Home

Photo: Steven Long

Yesterday I wrote how much I love New York. And every word of it was true. BUT. There is one place on the planet I love more than this city. It's the little farm you see nestled on the hillside in the photo above. Home.

The land was first settled in 1832, and there never has been a time since when there were no blood relatives living there. For more than 100 years now it's been in the family name. My grandfather was born here; my father grew up here; and I spent much of my childhood here.

I've read the most important things a parent can give a child are roots and wings. My parents definitely provided both. Because my Dad spent his career in the service, I lived in far-flung places on the planet and that, I think, gave me wings. But my roots go deep into the soil of this little farm in Pennsylvania. I'm at home in the city and comfortable where ever my travels take me. But I belong to the land above as I belong nowhere else on earth.

This weekend, all my father's siblings are coming in from around the country. I expect this means a lot of cousins will be making their way in, too. And, I hope, my sister and at least one of my brothers, and some of my own little nieces and nephews as well. It will be a family-filled weekend full of hugs and stories (I hope!) and laughter and lots of good food.

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

A Star-Studded Week

Photo: Anna Cervova

If you're a regular here IDW, you probably know how much I love New York. You know the famous New Yorker cartoon? In which New York is front and center and everything else is hinterland? Like that. In spite of the dirt and the grime and the noise and the greasy multitudes, I love this city.

This week reminded me why . . .

1) On Friday, I sat in a garden and nibbled my organic salad next to David Bowie.

2) On Sunday, I went to a cozy French bistro with a friend and in strolled Keanu Reeves. (He was playing it cool, though, and didn't drop by our table to say hello. Maybe he just didn't want me to see him with that beard he's sporting and hoped I wouldn't notice. Keanu... I noticed. Everyone did. Please shave.)

3) On Monday, I went to a gala benefit concert for the 92nd Street Y and sat smack dab behind Elvis Costello. And then got to hear him perform for the first time, too. Right. I also saw and heard Dionne Warwick and every monied Jewish person on the social register, from the Bronfmans to the Tischs that night. (Though none of them sang. Which is probably a good thing.)

4) Alas! On Tuesday, my streak seems to have lapsed . . . a friend had breakfast at a table next to Brad Pitt. And then rode up in an elevator with him. *Sigh.* Truthfully, I'd trade David, Keanu, Elvis AND Dionne for Brad!!

But there's still time. And I'm still a New Yorker. Did I mention that I love this town?!

Oh, I know they're just folks, and they put their pants on one leg at a time . . . and I'm the first to be annoyed if one of them forgets that fact. (Aretha Franklin comes to mind here.) In some ways, seeing them in the flesh flesh underscores that fact. And besides, it's just fun.

One Nice Thing

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

My friend David specializes in writing books about social innovation. He's working on a new book now but, previously, he published How to Change the World: Social Entrepreneurs and the Power of New Ideas, which features profiles of some ordinary people who have done extraordinary things, mostly through tenacity and sheer force of will. (Nelson Mandela called it "Wonderfully hopeful and enlightening ..." And I like David so much that I'm not even jealous! [okay...I admit it...I'm a little jealous... but just a little.])Before that, he wrote a book on the Grameen Bank, The Price of a Dream ... nearly 10 years before the bank and it's founder, Prof. Muhammad Yunas, were awarded a Nobel Prize for the work they do.

I've been thinking about David and his books ... and about my friend, Gordan, a Fulbright Fellow who left his comfortable life as a college professor to work with refugees in the Sudan ... and about my friend Ghia, who helped build a school for girls in Afghanistan . . . and about my friend Lisa, who quit her job and left New York City, in part so that she could devote more time to the hospital she is helping to build in Africa . . and about my friend and sister-in-law, Fifi who quit her job at a popular womens' magazine and went to India to shoot a documentary about children being sold into sexual slavery... and, in fact, about all my friends and extended family do to make the world a little better.

They all are top of mind right now as I work my way through the last few pages of The New York Time's Bestseller, Three Cups of Tea, with its detailed account of Greg Mortenson's work building non-secular schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan. The book is compelling and beautifully crafted, so I highly recommend it. But . . . as I near the end, wherein the devastating consequences of carpet bombing an area with B-52s are revealed in stark human terms . . . something very like despair wells up in me. There is so much need. So much poverty. So much pain. So much anguish and terror and cruelty. I know I'm not the only one who feels small and helpless in its shadow.

It's human to feel overwhelmed, I think. And the antidote to that feeling is simple. Prayer, obviously, to reinforce your own connection to the Divine. But also, in the words of Debbie Tenzer, "Do One Nice Thing." My father used to love to remind me, "From tiny acorns mighty oak trees grow." I've got a pocket full of acorns. How about you?

Mediocre Fred

Image: Frits Ahlefeldt

Sigh. Once again, the elves did not write a blog post for me. SO disappointing.

Things have been busy here IDW . . . parties, parties, more parties . . . nah, not really.
More like work, work, more work . . . sigh. (Right. I know, that’s two sighs in one post and the legal limit is three.)

When I lived on the farm as a child, we had no television. (There still is no television there, thankfully.) So my cousins and siblings and I made our own entertainment. My father had an old reel to reel tape of the Smother’s Brothers that we loved and the lyrics to one of their songs, entitled Mediocre Fred, is running through my head: “Well the days went by all dull and gray/He didn’t do much and had little to say…”

I’m feeling a little like Mediocre Fred today . . . I think what they say about all work and no play may be true. Think I need a little R&R. Or maybe try what Mediocre Fred does at the end of the song: “”When the full moon rose he’d climb over the moat/Find some people sleeping and he’d bite their throats!”

Ode to Mediocre Fred as performed by The Smothers Brothers

There once was a man who was none too good
But then I'd say he was none too bad.
Times he was mighty good for a spell,
Times he'd go out and he'd raise a little hell ...
Mediocre Fred, mediocre Fred.

Fred went to work from 9 to 5,
Punched a clock to show he's alive.
Went to church every Sunday morn,
Sometimes he wondered why he was born.
Mediocre Fred, mediocre, dull Fred.

Fred went to the movies every Saturday night,
Liked TV and the western fight,
Paid his taxes most every year
And on a hot summer day, why, he drank a little beer.
Exciting mediocre Fred. Mediocre Fred.

Well the days went by all dull and gray
He didn't do much and had little say,
When the full moon rose he'd climb over the moat
Find some people sleeping and he'd bite their throats!
Mediocre Fred, mediocre, dull Fred.

(Who needs elves if you've got the Smothers Brothers?!)