WORLD'S LEADING INTERNSHIP PROGRAM

It was at Foxleigh House that I first raised a toast to absent friends. It was the tail end of 1990, and Durell had invited me to celebrate the New Year with his family. The days seemed to revolve around a dinner party that started in the later part of the afternoon with tea in the drawing room, which segued onto cocktails, and then moved to the dining room to an enormous table with an impressive array for forks. Several courses later came the port and the cheese. To my amazement, the port was passed to the left and the earnest toast was made to absent friends.

The house was a boisterous place with family portraits barely keeping their secrets to themselves, chiming clocks, and scintillating conversation. It was a raucous rollicking good time ringing with laughter. It was a world that I had dreamed of that somehow was congruous with feather boas, champagne flutes and Baked Alaska. It was glamorous, intelligent and witty. It was grand and larger than life, but it was also very kind and loving and at times very silly. The first time I went to visit Foxleigh House, I felt like I had come home.

I was often seated next to Ted, who was never at a loss for words. He had an endless supply of stories, and a steady stream of compliments. I was charmed by not only his words, but by his accent, and his eyebrows, which had a language all their own. I was enraptured by this witty raconteur, this worldly Brit, this classy older gent. I could tell he enjoyed my company and to reference Austin Powers, he made me feel like an International Woman.

Ted was the incarnation of my romanticized version of a dramatically gracious man, a generous host, and an interestingly interested whimsical man. He fulfilled my wildest dreams of a fabulous weekend in a country house. He was the Lord of the Manor.

I will miss Ted. I will miss his lead. I will miss his élan and his joie de vivre. I pulled out my albums last week and lined up all my photos of Ted on the windowsill. In almost every last one of them, he is wearing a bow tie and a big smile. And in most of the shots he is holding a glass of Champagne.

So to that end I raise my glass and say ‘Ted, here's to you.' Thank you for the warm welcome to your magical world at Foxleigh House. Thank you for your love and acceptance. Thank you for making me feel so good about myself when I was around you.

To close, although I generally always prefer champagne, in this particular circumstance I would like to defer to port. Ted, although you were at first my friend Durell's father, you became my friend too. I will miss you, but I thank you and will always remember you for showing me such a good time, although these days you are absent.

They had made a tentative plan to meet for lunch during the week before Christmas. That is if they weren't too busy, and could get away from work, and something else didn't come up. Neither wanted to seem too anxious or interested in the other, and to leave an open escape route for the other. Although they really enjoyed each other's company and sensual goodbye kisses, it had gone no further.

Alex had been divorced for six or seven years; Leah knew that at least. She also knew that his son had moved in with him at the end of the summer and had started the sixth grade here in the city. She imagined that Alex had his hands full, in that he had his own advertising firm, taught part time at City College and now was a single father as primary caregiver to his son. She knew he lived in a loft, although she had never been there, which also housed his office, and wondered how he managed to fit in his 12-year-old son, and all his possessions as well.

It was a lot to balance, and she respected him for firmly taking on his responsibilities. As a result, she presumed there was no room in his life for her other than meeting now and again for drinks or dinner. These days, since he was the primary caregiver to his son, he was less available in the evening, and their meetings had become downgraded to a lunch date.

They usually went to a hip restaurant in Soho, where the waiters were preoccupied and the crowd was arrogant. There was always a wait for a table, and they didn't take reservations, but Leah never minded, as there was a bench up front, where they could sit and chat side by side until a table became available. Somehow, they always managed to get a seat on the bench, regardless of the size of the crowd waiting for a table.

Alex was unfailing polite and never late. His slim frame was always immaculately dressed, and had a smile that could light up a room. He was brilliant, well traveled, well read and an intriguing conversationalist. He was a good listener and cocked his head so his ear was just a bit closer when he was really interested. His parents had emigrated from the Middle East to New York before he was born. Although he was raised in New York, he was imprinted with a Middle Eastern soul, which created a mysterious air about him, and exotic cast to his manner. She wasn't always sure she was correctly reading his signals.

Leah stood a half a head taller than he did, unless she was wearing heels, in which case she was a full head taller. She was amply rounded, although by no means overweight. She was clearly a woman who enjoyed an appetite for multi course meals and wines with each course. She was comfortable in her body and comfortable in bed. She was often the one to first extend the invitation to a man. This was something new for her, this man who was nearby and attentive but not touching, this man who clearly enjoyed her company, clearly enjoyed sensuous kisses, but had not taken her any further up the stairs to the bedroom.

She had been involved in many affairs, many relationships, but had never lived with a man, never been married. She had felt like a stone skipping the surface of the pond, and ached to settle in. Alex was one of the best guys she had ever known, which is why she had continued to meet him every couple of weeks or so. He kept calling, so she kept meeting up with him, although she had already made the decision that there was no room for her in his life today, especially now that his son had moved in. She kept it light, didn't presume or expect, and enjoyed their conversations. Most men she had been involved with had been on a much more physical, much less intellectual level, but this appeared to be the opposite. Leah knew the string of shallow love affairs had not made her happy, so perhaps this relationship with Alex was a turning point. She had decided to let him take the lead and see where it went. She would be demure and soft. She would set aside her sultry, adamantly sexy hunger and try a new path with this sweet and gentle man.

Alex called to reconfirm their lunch date and neither had detected an intimation of cancellation from the other, so the time was set for one. Leah then went into 24 hours of confusion of whether or not she should bring a gift for him. She didn't want to be empty handed if he had a gift for her, but by the same token didn't want him to feel uncomfortable if she brought him a gift and he had nothing for her. In fact, she wasn't even sure that he celebrated Christmas at all, in that he was a Muslim.

She finally decided to pack up a box of Christmas cookies, which she had lovingly baked for friends and family. It was an annual ritual, and six or eight batches allowed for many bountiful boxes. It was comestible, she was sure his son would get into them, and she was confident in her baking skills. It was a safe gift, which made her feel better about the whole situation. She lined a cardboard box with waxed paper and red tissue paper, and nestled in an assortment of sweets. The box was tied up with a green grosgrain ribbon and the whole thing was set in a small shopping bag.

As Leah walked to the restaurant, she bought a newspaper and set it in the bag as well. The newspaper obscured the ribboned box, which gave her another level of security. She didn't want to seem too eager to see him, didn't want to bounce into the restaurant with the present in her arms feeling the good will that comes with the season. She didn't want to throw her arms around his neck and smother him with her Christmas joy. Leah curbed her instincts. She slipped into the ladies room as soon as she entered the restaurant to check her lipstick and establish her composure. When Leah returned to the entrance, Alex was standing at the doorway, looking out the window waiting for her to arrive. He was still wearing his gloves, and was empty handed. She blinked a moment and took a deep breath before tapping him on the shoulder.

They were seated by the door and each time it opened, an icy blast joined their conversation. Leah pulled her jacket around her shoulders and pulled more tightly into herself to stay warm. She could feel her attention slipping from his presence to her physical discomfort. The small shopping bag was safely under the table by her foot. She was grateful that the newspaper covered the box, as she didn't want to even see it at this point. Her intuition had been correct. Her worrying had been worth it. They were just friends; there was no room in his life for her. She did not want to beg or bribe his affections with a Christmas gift.

The waiter was overworked, the restaurant was crowded, and their conversation became more guarded and shallow. She was nursing a wound, and realized how much she wanted him to be available to her, to be open to her, to connect with her. How badly she wanted him to make the move. Unwilling to rethink her strategy, at the moment all she could do was retreat, and protect herself from the cold that was seeping into her bones.

After kissing on both cheeks and bidding each other "happy holidays", which was the blandest of year-end farewells, they went their separate ways. She had left the bag under the table, unwilling to pick up her disappointment, refusing to take it out of the restaurant with her.

Alex reached up his right hand and touched his chest through his overcoat. In his breast pocket was a drawing he had made for Leah, but was still uncertain it was good enough to give to her. After all, she was a woman who had such a zest for life and he was still uncertain if she was interested in him. She willingly accepted his invitations but for some reason he could not detect, felt like she was hiding something from him. Something didn't quite ring true. He had set the drawing in his pocket and realized it was handy as a shield that day, to protect his heart from her illegible signals.

My father always chose the runt of the litter. It took me until after I

graduated from college to figure out that dogs could be smart and sweet.

Well at least one dog, a really ugly mix by the name of Hank. I found her cowering behind my dumpster covered in scars just a scrawny bag of dried ole sticks. I offered her a bit of my bagel, sniffing she limped over butted her head against my hand and gave me a rather slobby kiss.

She had no collar so I guessed no one was looking for her. No such luck. But Hank was looking for someone, and that someone happened to be me. She followed me back around the building to the front door, and when I turned to shoo her away, the words caught in my throat. What would Peter say?

Not that Peter really had any say -- not after he had taken the Kerouac and left without a word. I stood gazing at this ugly battered creature and saw more love and hope in her eyes than I had seen in 3.75 years of marriage. Well, finding a first edition Kerouac for $40 just doesn't count. It was the book, always the books. Straightening, I suddenly grabbed the door handle, "So Hank, how does prime rib sound?"

Peter vanished a few days ago, and left me in the lurch and the prime rib in the freezer. It was meant to be Peter's birthday dinner, so the sight of it, just this morning, riled my temper. A prime rib splurge, even on sale, decimated our grocery budget. I thumped it on the counter top to thaw and wrestled Hank into the tub for a bath. Girl's night in, at 107 Fairway, to celebrate our new friendship.

I felt no hesitation as I chose "select all" from my address book. I had never done this before, regardless of how funny the joke or how urgent the plea in a chain email for good luck or promises of wealth. I respected the privacy of even the email box, where these days, as with regular mail, there is more junk than good stuff.

I was ready again and all those old feelings were stirred up. Unlike the 60s when I was full of passion but had few resources and little life experience, I now had credit cards, the power of the internet and a massive address book. I also knew the value of life, as I had given birth.

The message was short, almost an apology for the "select all" intrusion. It was an invitation. Most people in my address book I was not in regular contact with, other than the year end Christmas greeting. But even then, I took the time to write a personal message, rather than include a photocopied Christmas letter with the year's progress outlined and the kids' picture as they grew and changed year after year. I felt no remorse when I clicked send. I had chartered a bus and was looking to fill it up.

They say life is a cycle and it circles around again and again. I see it as a spiral and when I circle back to the same place again, I'm so very different that it's a different scenario altogether. I have new tools, more experience, and as a result, have a tendency to make different decisions the next time around. The software changes and processes similar information differently to produce different results.

In this case, the hardware was also different than in the 60's. How different I was these days than the last time I'd protested a war. Three decades different. Three children different. Thirty pounds different. How slowly and imperceptibly but undeniably I'd become the establishment myself. I had been a soccer mom, driven an SUV and not only drank, but owned shares of Starbucks. I'd been shocked as I heard my mother's voice come out of my mouth as I disciplined my children and warned of disastrous futures ahead if they didn't heed my words.

I was driven by an energy that I knew. The energy was the same although used in a different context, but it burned clean. It was fueled by the indignation of foolish decisions made by my government on my behalf and their decisions were so wrong that I had to speak up. I was appalled at the determination of the men in Washington DC to get involved in a war that was none of our affair. Because it would boost the economy, because it would avenge an unresolved conflict from the past, because it would make our team feel powerful to whoop some ass. These are not the reasons to start a war.

The purity of my emotion was what struck me. I knew this clean true strong burn. It wasn't anger, it wasn't rage, and in fact it was more forceful, more powerful. It was the power that mothers know with regard to their children. It was the power beyond everyday experience that sustains a woman through labor, knowing it is a force greater than herself which comes to sustain her for an important project as she rides the razor's edge between life and death. It is the power that chooses life and manhandles it into existence; and protects it forever.

There is not a mother who has not suffered in labor, or seen the shadow world in the process. There is not a mother who has not had nightmares of injury or death lurking around her family, before, during or after labor. We know death is possible, and pray we will stay strong enough to care for our vulnerable and precious children, and that our children will successfully elude the shadow themselves. Brought into this world from our own flesh, in a messy bloody painful labor, our children are precious, irreplaceable.

Yet as with all life, we are bound to vanish from the earth one day. We all hope that it will be after a long, happy life and by natural causes. This holds true though my children are now adults, and have children of their own. And out of respect for all other mothers, I wish the same for them.

For months now, petitions and emails had been circulating on the internet. There was a huge amount of interest and hundreds of thousands of people had signed their names. We sent them off to our president, congressmen, senators and other offices of power. There they must have sat, in somebody's virtual in-box. A silent digital protest, megabytes of distress and pleading. Maybe they were eventually printed out and sent by interoffice mail to sit in somebody else's in-box, a mute pile of accordion paper with thousands of neat and quiet names. I couldn't tell if our message was acknowledged but ignored, or if it was carefully circumnavigated lest it explode, but I knew that they did not heed our polite and democratic request.

I decided it was time to make some noise. Martin Luther King Weekend, as a show of respect to a man who had a dream that all men could live together in peace, was the date that was chosen. It was to be a C-section, but it didn't in any way diminish our fervor to give birth to peace. I chartered three extra busses to accommodate the response to my invitation.

Horrified she watched helplessly as the stupidest words possible left her mouth to just hang there, all sugary sweet yet so insulting. Merlene stood frozen in front of the man that she had been waiting to meet her whole life, well maybe only since she was eight. Seeing him as he took first step onto the stage for "Swan Lake" had made her whole body tingle and sparkle. He had filled the room with such energy and power that she felt she could never again be more alive. All around her the audience had promptly stood up giving him a standing ovation before he even had taken another step. Merlene's life since had been based on that moment -- that frenzy of joy. And now her wildest dream was a nightmare.

It had been a long wait by the stage door, and her feet were howling in her silver sandals. The crowd was polite but aggressive, a sea of fur coats and Merlene's growling stomach adding to the murmur of conversation in the corridor. She had been so bold as to touch up her make-up right there in public, so as to be perfectly perfect when she came face to face with her idol. Up ahead, the stage door opened, the crush of fans parted, and there he was, surrounded by his handlers. Was it that the handlers were so enormous, or was he really so small?

Oh! my god did I really say that outloud? And right during that odd moment

when the crowd had taken a collective breath so that a softly spoken thought

became a scream. There was a collective gasp and one of the handlers stepped

forward aggressively. Never before had Merlene wished that she had worn

flats. Desperately looking down at her three inch heels and willing herself

to disappear, she heard a low chuckle.

Merlene looked beyond her silver sandals to see the two pairs of feet that had turned to face her. She looked at the woman's stubby feet, and large ankles squashed into a pair of patent leather shoes, past her thick waist and her immodest décolletage to her multiple chins, outlined with strings of pearls. Merlene's glance flicked past her face, expecting a frown of disapproval and rested at eye level on a sparkling tiara, wrapped around the graying hair piled on top of her head. Her escort, fingering the curled ends of his waxed mustache, held her mink over the arm of his tuxedo. "I call him Mr. Shortypants, myself," she confided sotto voce.