Raking in the New Season

Denville, NJ circa 2007 

October has made her debut. It hearkens to me remembrances of years past 'Back East.' Funny, but when  I first moved to So Cal I smirked every time someone would refer to the East Coast in such a manner. It certainly didn't taken me long to understand the implication. 


Most of my memories of the changing of the seasons come from my life 'Back East.' That's easy to surmise as Southern California has a little-to-none seasonal change factor. I am certain that many Californians would challenge my conviction, but I have yet to see anyone pick up a rake and pile up the leaves, bag them, drag the bags to the curb and feel a complete sense of accomplishment that this yearly duty was once again completed. In our family this arduous chore was usually rewarded with piping hot chocolate and powdered cider doughnuts.


So, as I continue to reminisce of Octobers past, I will replace the hot chocolate with a  glass of Cali wine and give seasonal thanks that I no longer have to repeatedly place Band Aids on the blistered spot between my thumb and index finger as  a remnant of my October raking marathons.

A Room with a View




"Equitable" - dealing fairly and equally with all concerned.

That's the definition that Webster provides for the word.

It is also the word I see from my LA apartment window as it crowns a nearby office tower, framed by these majestic twin palms.

Right now I am feeling that our fractured Congress has not been very 'equitable' in D.C. as they finalized their down-to-the-wire passage of the US Debt ceiling legislation debacle.

There is little that is equitable, I fear, in the final deal; just a greater divide between the 'haves' and the 'have-nots.'

Something smells rotten in the District, methinks.

Forget Them Not

Vietnam War Memorial
Washington, DC

A picture is worth a thousand words.

How many words would you use to define this picture?  One? One hundred? One thousand?

I took this picture during Memorial Day weekend many years ago.  My husband and I had taken our young and impressionable sons to D.C. to visit the nation's capital and see the sites. I was eager to spend time at the Vietnam War Memorial . . .  known as the "Wall." When we arrived I anxiously scanned the seemingly endless list of names, looking for my brother's. He was a 'career' soldier and years after several 'Nam tours of duty he succumbed to the deadly effects of Agent Orange.

My generation has many great memories to behold. The Vietnam War is not one of them. We treated our soldiers badly upon their return from gruesome battles. Hopefully that horrific behavior will never be repeated.

And so it was on that beautiful D.C. day that as I turned from the somber Wall, my heart heavy with sadness and sorrow, I was taken aback by these two veterans sharing a moment of remembrance.

I have taken many photos over the years. Not one of them carries the weight, nor the message, nor the pain of this one.

As we celebrate the unofficial beginning of the summer season, let us remember the true purpose of this memorable weekend.

To all the past, present and future men and women who serve our country, I salute your bravery, your selflessness and your sense of duty to our country. Godspeed. 



Eggcellence



Easter Brunch Table Setting
 at Chez Laurice



Easter egg coloring is a  seasonal craft that I have come to honor and respect like few others. My mother was a very crafty woman . . . in many, many ways. But, for now, I will keep my thoughts specifically to her expert, or shall I say 'eggspert' egg coloring talents. Actually, in all fairness it was her lack of talent, sad to say.

Pige (as we called her) could tackle any do-it-herself home or garden project, whip up and serve a party for many with all the goodies imaginable, and sew a full set of upholstered covers for the living room furniture with formal drapes to match. She could also needle her way through any crewelwork and embroidery project set before her. She had an innate ability to set trends, both in her home and with her wardrobe. Yes, indeedy, she could do it all. . .  except color those annual "pain-in the-neck" (her words, not mine) holiday Easter eggs.

My Aunt Helen, Pige's sister, was also a gifted crafter. She, too, had many talents and was most proficient in the coloring and designing of her yearly dozen or two splendid orbs. Each Easter her eggs were a bedazzling offering of spectacular colors and sparkle. They were always the brightest hues and she beautifully scripted each of our names onto our own special egg. What a delight for any child. Especially one who had spent Easter Eve with her mother laboring intensively over the color mixtures, inhaling the vinegar and spooning the invariably cracked eggs into the rainbow of stained cups of hot, hot, hot colored water. It didn't matter how hard my mother 'tried something new' each and every year. The results were always the same. Ugly eggs. Very ugly eggs. Embarrassingly ugly eggs. And I had the stained fingers each Easter Sunday to match them. Thank goodness for white cotton gloves. They got me through Easter mass for many years.

So now the years have passed and Pige and Helen's holiday Easter eggs are but memories. Aunt Helen's will always win the awards for Best-in-Show. But as we know that with age comes wisdom, it is my mother's ugly duckling eggs that hold the dearest memories of Easters past for me.

Happy Easter to all and may all you eggs be memorable.





On Being Irish

My Irishness

My mother determined that my given name would be 'Laurice.' Considering that this decision was made mid-century, she was quite the innovator. Her motivation was to name me after my father, Lawrence. The obvious choices such as Laura or Lauren and the like did not appeal to her, so she fashioned my name herself.

My father, however, was a little anxious about the name. He was not comfortable with it and, quite contradictory to his character, he proclaimed to my mother as she lay in the maternity ward that 'Patricia' was his name of choice for their new born daughter. They compromised and thus I am Patricia Laurice. Clearly Dad won that round.

I take pride in my name. I was one of six Patricias in my high school homeroom, nonetheless the marriage of such a conventional Irish name with one that was oh-la-la French in flavor is most indicative of my very nature. Each year as the Feast of Saint Patrick approaches I take time to reminisce of my father's Irish pride and the Irishness of my name, Patricia Laurice McConnell. Okay, so the middle name is not quite so Irish, but it adds just the right amount of continental spice to my very own Irish stew.

Tis time for the wearing of the green!

Garden State of Mind



Garden State of Mind

It has been three years since our move to Southern California from New Jersey. During this time I have taken note of those things that are similar, other things that are different and the so many things that are missed.

New Jersey has become a T.V. cliche.  The reality of New Jersey cannot be reduced to the one-dimensional characters that are presently found on the 'small' screen purporting to live the NJ life. Although diminutive in size, the state packs a punch in living life large and with few regrets.  Its best season, it may be argued, is springtime. This is when the air becomes heavy with the promise of rain showers.  After the clouds have burst forth and released the weight of their precipitation, the dewiness hangs in the air and hints at the cavalcade of flora and greenery that will shortly come forth within just a few days of rising temperatures.

Here is Southern California there is no likeness to the Garden State spring. There are, of course,  cycles of planting and harvest, but the season  is more banal and less a pronouncement of arrival and departure.

So I now reminisce in my mind as I treasure the memories of my New Jersey garden. My rush to the garden center to plan yet another year's color box of delightful blooms is but a mere memory of the past. I close my eyes and recall the riot of colors and scents that permeated every  available inch of earth and container. I pause to remember my nemesis, the garden squirrel, who determined to undermine my plantings as readily as I determined to rid my  jewel box garden of his presence. The battle raged on between us for many years with victorious relief only gained upon my departure. And, finally, I recall my happiness and overt joy at taking in the lush and plush spectrum of color that delighted me each and every day through out the season. There was much toil and great trouble in the planting of the garden, but there is no gain without pain. Each and every ache was worth it for this, truly, was my Garden State of mind.

Valentine's 'What If?'

Some Valentine's Day memories are 'What Ifs.'  Thoughts of my Uncle Gal are at the top of that list for me. His 'given' name was Valentine, but somewhere along the line  (I'm guessing by the third or fourth time he was playing fist-a-cuffs with some classmate after a name-calling exchange) he determined that the name had to be altered and so he fashioned the 'V' into a  'G' and thus he became Gal.

Uncle Gal was my mother's boyfriend during her teenage years. It was understood by the entire family that this union would be sealed in the blissful state of matrimony. My mother, alas, had other plans. Being the headstrong young woman which she was, she wriggled her way out of the relationship and moved onto other beaus. Gal was devastated and sought the comfort and proverbial shoulder of my mother's sister, Aunt Helen. She, herself, had just experienced a tumultuous ending to a long standing relationship and was ripe for the companionship. Timing is everything as they say.

Any primary level detective could deduce the outcome of this scenario and before long that blissful wedding that the family anticipated indeed took place. It was, however,  between Gal and Helen, with Dotti (that's my mom) out of the immediate picture. It wasn't much later that emotions had cooled among all parties and the family moved on with Gal embraced as the fourth son in addition to  to my mom's three brothers.

Aunt Helen and Uncle Gal never had children. Instead, they lavished attention on select nieces. Ok, so now you may further guess that the two nieces who received the greatest abundance of their attention were me and my sister. It seemed only natural to me during my younger years that Uncle Gal would be so loving to me. After all, I was a very receptive child.  But as the years passed and the wisdom that accompanies age allowed me to see the BIG picture, it really saddened me as I wondered if Uncle Gal was especially loving to Dotti's girls for the sentimental reason of wondering 'what ifs' along the way.

So this is my special Valentine's Day memory. More than the day and its symbolism, for me, it always reminds me of my Uncle Valentine aka Gal. He lost the love of Dotti, refound  love with Helen and bestowed unconditional love upon Dotti's girls.

What if . . . ?