The Fourth of July, and many other fourths flood my memory, Maria as a small child burning her fingers on a sparkler, all of us driving with my brother in law to Carmel to see fireworks. In more recent years when Maria lived in Germantown, she would have a barbeque, invite the whole family and afterwards we would go to the nearby cemetery to view the local fireworks. One time Timmy was a little snuckered and was pointing out in the darkness of the cemetery to the children the planets, Your Anus was one, Penis was another. The kids all laughed and the Kelly's still talk about that night. Four years ago on the Fourth of July we were in Wellfleet and all went to see the parade. There we met Yellowbeard, Caleb, a young pirate marching with mermaids and other pirates. We did not know then that he would have an effect on all of us. Then the last summer of Maria's life, on the fourth of July 2007, a few days before we ventured to Wellfleet for our summer vacation, Caleb was hurt, badly hurt after appearing in the Wellfleet Fourth of July parade. When we entered Wellfleet, a large banner on the overpass, advised "Pray for Caleb" and twice daily the town gathered in the center to have a circle of hope and prayer for him. Maria, I and the whole family were touched. I remember Laura saying she eagerly emptied her whole purse in a jar for Caleb at the local grocery. Pirate flags flew everywhere, he was a shell fisherman and his company flew the pirate flag. The next month for my birthday Maria organized a pirate party - and instead of gifts, donations could be made to Caleb's fund..the party was the best. I have the picture of all us all on my living room wall, Maria and I making the arrrgggg pirate faces. Then in October for the Oysterfest, Maria made 100 pirate cookies for Caleb's friends to sell - wonderful cookies of a pirate with a patch on his eye and a big smile. "Cookies for Caleb" his friend yelled when she delivered them to their booth. When Maria died his mother wrote a wonder piece on Maria in her blog. To this day, I am grateful for the kind words from a stranger, who is not really a stranger, we are connected in our grief and hope and joy. This Fourth of July Caleb's Mom, who keeps a blog, wrote that he again would be in the parade. I smiled at the thought of him once again parading down the streets of Wellfleet and I pictured Maria watching him again, waving and yelling "Go Caleb, Go Yellowbeard".

While driving into Red Hook today, I passed a sign for a new daycare. It was called Wee People. I had to smile because I remembered years back when my sister Maureen and I had a great idea. We were sitting on the beach at Wellfleet, wondering how we could someday afford to spend our whole summer there, just laying in the sun, eating Wellfleet oysters and enjoying the good life. We came up with an idea that we could rent a big house right on the beach for the summer. Now, to pay for this lease, we would run a daycare. People could leave their kid or kids there for an hour, two hours, or even days at a time. We got this idea because all around us on the beach were kids freaking out, screaming for forgotten toys, needing a drink, having to go the bathroom, etc. Hassled parents looked like that wanted to kill themselves, wringing their hands and wondering why this was their vacation, or worse, their life. We figured they would pay big bucks to have an hour or two alone on the beach or go out to eat alone. The kids were really bad in the restaurants. After a day at the beach, they were either overtired and whining, or zapped up from too much candy at the Chocolate Sparrow. And they never liked the food offered on the menu. I remember one boy, about 10, standing up and announcing to his family and the whole restaurant that he couldn't eat Pasta Primivera one more time without throwing up. We knew we had hit about the right idea when we came up with the name: "Dump a Kid". That said it all. Not Funshine Time or Little Darling Place not even Little Rascals...just Dump a Kid, exactly what the parents were thinking. Now, we didn't want to watch these little b*$^%$^% ourselves, so we figured we could hire high school kids, even college kids that would be willing to spend their days at the beach and making some money at the same time. We played around with this idea for hours, it seemed like we had the right idea. But then we saw one kid throwing rocks at his sister in the water (insurance?), another one torturing a turtle he had found on the beach (deranged children?), kids with red faces just screaming for no reason, and we decided to give this daycare thing some more thought. But the Dump a Kid still seems to me to be the best ever name for a daycare.

I was just ironing the cloth napkins for the Bird's Nest, when I realized the B&B napkins and tablecloths are probably the only ironing I do today. Not so in the 60's when there was actually a day set aside for ironing. I ironed the babys' clothes, my clothes, shirts for my IBM husband, a white shirt fresh for each day. There was no spray starch, so you "sprinkled" the clothes with water first, keeping them in the refrigerator to stay damp in the summer heat. Ironing was a part of life. I learned how to iron by ironing my father's handkerchiefs, first flat, then doubling over, and over until a small white square was done. My father took a clean hankie every day. I remember my sister Maureen telling me that her boyfriend was taught to always carry two handerchiefs (he learned this at dance class) in case a girl ever needed to use one. I guess it was manners to hand her a fresh one! Any way, ironing was, as I said a part of life. My Aunt Muriel knew how to iron. She would set up the ironing board, this was not easy in the old days. They were a wooden contraption, that you had to get just right or it would collapse in the middle of a delicate job. So, she would set up the board, heat up the iron and pour herself a glass of wine. In the 60's drinking was also a part of life. No one thought anything of drinking in the afternoon, or even pouring a little glass while you stuffed the turkey in the early morning hours. My Aunt was from Montreal, spoke French, was very sophisticated, so I too would sometimes pour a glass of wine while I ironed. You be surprised how it helped. Grandma Burky did laundry for people to bring in some money during the Depression. She taught my sister Barbara and me how to iron a man's shirt. Her ironing board was just the board, no legs. She would balance it on the dining room table and a corner shelf. Anyway, she showed us how you do the collar and the cuffs first. Then the arms, then the left side, right side and last the back. She would fold the whole thing up and I swear it looked like it came out of the dry cleaners. My mother did not have my Grandma's skill or the desire. Her way of ironing was unique. She would start by laying a sheet over the board. On top of this she would put other flat items, a tablecloth, pillow cases, a skirt, kitchen towels, etc. She would keep piling on the items and then finally, on the top do a kid's shirt, or a pair of kids' pants. I guess she thought this was efficiency. My father did his own ironing (do you wonder why?) Every night he would iron his pants for the next day's work. He did it completely different than Bucky. He would lay just the pants on the board. Then he would test the iron, over and over again, until it was just the right temperature. Carefully arranging the pants legs to get the seam exactly in the center, he would iron them using a damp cloth and sometimes I remember him laying a newspaper over the seam first. You know, writing this I almost miss ironing. It was a meditation, taking items from the laundry basket, ironing them, folding them, putting them in neat piles to later go in the proper drawers, until the basket was empty, ready for next week. A lost task. A lost art. Like the dinosaur, someday, there won't even be irons.

I thought of Aunt Lillian yesterday. I was picking wild grape leaves to stuff and I remembered the first time I had them at her house and how she shared her recipe with me. This is the only time of the year when you can use the wild grapes leaves, in a few days they will be too big and too rough to eat. But right now they are perfect. You pick the ones with leaves that are divided into threes, make a filling of rice, fresh mint, scallions, spices and an egg and cook them for a few minutes in chicken broth. Easy, good for you and delicious. I used to have the kids help me pick the leaves. Paul was a worry wart and would say, "Don't touch that - it's poison ivy." No, its not, I would tell him, continuing to pick the leaves. "Leaves of three, let it be," he advised. I would show him how these leaves were growing on the grape vines, therefore they were safe. But he never really believed me. It was this time of the year too when we would go "steal" rhubarb from our neighbor's yard. Actually, Bob Barrett had told me to take all I wanted, they didn't use it. But I liked the story of Rapunzel, where she asks her husband to steal the rhubarb, he gets caught, and the witch gets their baby. Anyway, we would sneak into the Barrett's yard, I would pull out a knife and start cutting the rhubarb, showing the kids how you never, never even take the leaves, they are too poisonous, and I would discard them in to the weeds. "How can the leaves be poison and the stems are ok to eat?" questioned Paul, a look of disbelief on his face. That's just the way the plant is, I would answer and take home the rhubarb to make Strawberry Rhubarb pie. The kids never liked that either, probably thought I was trying to poison them, but in later years it has become the favorite of all my pies to them. Another memory came to me today, as I picked the Lily of the Valley (they are early this year). My grandmother carried that flower as a bride on Memorial Day and there is still the wedding picture of her and Poppy, and the dried flowers are part of the frame. Lilies of the Valley are tricky to pick, you don't pick them, or cut them, you tug on them gently until they are released from the pip. Poppy showed me how to do this when I was a kid. There was a patch of them in their yard, and their scent still is one of my favorite smells. So, spring is here, Aunt Lillian's tradition continues, Poppy's picking lesson is remembered and I need somebody to go with me to steal rhubarb.

Last week we were at a party. It was unusually warm for April, and we were all sitting outside, except for Solomon and Zack, in the house playing with their games. Then from inside someone was playing the piano, a haunting Eastern melody, like a harem dancer would be swaying to. "Who's playing the piano?" I asked, looking around the guests to see who was missing. "It's Jer - Jer is playing the piano." Now I never knew he could play the piano. He's always played a guitar, I think Maria started him on lessons as an early teen and he is usually never seen without the instrument. Hearing Jer play the piano made me recall conversations Ria and I had had many times. Jer was NOT her son, the babies had been mixed up, and she had Todd Rundgren's son. Yes, back in 1980 when Maria had Jer there was one other baby in the Rhinebeck nursery. Maria and I were standing outside the nursery window, looking at Jer when this young, thin woman, wearing a shortie nightgown and holding a radio to her ear, joined us, dancing and moving to the music in her ear. "Look at her, Ma", Ria moaned. "She just gave birth and she looks like she's at a rock concert. Nobody would know she just pushed out a kid, not like me". Maria could have been on a poster for Post Partum Support. Back in her room, Maria explained to me that that was Todd Rundgren's girlfriend. Todd Rundgren of "Hello, It's Me". Oh yeah, I always liked that song. Years went by and I had forgotten Maria's partner in the Maternity Ward. Then when Jer was about 3 and he was dancing crazy to music, Maria brought it up. "Ma, I think I got the wrong baby, I think I got Todd's baby." This was repeated many times over the years, usually when she was having some problems with Jer. "He's going back to his father and that Playboy girlfriend of his." Anyway, after listening to Jer playing the piano, I thought I would look up what had happened to Todd's son who had been born at the same time as Jer. His name is Rex and he is playing baseball for the Dodgers Team A in Vegas. Now, that's a surprise. Last year Regina played softball and she was pretty good at it...and then I read that her real brother Rex is playing ball. Maria you might have been right.

Two completely unrelated things made me smile today. We have guests in the Bird's Nest from Holland and as I tidied the bathroom, I noticed a shaving brush on the shelf in the shower. A shaving brush, like the one my father had. I remember watching my father shave, it was a morning ritual. He would lather the brush up , working the suds, until he was satisfied with the quantity and quality of the suds. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror he would apply the suds to his cheeks, chin and under neck and then with long deliberate strokes of the razor, remove the suds and the beard, finishing it off by rubbing his hands together with Old Spice, getting just the right amount on his palms, then gently slapping his cheeks with the Aftershave. Just seeing that brush on the shelf brought all those memories back, almost the smell of that Old Spice. The second time was reading today's New York Times and reading an article about a remake of Gray Gardens. Big Edie and Little Edie. That's what Maria and I were named, first by Sabra's husband Tony. Ria and I were sharing that awful last cottage we shared together and Tony and Sabra had the cottage on the hill above us. He would stop by on his way to get the paper, see me having my coffee, Ria with her tea, Ria in her bathrobe, me wearing my Miller Lite pajama pants and Miller Lite shirt. He must have remembered watching Gray Gardens (both Sabra and Maria had loved that documentary) and he thought our outfits worthy of the names of Big Edie and Little Edie. Drew Barrymore is playing Little Edie and Jessica Lange is playing my role. I once had the honor of riding in the truck that Jessica Lange had ridden in the movie "Tootsie". The movie was filmed in Hurley and I worked at IBM with an older gentlemen who drove a beat up truck, that the film company had asked to use in the filming. I can't remember the IBMer's name now, but I recall his face. He took me for lunch at the Bowery Dugout and I had the honor of sitting in the same seat as Jessica. That makes me smile too. Then at the Bowery Dugout I would order soft shell crabs, my favorite - and Adam's is starting to carry them. Well, there you go, from shaving brush, to Big Edie, to Jessica, to soft shell crabs. It's Easter Saturday, the day last year that Maria was buried. This cold, dreary day is perfect for the thoughts that pop into your head. Rest in Peace Little Edie. Love, Big Edie

Tomorrow is Saint Patrick's Day. I have been thinking today of all the good St. Patty's Days I've had. I remember one just before the Iraq War started. Maria, Patty, Margaret and I were sitting with several other people on Bailey's porch - a warm night. The Mayor was there and like a typical politician, was going from table to table. At our table we exchanged Irish jokes and then I said "Let's get Tivoli declared a Peace City" and he moaned and said, "Oh, no Linda, don't start that". Then a year later we celebrated at the Black Swan, sitting around a table in a crowded room, drinking Guiness, Maria, Patty, Me and others I can't remember now. But my favorite St. Patty's Day memory goes back probably 28 years ago when Maria had Jer as a baby and was living with Kevin's mother. I had asked her if she wanted to go to Bailey's with me for St. Patty's Day and she jumped on it, asked Mary to watch Jer for the night --she planned on spending the night at my house. I picked her up after work and we were soon on our way to Bailey's. Now only once a year did they open the back room making Bailey's double in size. The juke box was playing Irish music (nothing special for the occasion, it ONLY had Irish music on it) probably Danny Boy and we ordered beers and tried to find an empty seat. The only seats were at a table filled with young guys - I especially remember Benjie Sosta as being there. He had a Tivoli kid reputation and several years later died in either a car or motorcycle accident. We sat down, Ria grinning broadly at probably her first night out after having the baby and took a sip of her beer. Now, Maria could never drink. A half a glass of beer and she would be silly, so I wondered how this would go. Benjie was making us laugh, calling to Lillian the beer maid, "Take the hill, Lill" because she was wearing a green hat that looked like an army helmet. He leaned in close to me and asked in a low voice"Do you woof?" Ria gasped, choking on her beer. I looked at him and said, "I don't think so." Maria explained that to woof you have to drink the whole glass down at one time. NO, NO, I don't woof. But that did put us all in the right mood. Erin Go Braugh flags were passed around, more green hats, green plastic leis, and the music got louder and louder. A good time was held by all. The next morning I woke up Maria to take her back to Mary's house. She said "I'm not even going to get dressed. I'll give Mary a good show." So I drove her home and she got out of the car, wearing her bath robe, a green hat perched on her head, several leis and waving a green flag. I thought I saw the curtains move as she yelled out to me from the front steps..."Happy St. Patrick's Day Ma". It is my best memory of the day. I bet she and Benjie and Patty are getting ready to woof tomorrow. Happy St. Patrick's Day and God Bless us all.