I grew up in a pretty suburban neighborhood in Connecticut, one of four kids.
June and Frank were our parents.
Mom was the kind of woman who made the term professional mom necessary — warm, beautiful, endlessly capable, and quite possibly the world’s fastest knitter. Two sweaters minimum every Christmas. Per child. We didn’t question it. We just wore them.
Dad was the hard-working founder and leader of his own manufacturing factory, a basketball referee of some renown, and a private pilot who had a particular habit of flying his plane directly over our neighborhood and waggling his wings at us while we rode our bikes below. “That’s my dad!” I’d announce proudly to whoever was nearby. They never believed me. It was absolutely true.
Dan married me decades ago — which makes me, without question, the luckiest girl in the world.
And as if that weren’t enough, I somehow also became the luckiest mom in the world to Dave, Stace, and Grace and a bunch of grandbabies we are crazy about. I don’t know how I got this fortunate. I’ve stopped asking questions and started just being grateful.
I went to college to study cultural anthropology — because all things human, cultural, and mysterious fascinated me. I did fieldwork, wrote grant proposals, and in my third year landed a grant to study something that stopped most people in their tracks when I told them:
The culture and mystery of New York City cabbie life.
Did you know that being a NYC cabbie was once considered one of the most dangerous jobs in the world? Did you also know that becoming a NYC cabbie is a genuine, deeply held dream for asylum seekers all over the world? Not a fallback. A dream.
I was fascinated by this. Who are these people?
And here’s something most people don’t know: there were exactly 13,587 cab medallions — mandatory to operate as a taxi in NYC, no more, no less — issued by the New York City Taxi and Limousine Commission, owned by a small group of very wealthy people who rented them out — on average to three or more cabbie immigrants each — just for the chance to drive. Dawn to dusk, dusk to dawn, shift after shift, paying rent for the privilege of chasing a dream through the streets of Manhattan.
In fact, the competition was so fierce that rival cabbies would sometimes deliberately dent or scratch other cabbies’ cabs — knowing full well the driver would have to answer for every scratch to the medallion owner when he returned at the end of his shift. A borrowed cab, a rented dream, and someone waiting to hold you accountable for every dent.
If that isn’t a story about the human condition, I don’t know what is. Like I said — anthropology is fascinating!
It’s true. And honestly — is there anything more fascinatingly human than that?
One of my favorite things is to garden. Especially — roses.
And it didn’t happen by accident.
Growing up, there was a lady down our street who never left her house — but her front yard was a different story entirely. Every color, every size, every variety of rose you could imagine, all somehow thriving under her mysterious and never-explained care. Sitting from our bikes and Big Wheels, we’d stare. All of us. Every time. I never forgot it.
Now, changed forever by that front yard — and every time I pulled my Big Wheel up to get a closer look — I grow roses. Lots of them. You just can’t have too many roses. To me, roses are as close to heaven as a garden gets. I’m not sure I’ll ever quite copy what she did on our street — but I’m trying. Every spring, I’m trying.
But every road has its bumps. I should mention that due to a slight mishap involving one of my climbing roses — which may have accidentally scratched my husband a few times as he walked by, through absolutely no fault of the rose — there is currently an open investigation into the suspicious disappearance of said rose bush last summer. My husband and his weed whacker have not been formally charged — but they remain the prime suspects. The case is ongoing.
Of all my roses, and there are many, my favorite is an heirloom pink cabbage rose that was specifically cultivated for Queen Marie Antoinette. Its fragrance is amazing, and in full bloom you can smell it through an open window upstairs. I’m not sure Marie would appreciate what I do next — but, in the best interest of my roses, sometime around mid-spring I cut the heads off every rose that starts to fade. Apparently it’s good for them!
Queen Marie would understand — probably.
I love to cook and I love to write — and one day I’d like to combine the two into a mom’s favorite cookbook. It’s just an idea for now. But as they say — two birds, one cage.
This is Lu.
She’s my dog. Lu is the smartest dog in the world. Isn’t she beautiful? Pictures don’t do her justice! We are so close she even lets me sleep on the bed. She’s wonderful.
In general, I love my life and couldn’t get any luckier! I enjoy my family, my work, and all that is dear and special to me — especially life with Dan and all our many children and grandchildren.
Explore more about my background, approach, and the way I work below.
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