A blue ribbon day

For my birthday this year, I gifted myself with a trip to Montana to visit my nine-month-old grandson, Finn Nicholas, and my three daughters, Nicole, Lesa, and Aimee. Funny how this little guy with infectious smiles, baby chatter, and his Big Sky blue Montana eyes has become such a force in all our lives.

While departing from the New York Tri-State metropolitan area for the wild frontier where the footprints of Lewis and Clark are imprinted throughout, I was giddy with excitement. Getting my hands on that baby so that he could reacquaint himself with his Grandma was all I could think about on the five-hour flight across the continent.

Sure enough, once we landed and I got to see Finn again, my heart was jumping with joy. Now, I fully understand why grandparents become animated and their eyes light up when talking about grandchildren. These wee ones truly are a source of love, pride, and appreciation all wrapped up with magic and awe. They fill us with a range of emotions in a league all of their own.

With Nicole living in Bozeman, Aimee in Helena, the Capital, and Lesa in Livingston, I try to divide my time. Truth be told, however, most of my time my suitcase ends up in Livingston with this granny happily sharing quarters in Finn's room. I suspect his adoring aunts understand.

Livingston is a historic landmark town (Calamity Jane was one of Livingston's infamous early-day residents) and was shaped by the early settlers who had dreams of building a city. It was the original entrance to Yellowstone National Park and is where Capt. William Clark separated from Meriwether Lewis to explore the Yellowstone River valley in the early 1800's.

One of the many joys I relished while on my visit were my walks with Finn in his chariot that connects to Lesa's bicycle and can be removed to push as a stroller. I had wanted to get back over to the Yellowstone River where I spent several hours in January taking pictures. So, on one of our morning walks I found myself meandering over to Sacajawea Park where the Yellowstone River runs alongside to revisit this inspiring spot.

My only challenge was that in the process of getting out the door with a baby to push Finn in his stroller, I found I was a little rusty with the baby scene and neglected getting the all-important bottle of water for Livingston’s nearly 5,000 feet elevation. With a life-threatening heart muscle disease, I had to stay hydrated. No mind, I figured. Surely, there will be a fountain along the way. Besides, I'll just take it slow and breath deeply.

As we strolled along the river walkway with me pushing Finn, who had now fallen asleep, the rush of the swift waters swirling rapidly downstream and the cool river wind whipping around my face fostered a feeling of freedom. I was drinking in every moment to the max.

The river walk ended at a patch of private property that was fenced off and we headed down the worn path among the tall grass that curved around the ball fields and back to the road. Beyond that, it was only 6-7 more blocks and we’d be back home. Though I felt a need for a drink of water I was sure I would be okay till we got there.

Hum…what’s this? Ah ha. A water spigot ahead!

My pace quickened as I pushed Finn over by the rudimentary spigot for the ball players to quench their thirst that was attached to a wooden post. I turned the handle. Bone dry.

Ok, just deep breath, don't fret, I can make it home. It's mind over matter. Well, maybe not, but staying positive can’t hurt. Finn was still sleeping and oblivious to this old granny's water worries.

We continued and immediately came upon another ball field with the same rudimentary water spigot. Dare I try?

Gripping the handle and turning it brought forth bubbling crystal clear water. I'm saved!

Standing at the back of the ball field after rehydrating like a camel, I had to pause. With my grandchild at my side, the blessing of water and magnificent views of majestic mountains every which way I turned, there was no doubt in my mind that God had given me with a blue-ribbon day!

My tribute to the greatest generation

When I read that the Pascack Historical Society of Park Ridge, NJ, was hosting a discussion led by a panel of men and women who served the United States during World War II on the battlefield and on the home front, “The Greatest Generation Speaks”, my decision was sealed. This was an indelible piece of history I had to hear.

Upon entering the room my gaze quickly darted past the gathering crowd and landed on a silver haired woman with twinkling eyes, an Army Corps hat atop her head sitting at the guest speakers table looking strong and well lived. Her name, I later learned, was Lt. Beverly Gutterman Rosenstein of Hillsdale. Her warm expression and engaging smile belied her past that while serving on active duty, she received word that her only brother, 1st Lt. Roger L. Gutterman, had been killed on Anzio Beach. Mrs. Rosenstein, was one of five living legions from “The Greatest Generation,” who came to speak about their lives during the war.

One lady, Irene Anderson, Brooklyn born with a sweet smile and a tell-tale Norwegian accent giving way to her European heritage, told of being a 14 year-old American citizen living in Norway when she was placed in Grini detention camp, just outside Oslo. While there, she told the audience, they all learned German “pretty fast”. Breakfast, she shared, consisted of black coffee and pumpernickel bread. Lunch was vegetable soup (no vegetables to speak of), and dinner was beef vegetable soup with the same routine of searching for the slim offerings of vegetables and beef.

Mrs. Anderson told the audience, who sat in rapt attention, that she and the others lived on the top floor and could hear the screams from the interrogation room. After about six months, she was called into the office… and sent home. She went on to share that later, her grandson asked her how she feels about those days during the war. Her face sobering with remembrance and her tone lowering, she exclaimed… “It was just an awful time to learn how mean people cold be.” She ended her missive with a quote from her grandma who had said during the war, because they were up and down many times during the right seeking refuge, “Can’t they bomb during the day”?

1st Sgt. James Anagnost, a Bronze Star recipient, Army 23rd Infantry, Company K, recalled how he was drafted right out of high school and that after a while he went to the captain and said that he wanted combat duty. He soon found himself in a foxhole during the Battle of the Bulge. Mr. Anagnost, resembling a distinguished John Wayne strong look-alike, told of how the Battle of the Bulge was, in truth, a series of battles that lasted several weeks and months.

Eunice Kesper, a spry and animated ninety-three-year old, with silver-white hair, talked about being at a dance with her young husband in the forties when the music stopped and an announcement was made that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. And, how she traveled by train from Fort Dix to Texas to visit her Army husband, sometimes not knowing if he’d be there to pick her up or not.

Mrs. Kesper talked as well about the rationing of goods in those days. She has her own personal butter or margarine story. Margarine, she told us, came in a white block with a little jellybean size pill like form that you put into the block and stirred and stirred and stirred until the white block turned yellow. That cinched it for her. She has stuck with butter ever since.

And then there was Toree Tobiassen, United States Navy, who served on LST landing crafts at the Normandy Beach invasion. Mr. Tobiassen spoke of his harrowing experiences and of the brave men lost on Omaha Beach. His deep, velvet voice echoing his stories gave me an eerie feeling as he told of when twenty-six tanks were sent to the beach and how only two landed. The other tanks sank and the men drowned.

Amidst the mayhem, there were also stories that pulled at my heart. Mr. Tobiassen told of a solider on a bulldozer who got blown off three bulldozers before his injuries grounded him and later, the Queen Mother gave him a flag. It was learned at their first reunion in 1990 that the Queen Mother still remembered that young solider.

As we enter the July 4th season of celebrations, I continue reflecting on the true-life stories of these five men and women. The snapshots from their lives during World War II bear no resemblance to Kodak moments, but they are true living snapshots that will go down in infamy. Their stories, told with gut wrenching details combined with their invaluable sense of humor, enabled me to touch a piece of history I’ll never forget and have my eternal salute.

The first time I saw the Statue of Liberty it was from a Boeing 747 that was circling New York Harbor in preparation for landing at Newark International Airport. It was my maiden voyage from the Golden State to the East Coast that I first drank in the magnificence of Lady Liberty.

The Statue of Liberty and the enlightenment she represents congers up an overwhelming sense of pride in my heart for all the freedoms America has long fought for. I still remember growing up on the west coast and learning about her in school. It was a copper monument and American symbol that I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d be seeing one day for myself.

That all changed in 1990, on that jet plane flying low for landing. Within months of settling in, my family and I took the ferry to see the statue up close and personal. It was a wickedly hot and humid summer day. We waited for hours in line to ascend the spiral staircase to the crown, soon to reopen (July 4 weekend).

Recently, upon learning that the man in my life, Harrison, born in the Tri-State area has never been to the Statue of Liberty, or Ellis Island, I booked tickets. For his birthday gift, this California gal took this New Jersey lad to visit these historical landmarks.

In the “Through America’s Gate,” exhibit, there was a photo of a woman in the middle of the street covering the entire wall that was especially hard to turn from, so I took a picture. The caption reported that the picture was of an Italian immigrant woman carrying piece work home, Lower East side, 1909. Another woman patron, Barbara Parlegreco, also seemed mesmerized by the photo and we started conversing. Barbara told me that she liked the photo so much that she had taken a digital picture, blew it up, and put it on the wall in her bedroom! I understood.

While walking through the maze of memorabilia, Harrison and I came across another caption that stopped me in my tracks. “The day I left home, my mother came with me to the railroad station. When we said good-bye she said it was just like seeing me go into my casket. I never saw her again,” Julia Goniprow, a Lithuanian immigrant in 1899, quoted in Morrison and Zabusky, American Mosaic, E.P. Dutton, 1980.

Pulling away from the dock I realized I was leaving with a greater appreciation of the land of the free and the home of the brave, than I’d arrived with.

Enjoying the season of Mother's Day in the pink

While on a new handbag hunt in an Annie Sez store, I found the perfect pink handbag. Suddenly, I felt energized. It was just the right portion of electricity to thrust me into that “just buy it” mode.

Typically, the handbag that would catch my eye and nicely suit my needs was past my price point. When it was all said and done, I’d end up walking out of a store having settled for something inferior in color and style. Not this time. It’s the Mother’s Day season, and I proudly qualify three times over, I justified to myself.

Being a softie for anything “pink” the handbag I was eyeing was scrumptious. It was smart, savvy, and in a lovely soft shade of my signature color. My heart quickened and fantasy took over. I envisioned myself strutting around with my new casual chic handbag on my arm in style. Besides, “Top Blonde” was written all over I, I reasoned. It was the perfect bag for me in every way and my decision was made in a New York minute. I then meandered over to the checkout counter bubbling with excitement like a kid in a candy store about to indulge in a big lollipop.

“I really shouldn’t be doing this,” I said to, Lucy, the sales representative. Without missing a beat, Lucy said with an assuring smile, “Oh, but color is in this year. Just look at all our handbags in bight spring colors.”

Hum. Glancing at the turquoise, orange, and green handbags lining a shelf on the back wall, I could see she was right. They all looked fabulous.

No sooner had I arrived home with my luscious new pink handbag than the cloud of doubt began taking residence in my head. I should have purchased it in the tan tone instead of pink. It was much more practical.

My dear mom, Helen, deceased now, could tell you practicality wasn’t necessarily my strong suite regarding shopping though she did her best to steer me from my flair for fun and trends to style and class.

After sleeping on my dilemma of whether to exchange my energizing new pink handbag that I loved for the staid but practical tan toned one, I reconsidered my purchase and drove back to the store to see if there were any left. There had been only one pink handbag, but there were three in tan…and they were all still available.

The sales lady that assisted me had been working on the day I made my initial purchase and was surprised to see me back for an exchange. She had seen how jazzed I had been about the pink handbag. I explained that while I loved the pink one and that it would work well with my wardrobe, I thought it was time to be more practical. After all, I was now sixty-something, for goodness sakes, and a grandmother!

We did the exchange, and I drove home with my new tan toned handbag. It was the same style as the pink one, but the fun factor was missing. It was definitely suitable but minus the flair.

When I went to use my new handbag I carefully removed the tags and began filling it with my purse items. It was then I noticed that the stitching on the inside of one of the zippered pockets hadn’t been stitched. Anything put into that pocket would soon disappear into the bowels of the handbag and never be seen again.

Being handy with a needle and thread I knew I could stitch it up but that wasn’t the point. No more settling. Maybe it was time to get into the spirit of pink after all. The only thing left to do was go back to the store and see if the one in my favorite color was still there.

My visit back to the store this time was swift. In no time I was walking back to my Jeep with a silly grin flooding face and fully enjoying the Mother’s Day season in the pink. I think mother would have approved!