interviews into Kalamazoo Gals: A Story of Extraordinary Women & Gibson’s ‘Banner’ Guitars of WWII. The female-built guitars are known for having superior sound and quality. The craftswomen had no formal training in woodworking or guitar-building, but their years of experience with needlepoint, sewing, and other traditionally female handicrafts made them exceptionally skilled at the delicate finishing work that makes the guitars special. As a former seamstress, their tale certainly resonates with me.

As the sun dipped low over the shoreline, we headed home, accompanied by a different kind of music: the song of the wind and the waves with the hum of the engine keeping time in the background. As folk singer Dar Williams puts it: “there will always be the light and the sea . . .”

July 7, 2019July 7, 2019

Putting the “Port” Back in Bridgeport

In recent years, I’ve travelled to Bridgeport quite often for work and for play. The city has come a long way lately, primarily due to redevelopment on the shoreline, and I’ve been pleasantly surprised by what I’ve found.

A favorite spot in Black Rock is Captain’s Cove Seaport, which serves up fish and chips that are up to par with the famous London pub fare. With a deck on the water overlooking the docks and affordable prices, it’s a great place to grab a cocktail and snacks with friends, and to catch a beautiful sunset, especially after an evening boat ride. There’s also an ice cream shop and play area to keep the kids busy while the adults kick back and relax. Of course, another fave at Captain’s Cove is Carefree Boat Club’s Black Rock dock, which has a boat for every mood and occasion—whether it’s a relaxed sunset cruise or my personal preference, an adrenaline-pumping thrill ride on something with lots of horsepower.

At the mouth of Black Rock Harbor, one can see the newly renovated Fayerweather Island Lighthouse. Farther out sits Penfield Reef Light, built in 1874. It’s been restored beautifully and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Recently, we cruised into neighboring Bridgeport Harbor to check out the brand-new docks at Steelpointe Harbor Marina, where we treated ourselves to brunch at Boca, a sleek, modern waterfront restaurant.

Upscale dock-and-dines are hard to come by, at least in my rather limited experience, and Boca is promising. The lobster eggs Benedict and avocado toast were delicious, although the chef could have gone easier on the salt in the hash browns.

All-in-all, Boca shows promise, and I look forward to trying it again when it’s in its groove.

June 15, 2019June 15, 2019

Pana-Sea

On the water in San Francisco and on a Carefree boat in Long Island Sound

“[A]ll of us have, in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch it we are going back from whence we came.” –President John F. Kennedy (1962)

Last spring, I discovered boating. Before long, the ocean became my favorite place, as well as my panacea. Perhaps it’s in my DNA—apparently, my French-Canadian great-great grandfather captained a ferryboat between Weehawken and Manhattan. Although genetics may play a role, I think that the explanation is simpler and more universal. In a 21^st Century data-driven world, it is easy to spend nearly all our waking hours indoors staring at screens. Then our free time gets carved up shuttling the kids from place-to-place, managing the household, and that pesky phone is always dinging and buzzing, vying for our already-fractured attention.

I didn’t even know it last spring, but I desperately craved nature, fresh air, and space—things that are probably hard-wired in us as fundamental human needs.

As our society’s collective pace increases, those basic human needs are easily shoved to the wayside. We drink more and more coffee, drive, talk, and eat faster, and get crankier and less patient with each other. We’ve all seen the Starbucks patron yelling at the barista (“I ordered a SOY latte, not a SKIM latte!”), or the driver who swerves into traffic and flips the bird out the window when the person behind honks an angry response.

On the water, my world is reduced to the simple elements of speed, sun, and fresh salty air—for a few hours, at least, I can go back to whence I came. The ocean is peaceful, yet exhilarating. You’re flying fast, yet the breakneck pace of 21^st Century life slows down. You have time and space to think, to feel, to be alive. That’s why I’m drawn to the sea.

Work hard, but relax sometimes too . . . like this guy.

So work hard, but don’t burn yourself out. Find your passion. Find your fresh air and your space. Then make room for it by saying “no,” here and there, to the endless stream of chores and obligations, which will pile on relentlessly until you set limits.

And be kind to the poor, hapless Starbucks barista—whatever is going on in your life, it’s not her fault.

May 27, 2019May 27, 2019

The Daily Daycare Dash

You’re stuck in traffic running way behind schedule. Your palms start to sweat, your heart is pounding. Is it because:

(a) You’re late for your best friend’s surprise birthday party—the surprise will be long over by the time you get there?
(b) You’re late for a flight at a busy international airport with massive security lines?
(c) You’re late for an important court hearing (you’re the lawyer or the litigant)? or
(d) You’re late for daycare pickup?

For most working parents, the correct answer is (d).

Your best friend will forgive you; you’ll laugh about it together one day.
I’ve cajoled my way to the front of TSA lines at airports—most fellow travelers and TSA agents will take pity on you in those circumstances.
And, despite the formidable black robes, most judges will exercise leniency so long as you have a decent excuse and don’t make a habit of it.

But daycare providers? Forget it. They are merciless. Many daycare contracts state that you will be charged $5 to $10 per minute for late pickups, no exceptions. And then there’s the guilt factor. You walk in to find your sweetie-pie sitting in the director’s office looking forlorn. “Mommy, did you forget me?”

And, joy of joys, there’s an opportunity for working parents to experience this road-rage-and-parental-guilt-inducing stress Monday through Friday most weeks of the year.

What’s a frazzled working parent to do?

For parents with long commutes, try finding a daycare close to your workplace. That removes the traffic/commuting-time variable, although you may be forced to listen to the Paw Patrol theme song repeatedly while driving in traffic, which is its own form of torture.

You can also hire one of your child’s daycare teachers, put her on the sign out list, and pay her to sign out your kid and play with him outside on days when you’re running late. It will cost much less than $5 to $10 per minute.

If you have family members near your daycare who are willing to help in a pinch, you truly are blessed—thank them profusely.

And when, despite your best efforts and a few creative interpretations of how long that light was yellow, you arrive ten minutes late, do what your child does when she’s in trouble. The sad eyes. The apology and explanation. The promise, “I’m usually so good about picking her up on time. This won’t keep happening.”

Sometimes even daycare providers will relent.

May 19, 2019May 19, 2019

Angel Island

I am many things. I have a fun-loving side, and I find myself drawn to the peace, beauty and thrill of the ocean—particularly when there’s a fast boat involved and I get to drive it. I’m an attorney, who swore to uphold the rule of law when I was admitted to the bar years ago. I’m a taxpayer. I’m a consumer of U.S. goods and services. I’m a mother. And I’m a daughter.

My father’s family has lived in the United States for generations, having immigrated here from Western Europe hundreds of years ago. My father’s mother—my “Grandma”—was a Midwestern Christian girl. She grew up in St. Joseph, Missouri. Her father died when she was young. She and her mother struggled through the Great Depression and, fortunately, landed on their feet in New York City when an affluent uncle took them in. Her story mirrors Annie’s—complete with the fiery red hair.

My mother’s mother—my “Ni-ni”—was an immigrant. In fact, she was a refugee. She traveled here from Beijing with my mother and two uncles on a U.S. military ship. World War II was drawing to a close, but Mao Zedong’s anti-intellectual communist creed was taking hold in China. Eventually, their family home was confiscated by the government, and an uncle, who had decided to stay behind, was branded an outspoken “intellectual.” He was shipped off to a “labor camp” for speaking out against the government. No trial. No due process. And it wasn’t a camp. My uncle was forced to perform hard labor in the remote countryside and to kneel on broken glass. Fortunately, the rest of my family had seen the writing on the wall. They fled in the nick of time.

The passage to America was difficult. My grandmother did not have my sea legs, and her seasickness was, no doubt, compounded by the stress of having to abandon everything familiar to live on the other side of the world, where she didn’t speak the language or know anyone. She couldn’t hold down food or water during the entire two-week journey, and the ship’s doctor cautioned my nine-year-old mother that her own mother might die at sea. Fortunately, my Ni-ni survived the journey. As the ship entered calmer waters, passing under the Golden Gate Bridge, relief washed over the family.

Recently, I found myself in San Francisco, where I visited Angel Island, the West Coast equivalent of Ellis Island in New York. After the Chinese Exclusion Act was signed into law in 1882, Angel Island became a detention center, where Chinese immigrants spent weeks to years waiting while U.S. officials interrogated them and determined their fates.

The Angel Island barracks, where U.S. immigration agents detained and interrogated Chinese immigrants

The barracks were crowded and filthy—a stark contrast to the gorgeous vistas of the bay, visible just beyond the barracks’ high fences. Detainees etched poems of sorrow into the walls. Outside, anti-Chinese sentiment raged. The parallels to 2019 were obvious—to me at least—and chilling. The targets have changed. The message has not.

An exclusion-act era anti-immigrant political cartoon

I can thank my Grandma for the red highlights that tint my hair every summer. I can thank my Ni-ni for my round face and petite frame. I thank both my grandmothers for my tenacity and resolve.

It pains me to watch our country tearing itself apart. I’m white. I’m a person of color. My family has been in the U.S. for generations. My family has only just arrived. I love both sides of my family, and they love me back. All of us are in this mess together, and we all have worth. If only we could lift each other up, instead of tearing each other down.

April 20, 2019July 19, 2021

Empowering Our Daughters

My eldest daughter is entering her teenage years. She’s self-admittedly stubborn. She marches to her own beat, and she doesn’t take crap from me or anyone else. She has a biting, sardonic sense of humor. She thinks Twilight is stupid. I’m so proud of her.

These days, I embarrass her. I’m clueless about her tastes, what’s cool, what’s fashionable in her circles, and, pretty much, everything else. I can’t force her to do anything.

And I’m so proud of her. Even when I want to pull out my hair.

Because, one day, these qualities will help her grow into a strong, self-assured, independent young woman, who is confident in whatever path she chooses for herself. And that’s exactly what I want for her.

Recently, I asked if she wanted to get her boating license. We’d had a blast on the water the prior summer, and the idea that, under Connecticut law, she’d be permitted to captain a 50’ yacht before she could drive a car appealed to her ironic sense of humor. Or, maybe, just maybe, she loves the water, just like her mom.

So she got up early on a Saturday morning to take the day-long class and exam, which she passed (phew!). Afterward, I asked how it went.

She smirked, “Now I know how to trailer a boat. I can’t drive. And we don’t own a trailer . . . or a boat. But I can trailer one.”

I laughed—that’s my girl—and explained how I’ve never used the “rule against perpetuities” as a lawyer, but had to learn it nevertheless for the bar exam.

Next, it was time for boater’s ed. Captain Jeff, a grandfatherly, incredibly patient Coast Guard retiree, was tasked with teaching someone who had never even driven a car to drive and dock a boat. As he quizzed her, I was relieved to learn that she’d taken the class seriously and retained useful information from it.

We practiced docking. I did my best to keep my mouth shut and my face impassive, and she did great as her confidence grew. Then, it was time to push the throttle forward for the first time.

I watched the wake spread out behind us, and, as she felt the sheer power of the engine propel us forward, a huge grin spread across her face . . . just like her mom.