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Jack

Magical, mystical and miraculous was the birth this week of Jack, my third grandchild.  Mom and Dad are more than miraculous in what they achieved, conceiving, nurturing and birthing this perfect new human being.  They are brave and loving, adventurous and more noble than they have ever been, and these qualities will only strengthen in their life together as a family.

Jack has bright curious eyes, searching, straining to connect with voices of family and friends around him; hair dark and thick, with a little wave that can be fashioned into a Mohawk; long fingers and toes on large strong hands and feet; and skin soft as velvet, with a rosy, olive complexion reminding us that his origin is the legendary blend of Italian and Irish.

As I look down at my grandson in my arms pushing his fingers and toes out of his swaddled blanket, I experience an extraordinary moment.  I know there will be thousands more extraordinary moments with him, having had the last seven years to experience moments like these with my other grandchildren.  I know we (my family) are enormously fortunate.  I cherish our Baby Jack beyond description.

We cannot forget, as well, how fortunate we have been to live in New York City with the best access to excellent health care for our mothers and our babies.  We can’t forget how lucky we are to have good jobs and good health insurance to pay for these things.  We can’t forget the good fortune in all that.

My political, feminist, humanist self reminds me that with fifty million uninsured Americans, some mothers and babies never get the prenatal care they need.  We can’t forget that many hard working Americans are in the group of fifty million.  Other families are just not as fortunate as my family has been. For those who may believe childbirth is easy, simple, ordinary and routine, I have news for you and it isn’t good.  When we hear politicians yelling about decent, affordable, universal healthcare in this country we really should listen and effect change for the better because this will improve the health and lives of new parents and the newest generation of children.

I am remembering an editorial I read recently about the state of maternal care and childbirth here in the United States.  The U.S. ranks only 39^th in the care and safety of moms during pregnancy and birth.  That means 38 other countries have a better track record of keeping our new mothers safe, alive and well  -- countries like South Korea, Bosnia, Poland, and Albania.  Spain, the UK and Italy.  This trend is getting worse for us, not better, and hasn’t gotten better in the last generation.

Today I go back to New York City to visit with my one week old grandson Jack.  I can’t wait to hold his perfect shiny miraculous self in my arms.  Once again I’ll be stunned and grateful for this amazing gift of life.  His parents share him with his grandparents, aunts and uncles, their sisters and friends, knowing he can only enhance all our lives from this day forward.  Hopefully we can have a positive, loving influence on him as he grows.  And hopefully the future will only get better for all new parents and babies.

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Overheard in a maternity ward this week: 

 “Why do they call them ‘contractions’ instead of ‘searing pain that feels like you are being split in half?’”

“It’s a natural thing.  In some countries, women give birth working in the fields, and just go back to working.”

“If men gave birth, every child born would be an only child.” (meaning, of course, they’d never do THAT again!)

A Day at the Beach

Ocean City NJ, August 2011

We parked and loaded up our Tommy Bahama back-pack chairs with towels and water and ipad and kindle and newspaper and knitting and an umbrella, then trekked down several streets to the beach. I stopped before we started across the sand and down to the water struck by the panorama.

There is nothing like being greeted by that salty wind and bright sun, and in the blue sky, a double-winged plane pulling a banner that said “Happy Bi thday Alison” with the ‘r’ missing. The beach was unusually wide with fine chalky sand, the waves were high and rumbled with a roar you only feel and hear when sitting near the water. We set up camp as close as we could to the ebb tide.

I am a sucker for all of it, but then again, I was taught to love the beach early in my life.  I remember treks to Jones Beach with my family when I was very young, then Rockaway Beach with my friends as a teenager.  The best days were when my Uncle Dominick wasn’t working, when we piled into his gigantic old Buick (I always sat on the floor in the back seat) with pans of macaroni, franks and peppers heroes and lots of fruit, and drove across the Bronx to the Throgs Neck Bridge and Jones Beach beyond.  There were always at least eight or ten of us (my parents, sisters, my aunt and uncle and cousins) in his car-- no seat belts in those days, no child restraint laws, but luckily we survived.

The funniest sight had to be two of us, usually the kids, carrying an old milk can filled to the brim with lemonade and ice by its double handles. If you know Jones Beach, you know the walks from the parking lots to the beach can be very, very long….  The can was heavy and hit my ankle bone with every other step, but that lemonade was oh so refreshing on a hot day at the beach.  My uncle or dad or one of the mothers (mine or Aunt Jeanne) would dig a deep hole for the can to be buried in, so that only the lid and a couple of inches of can were above the sand.  They had devised a simple yet innovative way to keep the lemonade cold all day long.  We ladled the lemonade into plastic glasses all day long.

I remember my cousin and me burying each other in the sand, only our heads sticking out.  I remember digging for tiny crabs near the water.  I remember pulling mussels off the jetty to cook later at home, and I remember holding on to the long ropes and floats that the lifeguards put out in the water to provide some feeling of security for those who were afraid of the waves.  I remember my mom standing by the edge of the water waving her arms and calling to us “Come back, you are out too far!”

We always arrived early and stayed till the sun was very low on the horizon, the lifeguard chairs had been abandoned and most beach-goers had left.  It was quiet at the end of the day, the sky was huge, and it became mesmerizing to just listen to and watch the waves.   Today I think The Captain and I will do the same.

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“My life is like a stroll on the beach...as near to the edge as I can go.”

--Thoreau

At the Metropolitan Museum of Art

I woke up this morning and knew I had to go to the Met to see’ Savage Beauty’, the Alexander McQueen exhibit before it ended on Sunday.  I’ve been avoiding the trek to Grand Central on metro north and then the number 6 train up to 86^th and Lex. only because of the heat of the last few weeks.  But faced with missing the exhibit, one of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s most visited shows in history, made the suffocating heat a minor inconvenience—I caught the 9:37 to the city, then the number 6 up to 86^th street.  When I made a left onto Fifth Avenue, I could see the steps of the Met already packed with people sitting, standing and lining up to get in.  I made a mental note to myself not to arrive so late ever again.  It was about 10:45. 

After the security check, I went straight to the information desk in the center of the lobby to get directions.  The sign on the desk said “McQueen exhibit line closed” so I said, “excuse me, what does that mean?”  “It means”, the woman behind the desk replied, “you can’t get on the line to view the exhibit until it opens again, and that probably will not be for several hours.”  OMG I thought and said, “what about members?”.  I knew from all the membership marketing signs hanging in every corner and on every wall in the gigantic lobby that ‘MEMBERS SKIP THE LINES’, but I needed it confirmed.  Miss blond, 55-ish facelift leaned closer to me and said, “no one gets in while the line is closed”.  I smiled and thanked her, moved around to the other side of the huge circular desk and asked someone else the same question.  Same answer.  I didn’t believe them for a minute.  

So I figured I’d join the museum anyway, since I plan to go a lot this fall and winter, now that I’m retired, and made my way to the far right to the Membership desk.  There was a line, as I guessed others had the same idea as me, join and “skip the line”.  I joined and got my temporary membership card. I asked the friendlier-looking worker if I could now, indeed, “skip the line” and she repeated: no one, even members, cannot get into the exhibit if the line is closed.  She also suggested that I return on Saturday or Sunday morning at 8:30 am, when only members are allowed in for an hour.  “Your chances are better then.”  I said “good idea”.

I made my way up the wide, sprawling, center staircase to the second floor and was immediately confronted with people on line, a line I knew I could identify as the line I wanted to skip.  I followed it winding through what seemed like every gallery on the second floor, crossing halls and roped off on one side, so other museum goers like me could walk freely.  I reached a point where I couldn’t walk alongside the line any longer, and asked the guard keeping me from going any further if members could continue on and get in.  She said, no, no one was entering the exhibit now, but why don’t I just go up to the front of the line to see where the exhibit is, so that later I can “skip the line” when it opened up again.  So I did.

After many more halls and galleries, THERE IT WAS!!  SAVAGE BEAUTY – I heard music, I saw flashing and swirling lights and people standing, sitting on the floor and generally looking tired and impatient waiting behind the rope in the hall.  I had been walking through the museum for at least 20 minutes, passing signs reading “2 hour wait from this point” and “1 hour wait from this point” and “line closed indefinitely”.  I walked up to the guard at the entrance, smiled, held up my membership card, and asked again, “Can members enter”?  He looked at me, unhooked the rope and said, “go right in”.  Best $70 I ever spent!

Savage Beauty was stunning, magical, disturbing, enchanting, electrifying, it was everything I never imagined and more.  I didn’t know much about the designer Lee Alexander McQueen before this exhibit but now I feel I have a tiny inkling into his psyche, or maybe none at all.  It is hard to tell.  He said himself, “There is no way back for me now.  I am going to take you on journeys you’ve never dreamed were possible.” The exhibit is multi-media including holograms, videos, and tricks to startle the gapers. His designs were romantic, regal, futuristic yet historically influenced, sometimes conjuring madness, at others, softness and beauty. Oh, yes, and then there was the sort of erotic and S&M leather, thorns and chains.  But always, always original stretching the imagination to places I can’t say I’ve ever been.  Primitive yet enlightened, romantic/gothic (his words) yet avant-garde.  Dresses, gowns were made of lace, silk chiffon and tapestry, then birds’ feathers, clam and mussel shells, and flowers.  And then there are the shoes…… the accessories….. 

The limitations of my ability to adequately describe this exhibit are so much greater than my infinite desire to share it with readers of this blog.  I can point you to the Met web site where you can view videos of the exhibit, but more intriguing, his runway shows – elaborate presentations of his original concept for every collection.  Take a look if I have spiked your interest, and go to the Met if you can before Sunday, August 7 – but go as a member so you can skip the line!

http://blog.metmuseum.org/alexandermcqueen/video/

 

If you don’t already know, sadly, Lee McQueen died by suicide in February of 2010.  His mother had also died by suicide a week before.  He admitted to be distraught and unable to handle her death.

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Imagination is the one weapon in the war against reality.

-- Jules de Gaultier