A place has magic to conjure the past, but it is the people of that place that make it still feel like home. 
 
A year and a day after moving to Albuquerque, I return to my Los Angeles for the first time. I am here to surprise my close friend Carolyn on her 60th.  All great things take a village, and thankfully the village we created ten years ago when our kids were babies is thriving. Within no time, I’ve got a ride from the airport, place to stay overnight, and a ton of friends to see for the first time in what feels like forever.
 
Had childcare plans come through, Jory would have come with. Instead, I am solo. It’s been so long since I’ve flown anywhere that I am (unnecessarily) nervous in this ever-changing world.  
 
As the plane descends over the place I called home for 26 years, I can’t stop smiling. 
On the short drive from the airport to her gorgeous home, my dear friend Lory fills me in on changes that friends and neighbors have braved. It is akin to getting the update on your favorite TV show: Person A sold his company. B’s father died of Covid, but husband started at Zoom before the pandemic with huge stock options. C’s daughter is being recruited by Duke U, and so on. We sit on her rooftop, the majestic Pacific at our feet, if not solving the world’s problems, at least keeping them at bay for the afternoon.
 
En route to the party, we drive past a parade of RVs on Jefferson Boulevard, filled with homeless. Our town library’s park is now littered with homeless tents, some with two rooms and porches, implying that these people have not always been homeless. This hits me right in the gut.

So many of us Angelenos were/are house poor, most of our dwindling income, then savings, going to our mortgages or rent. It was not sustainable: the homeless population in LA has mushroomed by 13% in the past year alone. Those who could, left. Others found this tent/RV solution. But with no running water, these encampments make for medieval sanitation conditions.  More scars of COVID.
 
But a hidden silver lining of COVID is the level of appreciation people feel just to be at a party, albeit outside with chilly ocean breezes. We have all been in isolation for so long, that going to an outdoor birthday party has become an Event of Epic Proportions.

For me, of course, the highlight is surprising beautiful Carolyn, who regally sports a tiara and sash.  How I have missed our birthday dinners, family get-togethers, girls’ night outs. How I have missed my friends.
 
To pull off the surprise, Lory tells Carolyn she has someone to introduce her to, at which point I run to her, arms outstretched.  Carolyn has that surreal moment, the kind when her eyes are telling her something her brain cannot process. Clearly shocked, she blurts out, “Didn't you RSVP’d no?”  I laugh, “I texted your husband instead.” And then we are both crying those tears of joy that come when you go to great lengths to show up for each other.
 
Since we hadn’t all been together in the last year and a half, the party takes on the vibe of a 10th year reunion, most of these friendships spanning at least ten years. Instead of discussing “What kindergarten?” it’s “What middle school? High School?” 
 
We toast the radiant birthday girl in roasts and heartfelt reflections. We dance because “I’ve got a feelin’…Tonight’s gonna be a good good night” and let loose over other old gems. Laughter punctuates the party.  The lawn games go ignored because we are all just want to catch up, to hear about our time apart. It’s one of those nights when you wish you could stop time, all of us happy and together and healthy.
 
In the final minutes of this magical fete, our friend Cindy falls. Hard. Someone says she twisted her ankle. Someone else says she tripped. It isn’t alcohol related because she's our designated driver. She slammed her head on the pavement and bruised her lower back. Panicked, the restaurant manager brings her two huge bags of ice. We help her rest, stay with her while she recovers, boost her spirits.
 
Later that night, after a glass of wine with Kristina by her beautiful fire pit, I drift off, feeling grounded by these friendships in a way I have very much missed.  A few hours later, I awaken, mind racing. I can’t stop thinking about Cindy and why she fell. 
 
One of the updates Lory gave when she picked me up at the airport was that two years ago, Cindy was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.  Because I didn’t want the news to be true, I pushed it out of my mind. I didn’t even mention it when I saw Cindy. But that is not how life works. Cindy fell because loss of balance is a major symptom of MS. It's what prompted her to discover she had MS. And it’s not going away, and it’s not going to get better.
 
Even in the midst of celebration, the demons that plague us are lurking in the shadows. So we owe it to ourselves to show up for each other both when we soar and when we fall, not just one or the other. Because when we cheer each other on, soaring through accomplishments and milestones, we ourselves are lifted up, reminded of how full, how sweet, how possible life can be.

And then of course, to witness each other falling reminds us of our common frailty, because we all fall, usually when least expected: loved ones die, contracts get terminated, kids make foolish choices, cars and computers break down, opportunities that were slam dunks don’t materialize.  And when we fall, we get to pick each other up, pack on the ice, sit together and breathe.
 
When I was young and foolish, I missed most weddings and fancy events of close friends. I felt I couldn’t afford to attend these events: airfare, hotel, car rental, food. Now, I understand that I cannot afford to miss them.

​It’s not that by raising three kids on one income we suddenly have disposable cash to jet to a party. It’s that these pockets of joy in our village are what make Life both sparkle and feel like Home.

Due to a busy calendar, we decide to have my daughter’s 11th  birthday party on 9/11.  September 11th is a civics lesson to my kids, much as Pearl Harbor was for us.  
 
But if I dig deeper, I want a party on 9/11 because I want to block out the sadness. I am still grieving the loss of Homie and living with my parents’ decline. That morning, it dawns on me that the survivors from that day are also aging and dying of natural causes. My uncle, who worked in the South Tower, passed away a few years ago of a brain tumor. On an Amherst call that weekend, we remember our classmate Fred who was on one of the planes. He is forever young to us, while we who remember him now have wrinkles, or bigger midsections, or less hair, or achy joints. But Fred is frozen in time.
 
So a party it is – but not just any party: my erudite daughter wants a Greek Mythology-themed party. Party planning has never been my forte, and the closest I ever got to Greece or mythology when I turned 11 was that horrible movie Grease with John Travolta & Olivia NJ. (I say horrible because we tried to watch it a few years ago with our kids and the kids asked us to turn it off. “Everyone is so mean!!” they said. And they were right. How did I miss that as a kid?)
 
Realizing that we don’t have too many years left to plan a home party my daughter and her friends will like, we go all out. The party is epic: Greek mythology cards, Medusa Tag, Shut Pandora’s Box, Guess Athena’s M&Ms, Zeus’ Ice Cream Bar, TP toga Fashion Show judged by Helen of Troy and Aphrodite, Defeat the Minotaur (Apollo’s Karaoke sadly got axed by those sitting on Mount Olympus). After an epic scavenger hunt, everyone ends up in Poseidon’s realm, not wanting to leave the pool when the Guardians of their Galaxies arrive.
 
On Sunday morning, wanting to bask in the Grecian victory for just a day (I’ve never planned such a gathering before) all joy is diminished with Ali’s cough. And sneeze. And sore throat. There’s no such thing as the common cold in 2021.  
 
The next morning when Ali has no fever, but no sense of taste either, we keep her home from school, only to discover that there are NO rapid Covid tests anywhere in Albuquerque. No pharmacies of any kind have them (not even the home kits). Nor do urgent cares. It used to be easy to get COVID tests, pre-Delta.
 
Our pediatrician connects me to the COVID testing hotline (yes, it’s a thing). They can find no tests available for the next two days, and then results will take another 72 hours. When I remind them that she has 7 of the 11 COVID symptoms and cannot be vaccinated due to age, they refer me to another testing facility clear across town which has one opening. We jump in the car. I swab Ali’s nostrils in the back seat, deliver the kit to the outstretched grabber of the gloved and masked attendant and hope for the best.
 
We wait. And think pray. The news arrives the next day: Negative. Never has there been more rejoicing over the common cold.  We do not need to quarantine. 
 
If I were to tell you two years ago that I’d be keeping my child home because she has a cough, and then sending the overworked principal my kid’s lab results, you would have pegged me as neurotic and overprotective.  
 
But it’s 2021 now, and we’re making history.

Lillie and Ty at Cliff's.  Then Celebrating 11 w. dear friend Marcia

Here’s to the Sandwich Years.  Not the years when Dad would pack homemade creations in our lunch, but that decade some of us find ourselves in, with super needy kids….and parents.  Many avoid this crazy season by not having kids, or, like my parents did, by having them early in life. By the time their parents needed assistance, my siblings and I were in college, and my parents were free to help Mom’s parents (Dad’s were both dead before he was 20, which presented a different heart ache). Like some of my peers, I had kids later in life, so am smack dab in the middle of a big sticky PB & J mess, during a pandemic to boot.
 
The similarities are haunting. For example, in dressing 5-year old Tyler for Transitional Kindergarten, I make sure he either has elastic-waist shorts or shorts he can hook shut. No buttons or snaps. This is important because if he cannot get his pants off, he will have an accident. Likewise, last time I visited Mom, I had to weed through her wardrobe and take out all slacks that had buttons, zippers or snaps.  I also took out all skirts and dresses. Mom can no longer dress herself, and everything needs to be as easy as possible for the caretakers.
 
Nine-year old Ali is going through a phase whereby she will have giant meltdowns. Several times a day, the slightest thing will set her off: Someone finished the ice cream she wanted. She has to do her homework. Her sister has a playdate and she doesn’t. (The triggers are ENDLESS). I try to help her realize that even in the face of these perceived calamities, she has power. That she CAN make choices, initiate, ask for what she wants. I remind her that she decides how she shows up, how she reacts to whatever happens, what her intention is in any given situation. In the meantime, until she is willing to step in to this responsibility, her tears and screaming and sobbing fill our home.  I shoulder on.

Likewise, my dad has decided that he does not like living in Tucson. I enlist the deacon of the local church to bring him communion, but Dad doesn’t feel up to it so he won’t let him in his apartment. After two weeks of phone calls and emails to five different staff people, I arrange for someone to escort him to the local cribbage game. The staff person calls me two minutes before cribbage begins to let me know that Dad is refusing to leave his apartment. I call Dad and tell him that he IS going to try out cribbage.  We argue. He yells that he hates it here. I say he’s not even trying. He hangs up on me.  I shoulder on, wondering if upping or changing his anti-depressant medication will help.
 
Hygiene is another hill to climb: There is a daily battle of trying to get Tyler to use toothpaste. He hates toothpaste.  All flavors (even bubblegum). Too often, I give in and brush his teeth without it, mostly because I am worn out. His clothes are clean. He is bathed. In good time he will either be ostracized or ridiculed in to needing toothpaste for his breath.

I wonder if the staff remembers to brush Mom’s teeth twice a day. It’s not even something I can ask. When I call her to say hello, she picks up the phone, only to speak in to the ear piece so I cannot hear her nor she me. The other day, when the staff brought her to the phone in the hall and handed it to her properly, she told me that her mother is coming to visit her. I remind her that her mother died two weeks before 9/11 in 2001. She remembers this. Next time, I may just let her anticipate her mother’s visit for any joy it brings.
 
We all know that when coal is under extreme heat and pressure, it morphs into diamonds.  Similarly, I’ve discovered that the pressure I live with caretaking for my parents and kids carves out pockets of wonder, mostly with my kids.  These are moments where I just stop and appreciate being alive, something I didn’t know to do when time and health were abundant.
 
Such a moment comes on Saturday, when we go to a local amusement park called Uncle Cliff’s (no relation to Uncle Walt, whose park makes Cliff look like a distant relative in the boonies). We are here to celebrate Lillie Grace’s 11th birthday. 
 
All three kids and I go on the Tilt-a-Whirl (an egg shaped contraption that yes, tilts and whips while it whirls around and around). It is an adrenaline blast.  Rather than the blur going by, I focus on all three of my kids in the egg, their faces in the sun, mouths open with unabashed laughter.  This is joy. My heart fill up and suddenly, and I'm actually surprised to find that my laughter turns to tears. Happy tears, happily hid behind my sunglasses (because the kids would have been mortified: "I mean, geeze Mom, who cries on a Tilt a Whirl?") 

But I am unexpectedly seized by this perfect moment in time: the shrieks of glee, the faces frozen in smiles, the stomachs sore from laughing: uncontrolled JOY. THIS is what it feels like to be turning 11… This outrageous exuberance in this last official weekend of summer. 

Uncle Cliff’s will close for the season after this weekend. Cold and snow and ice and death will come, but not today (or even next week, thanks to global warming). Today is sunny and we are celebrating and we get to be here. We are happy right now. I will remember this moment of pure bliss years from now. Not because there is a picture of it (who can operate a camera while being whipped around and crying?) but because the pressure from being sandwiched by neediness and fear has forged room to appreciate these small pockets of joy. Moments that I never noticed in the say way because I didn’t know how much I needed them.
 
While working out the next day, the lyrics to a Pink song catch my attention:
If God is a DJ, life is a dance floor
Love is the rhythm, you are the music
 
            I drop my weights and laugh.
 
It occurs to me that my 9-year old daughter tantrums because she is afraid of her song. She doesn’t know what it is yet and so tries to control everything.  My 84-year old mom no longer remembers how to sing. My 87-year old Dad has given up on music because he is angry and depressed, despite the constant beat we keep for him. 
 
I don’t yet know what it’s like to live for 87 years and I’ll never know what it’s like to walk in his shoes. I only know that there is beauty in this dance if we choose to keep seeking it. Yes, Dad, this dance is filled with pain and loneliness, loss and rejection and defeat. But it also houses grace and friendship, joy and creativity and hope.
 
To create music is hard. There’s fear of the unknown, of the work. It requires constant learning, intention, and practice. So much practice. And just when we're in good with our song, the dance venue changes and we've gotta adapt.  

Of course, we also need to find other musicians whose style is compatible with ours.  Because when we forget our song, as happens along the way, we need to listen to those who remember it, can play our melody back to us, and then eventually jam with us.

And the craziest part about the stress and grief of the sandwich years?

They will go away. This period will be devoured by time. And when it is, I will mourn and miss these years.

My dear friend tells me that even though I feel helpless and frustrated when my dad complains, the day will come when I will do anything to hear his voice again, even complaining.  Another friend shares how much she hated the huge messes her kids would leave. Now that they are in college, she rues her clean home.
​
So here's to dancing through the sandwich years.  Maestro, play on.

Lillie Grace & Susan Montoya Celebrate Leadership

Four days before school ends in May, Ali received a death threat on the playground. I have a gut feeling that there will be more to this story, but life being life, I never see it coming the way it does. 
 
I think the troubled boy (not in Ali’s class this year: the principal keeps her word) will resurface to taunt or bully her or her friends further. No signs of that....But what I never consider is that Vice-Principal Montoya will offer a haunting coda to this story.
 
Due to low enrollment, Vice-Principal Susan Montoya is assigned to another school for this fall, after six years at Georgia O’Keeffe Elementary.  A beloved fixture of GOK, and in gratitude for her service, the school comes together and gifts her a desire from her Life’s Bucket List: a balloon ride. 
 
Three weeks after Montoya pledges she will keep Ali safe, she and her husband, along with two of their best friends, take that ride. The balloon crashes and all aboard are killed. It is the deadliest balloon ride in the history of New Mexico, home of the world's largest balloon fiesta.
 
My first thought is how she had reassured me that she understood my concern for my daughter’s safety: “I’m a mother and a grandmother,” I keep hearing her tell me. But who would keep her safe?
 
Both girls cry upon learning the news, because when school opened in April, Montoya would daily stand at the front doors and greet every student. By name. “She always made me feel like she was happy to see me every morning,” Lillie tells me. I later discover that Ali writes an email to the principal (also a beloved figure) to let her know how sad she is and see how the principal is doing. 
 
I had only interacted with Montoya twice in our isolated seven months at school, and still her loss hits me hard.

The first time was also over the phone: she called me in February to let me know that Lillie Grace is student of the month.  The call went something like this:
“Is this Lillie Grace Rosen’s mother?”
“Yes”
“This is Susan Montoya, Vice-Principal at Georgia O’Keeffe.”
“…Um…OK”
“Oh – Lillie is fine. She’s not in any trouble. In fact, I’m calling to let you know she has been chosen as student of the month.”
“What?”
“She won a lunch from Jason’s Deli.”
“Sorry? Wait – who is this?”
 
Turns out the school celebrates “Student of the Month” for the student from each grade who best exhibits Steven Covey’s Seven Habits of Leadership. Being new, we had no idea.  
 
When I’ve mostly recovered from the surprise, Montoya offers to drop the celebratory lunch off at our house that Friday, since the building is still closed. Not wanting to inconvenience her, I tell Montoya that we’ll just stop by the school and pick it up. Looking back, I wonder if maybe she was looking to get out of school, to connect, to meet this Lillie Grace on her home turf.  
 
I imagine (based on our second call) that much of Montoya’s days were spent troubleshooting and disciplining. Celebrating the kids who strive, who care, would be a highpoint of her job. I wish I had dropped the mantle of self-sufficiency I was raised under and accepted her offer. In any case, when Jory drives Lillie to pick up her lunch, Montoya makes a point of coming out to meet and congratulate her. (photo above)
 
Disturbingly, a few days after school begins, as if to remind me of the threat, there is a school shooting: Albuquerque’s first.  At a nearby middle school during recess, 13-year old Bennie Hargrove tries to protect a classmate who is being bullied. Hargrove is shot by the aggressor and dies. The reporter who covers the story for the AP Wire? A woman named Susan Montoya Bryan. (What. Are. The. Odds???)
 
When the girls and I tuned in to the zoom funeral for our Susan Montoya and her husband in July, it was a huge celebration of who she was, how she lived, and what she loved. It dawns on me: she died while fulfilling something on her bucket list. Living on the edge. That we should all be so lucky!! She went out, no doubt in terror, but fully ALIVE.

​This resonates with me strongly, because daily I brace myself to call my parents. They are both wasting away, miserable, heartbreakingly tired of life.  I don’t even know what to say to them anymore. I dread asking them how they are. 
 
I see Susan Montoya on her balloon ride from a grateful community, drifting through the clouds, soaring on the wind, and I am inspired. We're all going someday, why not while doing something we've always dreamed of doing?
 
Another person who viewed life from on high, French tightrope walker Philippe Petit, discusses life as this: 
Life should be lived on the edge. You have to exercise rebellion: to refuse to tape yourself to rules, to refuse your own success, to refuse to repeat yourself, to see every day, every year, every idea as a true challenge."