My father's sister came back from serving in Europe as a WWII Army nurse and promptly pulled up stakes and moved to Los Angeles.

It was the late 1940's and she looked the part. She bleached her hair blonde, wore red lipstick, and squeezed herself into sweaters too tight for New England sensibilities. Not only that, she gave up nursing to become a professional Latin ballroom dancer and moved in with a Hungarian man named Bruno who sported one of those pencil thin mustaches. It was all a bit.....much.

But to her niece, she was just my kooky aunt Avis.

One summer my brother and I went to California for a visit. We hopped into her car and Bruno drove like a madman through the side streets of Los Angeles until a final swerve set us onto a dock jutting out into one of the local lakes. Without warning he gunned the engine and off the pier we went.

The Amphicar 770 was a German car produced in the early 1960's, the same model in whose backseat we were then strapped. It functioned both on land and in water. But most importantly, it convinced me beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my aunt was the coolest person ever.

A review of the Amphicar summed it up this way.....

"It's not a good boat, nor is it a good car."

I was never much of a purse girl.

If the item in question couldn't fit in my pocket, I figured I didn't really need it. It just seemed like carrying something so I could carry something else presented a circular argument I would never win.

My wife, on the other hand, LOVES purses and bags. Our closets are filled to the brim with variations on a theme.

Tote. Messenger. Kiss Lock. Duffle. Minudière. Canteen. Satchel. Sling. Weekender. Barrel. Drawstring. Knapsack. Randoseru. Wristler. Coin. Messenger. Garment. Nantucket Basket. Bowling. Fanny. Canvas. Hobo. Pochette. And last but not least, the timeless clutch.

The only bag she would leave for dead is her luggage.....

"I don't carry little purses. I carry big duffles. Always." – Diane Keaton

I was still in elementary school when I got my first pair of glasses.

In those early years, my glasses were meant to help correct a lazy eye. As I grew older, they expanded my vision to include my teacher's blackboard scribblings, what flickered across the television, and words written on road signs.

I was near-sighted with a capital N.

Now every surface in my home is covered with eyeglasses and eyeglass cases. Sunglasses. Computer glasses. Reading glasses. Oh, and the spares, just in case I can't find my.... well, glasses.

Somewhere along the line, I started putting my glasses on to do things totally unrelated to my vision, as if by adjusting one of my senses the others would magically grow more acute.

If you've ever turned off your car radio so you could better read the exit signs on the I-10, you know exactly what I mean.

"I can't think without my glasses." – Vivienne Westwood

The month of May is upon us, and with it, the usual plethora of activities.

As events like graduation ceremonies and summer weddings draw closer, I have been thinking a lot about crossing over.

There are crossings, of the literal variety, that have gained fame because they are so perilous. I remember dodging cars, heart in mouth, as I leapfrogged my way across the rotary that encircles the Arc de Triomphe. Despite being young and nimble, that felt more like a gauntlet than a crossing.

Then there are convergences marked, not by danger, but by cacophony. Intersections like NYC's Times Square or Tokyo's Shibuya Scramble come to mind. I am drawn to these sorts of beehives, lured by their sheer sensory overload.

Then there are crossings of the most pedestrian variety, where just a few steps, or words, or minutes, change everything.

When John, Paul, George, and Ringo strolled across Abbey Road, they had just recorded their final album. They were crossing over. So were we.......

“Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, tomorrow I'll miss you.” ― Paul McCartney

*Link to live webcam of Abbey Road Crosswalk:

https://www.earthcam.com/world/england/london/abbeyroad/?cam=abbeyroad_uk

I was fortunate to meet Olympia Dukakis once in my life. While in graduate school, she agreed to be interviewed for a project I was researching. I flew to LAX, rented a car, and made my way to a small bungalow in a nondescript part of West Hollywood. I was so excited I could scarcely breathe.

Olympia grew up in a gritty, largely Greek, former mill town in Massachusetts. Her cousin Michael was our governor for a time. She was one of our own.

I loved her for other reasons besides our shared geography. I loved her beautiful thick hair, her gravelly voice, and her no nonsense demeanor. I loved Tales of the City, Steel Magnolias, and of course, her rough and tumble Rose in Moonstruck. True to form, when I rang the doorbell the day of my visit she was just as I imagined. She hollered from the back to come on in and after making my way to the small kitchen I found her sitting at the table in her pajamas, hair wet from a quick dash through the shower, eating some scrambled eggs. "Want some, darlin'?" she purred.

The legend of Lowell. I miss you already.

Olympia Dukakis

June 20, 1931 - May 1, 2021

"Most of us are not real eager to grow, myself included. We try to be happy by staying in the status quo. But if we're not willing to be honest with ourselves about what we feel, we don't evolve." – Olympia Dukakis

Is it just me or do the rest of you still love Ryan Seacrest and the indefatigable American Idol?

This congenial television host has long held a soft spot in my heart. Boyish good looks aside, his enthusiasm and kindness have buoyed thousands of American Idol hopefuls. Even during the years when Simon Cowell sniped his way through every episode, Ryan was there as a counterbalance.

No boxing gloves for Ryan. He's more of a kid gloves kind of guy.

Katy, Luke, and Lionel make it look so easy. But it's still Ryan who steers the ship.

“I always just wanted to be a cheesy guy on television.” – Ryan Seacrest

Sitting in a chair in our den, I looked up and spied a chubby robin staring at me from her perch on the dogwood tree outside our second-story window. She looked perplexed. Then I heard it too. The slow but distinct rumble of a ........... lawnmower.

That is an unusual sound here in the city. But every so often a small plot of green appears amidst the patchwork quilt of streets and sidewalks that comprise our neighborhood. A defiant reminder that cement is not the world's dominant canopy.

Seemingly overnight, spring has arrived. Daffodils are blooming. The breeze off the water is warming. People are out on their decks barbecuing.

I hope the robin decides to build her nest in that dogwood. It's always fun when new faces move into the neighborhood.

"A lawn is nature under totalitarian rule." – Michael Pollan

The National Cathedral, tucked into the northwest quadrant of Washington, D.C., ranks among my favorite churches. And not for the reasons you might think.

I love it for its quirks.

The sixth largest cathedral in the world, it embodies many aspects of traditional Christian church design; gothic splendor, stained glass windows, flying buttresses, a massive pulpit, and an impressive set of carillons.

But the Cathedral also has some unexpected nuances. A lunar rock collected by the crew of Apollo 11 is embedded in a stained glass window dedicated to scientists and technicians. The remains of Matthew Shepard are buried inside the church, finally safe to rest in peace. Many of the gargoyles (112 in total) were crafted with tongue firmly planted in cheek, resulting in creations like the Darth Vader gargoyle, the rattlesnake gargoyle, and the yuppie gargoyle, replete with briefcase in hand. The interior boasts an assortment of decidedly secular sculptures that include Helen Keller, Mother Teresa, Rosa Parks, Albert Schweitzer, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Dr. Martin Luther King.

Cathedrals were not built solely for worship, but with an eye toward inspiration....

"Not even the most secular among us can fail to be uplifted by Christianity's architectural legacy - the great cathedrals. These immense and glorious buildings were erected in an era of constricted horizons, both in time and in space." – Martin Rees

Lottery tickets. The present everyone loves. Slipped into a birthday card, perfect for a Yankee Swap, a fabulous stocking stuffer, the gift no one need return because it's the wrong size.

I'm not much of a gambler. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have been to a casino. Once every couple of years I might pop into a convenience store and buy a scratch ticket. Truth be told, I'd rather spend the money on a candy bar.

Still, it's fun to imagine how life might change should your ticket win the jackpot.

Given my luck, other avenues might still be a better bet.....

"Reading, conversation, environment, culture, heroes, mentors, nature - all are lottery tickets for creativity. Scratch away at them and you'll find out how big a prize you've won." – Twyla Tharp

When I moved to Montana in my early twenties, I was met by a landscape littered with honky-tonks and country music. One night, looking for something a bit different, we saddled up and headed to a nearby bar aptly named the Sip 'n Dip.

Located on a dingy first floor of the town's only motel, the Sip 'n Dip was likely the only tiki bar in all of "Big Sky Country." Quirky Polynesian influences aside, the lounge was best known for the wall of plexiglass that functioned both as the bar's back wall and as the side of the motel's indoor swimming pool.

All night long, patrons indulging in mai tai's and piña coladas watched as hotel guests swam by. It was the craziest thing I ever saw.

Later on the motel closed the pool at night to all but six women they'd hired to wear mermaid costumes for their evening plunge. A few years later Hollywood starlet Daryl Hannah, known at the time for her role as a mermaid in the movie Splash!, came and autographed the glass. Then in 2003 GQ ranked the Sip 'n Dip the "#1 bar...worth flying for."

I can't say I disagree......

"I don't flip. I don't even dive into a pool - straight cannonball for me." – Rob Lowe

Every household has one. The person who commandeers the remote control.

In my house, it's me. Partly because I'm a control freak and partly because my wife tends to doze on the couch in the evenings. She curls up with her blanket after the news comes on and then somewhere between the latest episode of HGTV and Rachel Maddow I've lost her. I won the battle for the remote simply by keeping my eyes open. But hey, a win's a win.

That said, we don't have all kinds of crazy stations so I've never needed to learn what all the buttons do. I stick to the basics. On/Off. Volume up/Volume down. Channel change. It's pretty straightforward.

But this wasn't always the case. Our old Samsung remote used to have a button labeled "incredible." I still have no idea what it did. I could never bring myself to press it.

Sometimes it's good to leave a little mystery in your life.

"Why do you press harder on a remote control when you know the battery is dead?" – Steven Wright

Just a few towns over lies the now defunct Quincy Quarries, a site that produced granite for over 100 years, including the stone used for the Bunker Hill Monument.

It also claims to be the home of our nation's first railroad, constructed in 1826 to carry stone from the quarry to the Neponset River.

All that history was lost to me as a teenager. Closed in 1963, the old quarries quickly filled with rainwater and instantly became a destination for would-be cliff jumpers, rock climbers, and graffiti artists. It was a haven for every rebellious adolescent wanna-be. Both dangerous and forbidden fruit.

In an effort to discourage kids from jumping, the owners of the quarry began to fill the ink-black water with wire and old telephone poles. This, of course, only made the illicit more enticing.

That's the thing about jumping into the unknown. Each of us needs to gauge the risk. Is it time to go? Or time to stay?

"The greatest risk is really to take no risk at all. You've got to go out there, jump off the cliff, and take chances." – Patrick Warburton

It's "Marathon Monday" here in Boston, the colloquial name for what is formally known as Patriots' Day. This observance recognizes the start of the American Revolutionary War, when muskets blazed in 1775 on the grassy fields of Lexington and Concord.

The day's activities traditionally include battlefield reenactments, a home game at Fenway Park, and the signature event - the running of the Boston Marathon. Only COVID-19 has managed to sideline this event since its initial inception in 1897, putting the kibosh on the 2020 race. For those of us raised in the shadow of Heartbreak Hill, the Boston Marathon runs in our blood.

I have shed countless tears on this race course. Borne not of my own exertion but by simply watching ordinary runners grind their way to the finish line.

"If you are losing faith in human nature, go out and watch a marathon." – Kathrine Switzer*

*The first woman to run the Boston Marathon (1967), having registered for the race using only her first initial to avoid detection as a female entrant.

Every Saturday morning of my high school career I was lucky enough to put on my polyester marching band outfit and head out on to the field.

The blue pants had a wide white stripe that ran down the side of the leg. Each of us wore white Bucs, polished and buffed. The front of the matching jacket had a white breastplate, decorated with gold buttons while fringed epaulets dangled from the shoulders. And the hat, oh the glorious hat! Festooned with a plume and held firmly in place by a plastic chin strap.

Sure, others scoffed. "Band nerds" they called us. But what they couldn't see was behind the polyester uniforms we were having fun. Piles of fun. Heaps of fun.

Ask anyone who has ever been in a marching band what it was like and they'll rave about the uniforms, the bus rides, the slightly off-kilter Drum Major, and their unabashed love of music....

"Marching band is the bacon of school."

Lately, on my daily morning walks, I began to notice a single car parked in the lot next to Telegraph Hill. One day it was covered, literally covered, in Post-It Notes. A week ago someone encased it in wrapping paper. Yesterday small rubber duckies blanketed the hood.

I'm usually not one for practical jokes or pranks. Most of the time I find them to be mean-spirited jabs with a "can't you take a joke?" veneer. But I must admit, the variety of approaches employed made me smile.

Thankfully, I wasn't the one doing the unwrapping.....

"We need radical curiosity and reverent pranks, voracious listening and ferocious thanks." – Rob Brezsny

Ever since I can remember I have loved aquariums. Colorful, serene, bastions of beauty.

Unfortunately, I wasn't as enamored with having fish of my own. After seeing one too many goldfish floating belly up in random pet store displays, I relegated my fascination to National Geographic documentaries and the expansive tanks of giant metropolitan aquariums.

Many years later I got a cat who was bored to tears with my daily routine of going to the office five days a week. I thought about getting him an aquarium, but was afraid he'd fish the fish right out. But then I found a faux version, a clear tube that came with all kinds of plastic fish.

After filling it with water I plugged it in, triggering a stream of bubbles to rise from the bottom of the tube. The "fish," propelled by air pockets, would "swim" for as long as the on button was flipped.

Mr. Stanley watched those fish for hours, happy as a clam with his new toy. Move over catnip. The fish have arrived!

“Aquariums make us realize how beautiful silence is.”

$102,500. That was the price tag back on March 25, 1957.

Elvis took a mortgage of $55,000, plus cash down, to purchase the nearly 14-acre property off Route 51 in Memphis. There were two other suitors for the property; private investors interested in building a high-end restaurant and the deep pockets of Sears, Roebuck Co. Further complicating things, a small church made an offer to buy just 5 acres, located in the northwest corner of the estate. Only Elvis was amenable to having a church as his neighbor. That sealed the deal with the owners.

Graceland was officially his.

Although I was never a big fan of "the King," I have been to Graceland on more than one occasion. I was initially struck by its size, or lack thereof. It is a modest southern home, replete with white columns and an expansive lawn. The interior is pure Elvis; garish, over-the-top, eccentric and indulgent. And yet a soulfulness and sadness still clings to the house, despite the shag carpeting and glittering chandeliers.

Graceland, in some kind of inexplicable way, is Elvis. A magical confluence you can't help but be drawn to.....

"The Mississippi Delta was shining like a national guitar. I am following the river, down the highway, through the cradle of the Civil War. I'm going to Graceland....." – Paul Simon

Every Spring, CVS becomes a pilgrimage destination for hordes of "sweet tooth-ers," just like me. Why you ask? Just a little something called Cadbury Mini-Eggs.

The chocolate interior is to die for. The hard candy shell gives it just the right amount of crunch. The pale pastel colors, a palette of beauty.

Oh those devilish candy makers at Cadbury. They have created the perfect indulgence. All of my self-discipline withers at the mere thought of those eggs.

For the past ten years, the cemetery across the street has hosted our annual Easter egg hunt. We have tucked plastic eggs filled with Cadbury chocolate inside the nooks and crannies of old gravestones, behind potted plants, in the crook of tree branches, and on top of water spigots.

And yet the kids always find them. Every. Last. One.

Sigh.

"How's the diet going?

Not good. I had eggs for breakfast this morning.

Scrambled?

No, Cadbury..."

– Nicole O'Neil

The city of Boston is rife with statuary, landmarks, and monuments of every size and variety.

There are revolutionary era examples, such as the steeple of the Old North Church, Paul Revere astride his horse, or the Freedom Trail's red bricks. Then there are those with a whimsical bent; a line of mallards commemorating the children's classic Make Way for Ducklings or the Mapparium, the three-story stain-glass globe found in the Mary Baker Eddy Library. If you're a sports fan you can check out a pair of Larry Bird's size 13.5 bronzed sneakers in Quincy Market or take a selfie beside Bobby Orr's midair Stanley Cup goal celebration.

But for my money, the city's best statue is tucked discreetly beside the Public Garden. It's of Boston-born wordsmith Edgar Allan Poe. With his billowed cape and hair askew, Poe looks as if he is running down Boylston Street. A raven bursts forth from his briefcase and a tell-tale heart lies on a stack of books behind him. If you stand toe to toe with the statue, you'll notice the sculptor has given him a furtive glance, as if Poe sees something we don't.

Isn't that always the case? Poe shedding light on all the things we dare not see.

“Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence." – Edgar Allan Poe

All day long I watch people walk their dogs. They stroll in front of the house, frolic on the beach, and make frantic circles once inside the safe and fenced confines of our neighborhood dog park.

Ironically, most of the time they seem out of step with their owners. Some days it's the dog who wants to linger and sniff while the owner is in a hurry. Other times the owner is dragging their poor pooch on a jog the dog would have been just as happy to avoid. Then there are the usual fits and starts, where the dog lunges for something only to be yanked back.

In my next life, I think I want to come back as a cat. Who would trade a nap for a leash?

"Ever wonder where you'd end up if you took your dog for a walk and never once pulled back on the leash?" – Robert Breault