Kindness is the best New Year's resolution

It all began with something Ann Curry, a correspondent with NBC news, posted on Twitter. “Commit to kindness,” she wrote. A movement known as #26Acts, spurred by Ms. Curry, invites participants to commit daily acts of kindness. After the horrific shootings in Newtown, the hashtagged movement is being spread virally around the world via Facebook and Twitter.

It is a seemingly unkind world we live in, judging by current headlines. As I am writing this, the news of the day includes reports of a man killing two men and one woman before being killed himself in a gunfight with state troopers in Pennsylvania; a surge in bulletproof backpack sales; cluster bombs being used on civilians in Syria; and the Al Qaeda-related kidnapping in Northern Nigeria of a French citizen. It’s impossible to turn on any news at all without feeling a sense of fear or despair. And yet tiny fragments of positivity evidence themselves every day. About a week ago Kim of Kim’s Bagels in Mount Kisco posted on Facebook about helping an older woman who had fallen in the street. The SPCA of Westchester was thrilled to announce 45 adoptions of cats and dogs from the shelter last week. Personally I thought it very kind that Dan, the manager of Tazza Café in Katonah, gave me a card granting me a free drink, and that Gail from The Paintbox gifted me with a framed copy of recent story that ran about me in another newspaper. Almost every day someone does or says something nice or kind to me; I try to do my part to do the same.

Years ago there was a popular bumper sticker that said, “Commit random acts of kindness.” I’m not sure what constitutes a random act, or if random acts are more special or significant than methodical or systematic ones. I think it’s probably the act itself that counts, whether planned, or spontaneous. It’s a little sad people have to be reminded to be kind, and it should be noted that the one kind act you push yourself to do every day will not cancel out five unkind ones.

For the last few years on Christmas Day, I’ve taken a few hours to go over to the gymnasium at the old St. Mary’s school, now Montfort Academy. That is the site of an annual event known as The Christmas Dinner, which benefits Westchester’s homeless. A traditional Christmas dinner is served, followed by the distribution of gifts. The event is made possible by an enormous squadron of volunteers and the generosity of many caterers and restaurants who provide the food, as well as the dozens of local residents who plan and work and clean up after the event. A couple of years ago I was brought to near tears by a young girl who was over the moon excited to receive a toothbrush, a pair of socks, and a very inexpensive backpack (certainly not bullet proof). Every year I am reminded how little it takes to make some people happy. Sometimes it’s just a serving of candied sweet potatoes donated by William Nicholas.

This Christmas is a little extra poignant because it is a landmark event. We moved into our home in December 1987 and this is the 25^th Christmas in our house. Our son was 5 months old when we moved in; he is now a grown man with a job and a life and a girlfriend and an apartment. I wonder how many more years he will be able to join us. Past Christmas’s are a blur of toys, noise, pancakes for breakfast, and prime rib. And Yorkshire Pudding, which I duly make every year. While there has been a lot of joy around the day, some years it took extra effort.  There was the year that two good men, Kit Combes and George McTavey, died Christmas week and I had to write their obits. There was the year my poor mother in law dwindled away in hospice in her home in California and my husband completely missed Christmas. Twenty three ago I was still grieving at Christmas for a child I miscarried at Thanksgiving. And then there was the year I cajoled my reluctant husband into helping me set up a large, live, cumbersome Christmas tree that toppled over in its stand, only to have him throw up his hands and shout he would have nothing to do with it. For a few years afterward, the only greenery we had was wreaths.

Twenty five years is a long time to celebrate a holiday in one place. Every few years I threaten we should spend Christmas in the Caribbean, except I know it wouldn’t be the same without the pets. This year as an act of random kindness, Mr. Sax agreed to let me pick our tree; I chose a very shiny, very fake, silver one that looks very tinsel-y. It reminds me of a tree my mother bought the first year she and I were living alone on our own in a rented house in Woodbury, N.J. Under the tree that year was a pair of white go-go boots, knocks offs of the ones made famous by the fashion designer Andre Courreges who featured them in his fall ’64 collection. Under our silver tree this year is a near embarrassing array of riches; bags from Tom’s in Katonah and Ebba and kdstudio and Bedford House and Kellogg’s & Lawrence, and Charles Department Store. We’re very lucky. 

Happy New Year to all my fans and readers. And God bless.

Vigil held in Katonah for Newtown victims

It began with a series of emails, followed by Facebook postings. “Candlelight vigil in front of the library at 4:30 this afternoon in Katonah. Our thoughts are with the families of the victims,” the messages said. In the waning light of a December afternoon, one day after news broke of the mass shootings in nearby Newtown, dozens of residents from Katonah gathered to mourn, share their thoughts, and pay respect to those who lost their lives in the Sandy Hook Elementary School.

Bea Rhodes was the one who began the emails.

“I really didn’t have a plan,” Ms. Rhodes said on the Katonah Village Green, her expression somber and concerned as she handed out candles. “I just felt it was important and appropriate to give people a place to gather and to be with other people experiencing grief.”

As the sky darkened, the crowd grew and gained strength. Although the vigil had no clear organizers, some people automatically began helping Ms. Rhodes pass candles out. Melissa Boyer, the pastor at the Katonah United Methodist Church, was one of the several people who had shared news of the vigil on Facebook. Although she had not planned on taking on any kind of leadership position at the vigil, it quickly emerged that she should be the one to formally start the vigil by offering a prayer.

Pastor Boyer started out saying she was comfortable leading an interfaith prayer and dialogue. She said in the face of a senseless tragedy, pat answers and explanations can’t and won’t work. Reflecting on the illumination of so many candles held in more than 50+ hands, instead she said she would prefer to focuse on the idea of sacred light.

“However you define the sacred, we all have a light we carry with us at all times,” Pastor Boyer said. “We each have our own life, talents, different responses to what has just happened. And I thank God for that.”  She praised the diversity of the vigil gathering which included the young, the old; mothers, fathers, grandparents, even dogs, who all stood in the cold, listening to the spoken and unspoken words. “What we need is more love, love, love, and more love,” Pastor Boyer concluded after asking everyone to take a moment to pray for the dead. Then she spoke of the power of community, and how that power can heal.

In the sharing that occurred after the prayer, Robert Goodstein, a Katonah resident, recalled the old Elton John song, “A Candle in the Wind.”

“I’m not an Elton John fan,” he said, “But it makes sense here.” Mr. Goodstein spoke about the old adage that God only burdens each individual with as much pain as they can bear. “The people of Newtown must be very strong,” he said. “They must be to have been given and to get through this. I don’t know how they will hold up,” Mr. Goodstein said. “Only that they must.”

Another person mentioned Fred Rogers of the long running children’s television program, “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.” Recalling some of the wise and steady advice Mr. Rogers doled out, he said that in times of trouble, Mr. Rogers’ advised children to “Always look at all the people who are helping others out.”

Eileen McGrath, an associate broker with Douglas Elliman Westchester, whose offices are in downtown Katonah and who is a lifelong Katonah resident, is familiar with the family of one of the slain Newtown teachers, Ann Marie Murphy, nee McGowan, who grew up in Katonah.

“I didn’t know Annie personally as she was a few years younger than me,” Ms. Mcgrath said. “But everyone knew the McGowans. They had 8 kids.” She said that the Helmes’, the McGowans, and the Lynches, were the backbone of the St. Mary’s parish. “They all lived within a few blocks of each other. Everyone was constantly in and out of each other’s houses,” she said. Ms. McGrath said the families had such a sense of community and selflessness that she wasn’t surprised at all to have learned Ms. Murphy died trying to shield her students.

Pastor Boyer continued the vigil by suggesting people express their hopes for moving forward. One woman said she wished this incident would be a catalyst for introducing stricter gun controls. A man spoke of his hope that children could be kept safe. Another man said he hoped the surviving children in the Newtown community would grow up people whose lives were not defined by that terrible day. A woman spoke of the need to make mental health help a priority. Another woman spoke sadly about the loss of innocence.

Pastor Boyer began several minutes of singing, beginning with “Amazing Grace,” followed by “We Shall Overcome,” and “This Little Light of Mine.” Remembering that the last time there was a large scale vigil on the Katonah Village Green was in the aftermath of September 11, one man said, “I hope we won’t have to keep gathering like this.”

An hour after the vigil, the 6:00 Saturday night mass at St. Mary’s spontaneously became a special mass for the slain Ms. Murphy, although that event was not publicized.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know about it,” Ms. Mcgrath said in a phone conversation Monday morning. She said she would be attending one of the several wakes held for Ms. Murphy that she had learned about from her friend Mary Pat McConnell of Ridgefield, one of Ms. Murphy’s sisters. “The phone has not stopped ringing,” Ms. Mcgrath said. “It’s good to be able to talk to people. It’s a sad occasion that brings so many old friends and acquaintances together, but it’s still joyful to see them, to talk to them. Joy and selflessness, those are the two words I’m taking with me into 2013. Joy and selflessness. At the end of her life, Annie Murphy was selfless. I think to be able to call somebody selfless is the highest compliment you can give.” Eve Marx

Back in the days of Vietnam, Watergate & the IRA

Over Thanksgiving weekend, I had more than turkey. In the interest of full disclosure, I did not have turkey. I dislike turkey, because hate seems too strong a word. Let’s just say I’m not a friend of that fowl unless they’re wild and I see a flock of them running through the woods. What we ate on Thanksgiving was Rock Cornish Game hens; one bird per person, which eliminates that awful carving bit. I washed and seasoned the birds early in the morning before attending the Native American All-Faith’s Thanksgiving service at the Katonah Methodist Church. After the service, Mr. Sax and I hopped in the car and headed over to the Saw Mill Cinemas to catch the matinee of “Skyfall,” the new James Bond film. The story is just short of ridiculous. Who would go to all that trouble over misplaced Oedipal rage? But none of that mattered because “Skyfall” was beautifully shot and chock a block with heart stopping action, and Bond’s suits were exquisitely tailored. There was a lot of chatter when the film first came out about the suits being too tight. And they were tight, enough to show off calf muscle and bicep. The Huffington Post bitched that Daniel Craig’s specially tailored Tom Ford’s suits made a mockery of Sean Connery’s iconic sartorial style, but I beg to differ. Roger Stone, the author of the Huff Post piece, dared to call Bond’s suit a “bum freezer,” a phrase popularized during World War II when there were fabric shortages. Ahem. After the film, we retired to our cozy house and got the wood burning stove going before sitting down to our delicious Cornish hens. I’m so done with turkey. Never again.

On Saturday night my spouse, and this was very brave of him, agreed to chauffeur and accompany me to my high school reunion, held in Woodbury, N.J. Although many people know I lived in Atlantic City for years, I attended junior and senior high school in this small south Jersey city. My mother, who attended Woodbury High School herself, had her own business there.

Nobody I know now wants to believe I am as old as I am, which I chalk up to a case of chronic immaturity that keeps me young thinking. But I graduated high school in 1972, the same year the British Army slaughtered 14 unarmed nationalist civil rights marchers in Derry, Ireland on Bloody Sunday; a coal sludge spill killed 125 people in West Virginia; an avalanche killed 19 people climbing Mount Fuji; and the Watergate break-in. 1972 had great fashion, but was a rough year. In those days I chose to ignore headlines, preferring to focus on mini skirts, hot pants, and maxi coats. I was grateful for my school’s policy to let you stop taking math courses after Algebra II, leaving me time to take the electives I really wanted, public speaking and creative writing.

The reunion itself was low-key. When my husband asked if there would be a walk down memory lane slide show, I could barely contain my laughter. No, I said. There will be an open bar and dinner and then a DJ and dancing. Those who will attend (and it was not a large number) will want to look at and talk to each other. And that’s exactly what happened.

As is to be expected, some people looked great. Others less so. One man had to tell me who he was because without the gorgeous mop of hair that once flopped over his forehead, I failed to recognize him. Some of the women really looked like their moms. My graduating class was small and sustained 6 deaths. Half my class was African American but none of them came to the reunion. I wonder if they had somewhere a reunion of their own.

The most surprising thing I learned was that many of the men have retired from their work. Not so the women, a large number of whom grew up to become nurses and who still love and want their jobs. A couple of the guys I hung out with as a teen told me they have second homes in Florida, enabling them to play golf year-round. I guess if your house in south Jersey was so reasonably priced that long ago you paid off the mortgage, you could go out after 30 years on a pension from your job at DuPont or Sunoco to play golf for the rest of your life. Interesting. I might be jealous.

The takeaway from my reunion (and don’t you hate that phrase, even though like “right, right,” we all use it?) is that I’m glad I went. I’m proud of my fellow, former classmates. I think we’ve turned out pretty nice. Of course there have been difficulties, trials, and hard times. Parents dying slowing from ALS. Divorce and other loss. The town of Woodbury itself, once solidly middle class and prosperous, has fallen on hard times. But talking to my classmates, I learned there have been a multitude of triumphs, both professional and personal.

“We were good kids,” one man said to me, rehashing for a moment our reckless youth. Again, in the interest of full disclosure, my house was the party house. Sure, there were a couple of high school pregnancies (birth control was hard to get), and a handful of people were starting their careers as alcoholics or otherwise going off the rails. And of course there was the draft and the looming specter of Vietnam. But we were good kids and we turned out to be good adults. Congrats again to the Class of ’72. It was great seeing you all.