In the Car with My Teenagers

In the Car with My Teenagers.

A friend of mine, whose children were in high school when my daughter was in preschool, once gave me great advice about spending time in the car with her kids. She referred to the car as the safe place where her kids could freely express themselves without judgement from their mother. “The truth came out on those drives,” she told me. Her teenagers would openly discuss issues they were having about anything from sex to drinking to friends. At the time, when my friend shared the car-therapy tip with me, I could not relate. After all, my kids were toddlers, so we spent most of our time listening to The Wiggles, playing the same songs over and over again. I did, however, tuck what my friend had told me in the back of my mind.

I am currently in the thick of raising teenagers. My daughter is a junior in high school, and in two short years, she will be heading off to college. The clock is ticking fast. A few months ago, she got her license, which finally meant a little less time I would have to spend as my children’s personal chauffeur. When I first found out that she isn’t allowed to park the car at school until she’s a senior, I was bummed––because the driving break I had been dreaming about wasn’t coming that fast. I would still need to make the round-trip drive to and from school a few times a day, depending on my kids’ activities. But then I flipped the switch in my mind, and rather than complain about being an unpaid mom-Uber driver, I decided to embrace the time alone with my kids. As soon as my daughter leaves for the next chapter in her life, my son, who is in eighth grade, will get his license, and then my days of driving my kids and their friends everywhere will end abruptly.

Once my mindset changed, I remembered the valuable advice my friend had given me a decade ago. And she was right. It’s the one place where I hear it all. At school pickup, I listen to the details about their day—the good and the bad, trying to help them sort through issues. When I drive their friends, I overhear their conversations, learn how they treat one another, and find out what they’re up to. Sometimes I ask questions like I’m an investigative reporter, collecting information that I may not have heard if I wasn’t driving a group of kids around. Even better, the truth comes out when it’s just me alone with one of my children. I know who is vaping, who is drinking, where the parties are, who might be experimenting with drugs. I’m careful not to sound too nosy or annoying. I just remind them that it’s safe inside the car and they can talk freely—and most of the time they do.

Studies have shown how important it is for families to sit down together for dinner as often as they can. With sports, games, activities, and studying, family dinners are not always viable in our house. But let’s face it—it’s not about the meal––it’s about engaging with our children. So the car is where we connect with each other; it’s where I get to hold on to them a little longer. It doesn’t mean I talk to them incessantly on every car ride. We can sit in silence too, or sing out loud to pop music, or laugh at my son’s choice of inappropriate rap music. Every now and then, I glance at their profiles, noticing a ripe pimple here and there, and I admire their beautiful and changing faces. Most importantly, I savor each moment, enjoying the precious and limited time we have before I send them into the world. In another decade, I will have to find new ways to bond with my children as they journey through the next phases of their lives. For now, I will stop complaining about how many times I have to schlep my kids around town, and instead welcome it––grateful that I can.

The Darkness of Death Has the Power to Open Doors of Light

When the clouds of grief clear the way for light.

Death is life’s greatest equalizer. There’s no way around it. We can’t avoid it. We can’t escape it. We will all face it—our own immortality, and the loss of someone we love. It may come when we least expect it, or sometimes we are warned, but rarely are we prepared to lose someone we love. And no matter how many times we are forced to say goodbye, it never makes the pain any easier. I was only four years old when my father died. At the time, I didn’t understand what death meant. I remember a lot of tears, not my tears—but the waterfalls of tears pouring down the faces of everyone who loved my father. The hurt hit me later in life when I began to intellectualize what I was missing. As the years passed, other deaths would fall from the dark clouds that would occasionally pass over my head, eventually clearing the way for the sun to shine when the heartache dissipated.

Death can be ugly, but it can also make space for beauty and love. Rather than feeling sorry for myself, I have found a way—this is something that happens in time—to celebrate the people who are no longer in my life and thank them for blessing me with their gifts. Grief is a theme in my debut novel, Lost and Found in Aspen. It served as fuel for me to write the story. I can’t help but wonder if the book would not have been written if I hadn’t experienced losing so many loved ones. Looking back, I realize it was part of my grand plan—writing about grief because I knew it so well.

Death also has the potential to connect us and bring us closer to the living, particularly those who share similar stories and tragedies. Early in my marriage, my husband didn’t understand what it was like for me to not have a father, until he lost his beloved dad. Mourning his passing together, we came out on the other side––speaking a similar language. Now we put these special men on pedestals, cherishing their shortened lives.

A few years ago, I met a woman named Cathy who had just moved to Aspen. Cathy had a best friend in another state who was losing a long battle with cancer. I had a friend, also far away, who was desperately fighting cancer too. Commiserating over our sick friends is what drew us closer, but losing them is what sealed us together. I remember when Cathy first got word that her friend had passed. I was driving in town and saw Cathy walking on the sidewalk. Pulling over to say “hi,” I took one look in her eyes and knew something was wrong. After she relayed the sad news, I told her to go home, put on her ski clothes, and meet me at the Silver Queen Gondola at the base of Aspen Mountain. As soon as we began our ascent, she shared funny memories of her friend, and then we honored her life on that bluebird day, enlivened by the fresh air and glorious sunshine, carving turns down the mountain. Less than six months later, cancer took my friend’s life. Cathy, of course, was the first person I called to help me with my grief—after all, she knew exactly how I felt. It was our shared experiences with death that connected us, blossoming our friendship.

Growth happens at every turn throughout life. We continually evolve with the passage of time, and facing tragedy forces us on a new trajectory, altering how we view the world. Overcoming sorrow and anguish gives us an opportunity to reevaluate our sense of purpose, our self-worth, our love. I know all too well how it feels when death shoots daggers into my heart, but it’s those same sharp, painful weapons that have also strengthened and opened my soul to be flooded with oceans of light.

Why Aspen?

The beautiful mountains of Aspen, Colorado.

A few years ago, when my friend Nicole and I came up with the storyline for Lost and Found in Aspen, we felt that our beautiful mountain town needed to be the setting, and it would play an important role in the story. Having both grown up in small suburbs, thousands of miles away from Colorado, we landed in Aspen much later in life, proud to call it our home.

My husband and I decided to move to Aspen on a whim. Life was treating us well. We had two small kids, lived in a suburb of northern New Jersey, about thirty miles from New York City, and we had a wonderful group of friends. But we were bored. We wanted to try something new, give ourselves an adventure of sorts, a different experience. Many years ago, after vacationing in Aspen, we planted a seed in our vision for the future: we would move there one day. The seed lay dormant for a long time, until the opportunity presented itself nearly a decade later. And that was it. We put our house on the market and took off in a U-Haul, like pioneers migrating to the west in search of a better life. Once we settled in our new land, we never looked back.

Almost everyone I’ve met in Aspen has a story to tell about how they ended up in our small mountain town. Some people thought they would come for a little while after college, some stopped in on the way to somewhere else. Ski bums came to ski, and some people were looking to escape the rat race. Regardless of what drove each of them to Aspen, there was something that kept everyone planted in the soil for good, along with a willingness to accept the sacrifices that one must make to reside full-time in an expensive vacation destination. With exorbitant real estate prices, proprietors who are dependent on the influx of seasonal tourists face a greater financial burden. In addition, other than the service industry, there are fewer business opportunities compared to major metropolitan areas, unless you can work from home, you’re willing to travel, or you have a large trust fund. Living in Aspen is a tradeoff: residents have given up conveniences at a cost––for a community that values the outdoor lifestyle, embraces nature’s gifts, and appreciates fresh mountain air.

For those of us who have made Aspen our home, we share a little secret. We innately understand that life is more about collecting experiences rather than a race to acquire material possessions. We are aligned with the ebb and flow of the universe. The tourists swell the town, then they go home. Dancing at the sight of the first snowfall in autumn, we look forward to another ski season. And just when we think we won’t have enough snow, it comes. We race for the slopes on a powder day, giggling down runs filled with cloud-like layers.

Winter is long, but then it melts and the flowers bloom. We hike to the top of the peak and relish in the magnificent views. We bike with the breeze blowing through our hair. We welcome and listen to renowned speakers, scholars, authors, politicians, and live concerts. On a sunny day, we sit outside at a restaurant, sipping drinks and watching a colorful array of tourists walk past. In that moment, we’re happy to be alive, elated to be exactly where we’re supposed to be­––appreciative and grateful for the blessed wonders that grace and enrich our souls.

Aspen has given me an abundance of gifts, and this was why I wanted it to play a starring role in my debut novel, Lost and Found in Aspen. I wanted to shine a light—for those who’ve never been and for those who have—and celebrate the small town that gives me so much sunshine.

The Spazmatics: The Music That Brought My Youth Back

A trip through 80s nostalgia.

I recently came across an old letter I had written to my children a few years ago after a night out at Belly Up to see the Spazmatics. Here it is:

Dear Kids,

In the next few years you will begin to experience all kinds of exciting firsts: first kiss, first crush, maybe even first love. While you navigate through life, you will try to understand human nature, your peers, and relationships. The memories you make throughout your childhood will be etched in your mind, helping to shape the adults you will one day become.

I was once like you: innocent, curious, and living in the present. As an adult, I sometimes forget how it felt to be young.

A few nights ago, I went to Belly Up to see the Spazmatics, an 80s cover band. The music and energy brought out feelings that have been bottled up since my teen years. I danced to my favorite 80s tunes. A decade of the most popular song lyrics came out of my mouth, loud and out of tune. Yet I didn’t care. I had the time of my life.

When the band launched into “Come on Eileen” I was no longer a forty-one-year-old mother and wife. I was ten, twelve, fifteen, growing up in Sudbury, Massachusetts. I was lying on the pink carpet in my bedroom surrounded by loud, flowered wallpaper, listening to my favorite cassette tapes, daydreaming. I called my friends on my yellow-corded, touch-tone phone and asked them if my latest crush liked me. I danced to “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” in front of my wicker mirror, waiting to be called downstairs for dinner. As soon as I finished eating and cleared the table, I ran back to my room and turned up the volume on “Eye of the Tiger” on my Sony boom box.

Hearing other memorable tunes, such as “867-5309/Jenny” and “Summer of ‘69” brought me back to my years at Camp Naticook, secretly praying that a boy would ask me to dance at a social. My heart fluttered when he walked by. I experienced my first kiss at the flagpole and then raced back to my bunk to tell my girlfriends about it.

On Sundays in my childhood home, I listened to Casey Kasem rattle off the hottest songs on American Top 40. Immersed in the music, I sat in the kitchen at our white Formica table eating Doritos and Oreo cookies and squirting globs of Cheese Wiz in my mouth, and then washing it all down with a can of Coke. Vegetables, weight gain, processed food, and sugar content meant nothing to me.

By 11:30 p.m. the four Spazmatic band members, dressed up like 80s nerds, ended the show with “1999.” Still feeling euphoric, I grabbed your dad’s hand and sauntered out of the Belly Up. All that dancing made us hungry. We grabbed a slice from NY Pizza, and then I was back in my college days, munching late-night with the man I would one day marry.

When I got home that night, it was once again 2014. I felt different. Reminiscing made me feel alive and youthful.

The music you listen to during your formative years will be embedded in your hearts, and one day, twenty-five years from now, you will hear those same tunes and be brought back to the age of innocence. Remember––life is a highway––enjoy every moment.

Love,
Mom

Releasing Dave Gogolak’s Ashes: An Extraordinary Pilgrimage

Releasing Dave Gogolak’s Ashes.

My friend Nicole tragically lost her husband, Dave, in an avalanche nine years ago. A piece of her heart died on January 13th, 2008. She was left alone with their two young children.

Nicole and I became friends when our boys were in the same class. Our friendship deepened when we drove together to Denver for a school field trip. We discussed every intimate detail of our lives during the eight-hour, round-trip drive.

When Nicole shared some of her dating woes with me, I looked over and saw that she was wearing her wedding ring. I asked her why she was wearing it after all these years, even though it was obvious that she was still in love with her late husband. She told me that as much as she wants to move on with her life, she can’t seem to part with him. Every January, around the time of Dave’s death, Nicole hides in her home, shedding tears and heartache over missing the love of her life. Read more