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uke can’t always get what you want

So here’s the thing. Music has always been a big part of my life, whether listening to it, singing to it (not always in tune), or playing it. And while the listening and the singing (no matter how off-tune it may be) have increased over the years, the playing, alas, has not. And so a remedy needed to be found. Or so I thought.

A bit of background: I took piano lessons from the time I was six and cello lessons from age ten or so, both until I turned 16. I was quite good at the former, not as much at the latter. But I had a lot of heart. And while piano was something I played at home, I played the cello in school orchestra. Playing for high-school musical productions was one of my favorite things (and one of the reasons I know all the lyrics to so many Broadway classics like How to Succeed in Business, Pajama Game, South Pacific — talk about a party starter.)

At any rate, I haven’t really played either instrument in decades; sure there was a flirtation with an electronic keyboard a number of years ago but it it wasn’t the same. And there was an even shorter meet-cute with renting a cello after that, but the magic was gone.

But recently, the urge to make music again struck as did (or so I thought) a stroke of genius. Why not try the ukulele? One of my biggest challenges with the cello had been trying to tune it (because turning the large pegs and getting them to stay in place just never seemed to work — they always slipped). And a ukulele is small, an electronic tuner device would keep me sounding good, and how cute would I be strumming my little heart out and singing to everything from Joni Mitchell to Bob Dylan to Jason Mraz to You Are My Sunshine to Over the Rainbow to … well, you get it.

So, after poring over ukulele choices online, I finally made what I thought was a great choice (and at such at a great price!). I even ordered a song book and a how-to-play book. And while I waited for the uke to arrive, I read a lot online about the basics behind playing it. I was ready.

And then it got here. And that, dear reader, was where over the rainbow turned into ain’t no sunshine.

The first issue was the quality of the uke itself right out of the box — its paper-thin construction belied the “fine wood” description and the strings were cheap plastic. Then, after many failed tuning attempts and upon closer visual inspection, it appeared that the uke had arrived strung incorrectly — with two A strings, no C string, and the G and E strings in the wrong positions (don’t even ask how long it took to figure that out). Ever the warrior, I followed another how-to video and restrung it with the second set of strings provided, handily mastering the art of knotting, pulling, and winding-around-the-peg for all four strings (twice, actually, since the first time I tried, I strung the strings in the opposite order). Time to (finally!) play.

One strum, two strums, a couple of chords and then — what was that sound? Clamping on the tuner to check, I found that the strings had become un-tuned after only a couple of minutes. Okay, let’s fix that and try again. All four strings tuned to the green zone on the tuner. Perfect. One more time … and out of tune again, almost instantly. After another hour of attempting to play and retune, I realized that I’d been had. That the reason the uke sounded too good (on paper, not in person) to be true is that it was. That the only sounds coming out of it that were in tune were the sounds of silence. And that ear plugs were about to become my accessory of choice.

So back it went for a full refund. And while that particular ukulele was a lemon, it hasn’t dampened my hopes to make music. Maybe it’s not on a grand piano (hey, I’d even settle for a baby grand); maybe it’s not saying hello to the cello; maybe cool hand Luke the Uke isn’t in my future. But you know what? Air guitar is easy to play, never out of tune, and available at the drop of a hat.

No strings attached.

©2021 Claudia Grossman

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just shy of a win

Anyone who has met me in the past few years would probably never guess that, while chatty, confident, and vivacious now (why, thank you!), I was an incredibly shy little girl. As in hide-behind-my-mother’s-skirt shy. First-day-of-school-terrified shy. Quiet-as-a-mouse shy. I was always really smart (although being voted Most Intellectual in my senior class was a double-edged sword — in those days, that title wasn’t very sexy and I’m not sure it is even today). I’m not too shy to share that with you, and that’s the difference between then and now. I got past my shyness and lack of confidence to be proud of how intelligent I am. But it wasn’t always that way. To wit:

In one of the later grades of elementary school, my teacher entered me into the school spelling bee. I won. (“What?” I remember thinking at the time. “Was that supposed to be hard?”). The difficult part for me wasn’t the spelling, it was being the center of attention. From there it was on to the regionals. Lots of entrants from several schools. One winner. Yup, me again. And again, it wasn’t difficult (probably because I was such a voracious reader, the words came easy to me). I won on the word “conscientious” — the little boy ahead of me misspelled it as “conscience” — while the whole time my subconscious was screaming for me to get the hell out of there. Afterward, I felt huge relief at finally being able to get off the stage — and huge agita at the thought of having to take the next step to the state finals. So I took home my little trophy and engraved pen-and-pencil set and made up my mind. I was through. No state finals for me. No national spelling bee for me. No more spotlight for me. And that was that.

Of course, in looking back, I wish I had been brave enough to stay with it. It wasn’t the fear of losing that stopped me. It was the fear of losing it, of spontaneously combusting in front of all those people, of having all those eyes on me. I knew that I was smart enough; what I didn’t know at the time was that “smart” was enough.

Since then I’ve learned that being smart and showing it is never a mistake and never something to hide (being a smartass, on the other hand — something else I excel at — does have its time and place). Have there been times through my professional and personal life when my intelligence has been a threat to others? Unfortunately, yes. But I’ve never ever forgotten how hiding that light of mine kept me from the chance to experience something potentially wonderful. And I’ve never hidden it again.

Which is why I make it a point when meeting young women and girls to reinforce and compliment their sense of themselves in terms of their intelligence versus their looks. Sure, “adorable” and “cute” have their place, but letting a girl or young woman know that she’s bright, that’s she’s gifted, that she’s accomplished — all that, I believe, is worth far more.

It’s way past time to break the spell of women’s intelligence being a threat. To break the glass ceiling of women achieving at the highest levels and being recognized for it (brava, Kamala). To break through the myth that a woman’s accomplishments should be talked about in soft voices rather than shouted from the rooftops.

To no longer shy away from naming women’s achievements as they deserve to be named.

Namely, Dr. Biden.

©2020 Claudia Grossman

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backwards and in heels

An old Hollywood story has it that when the legendary Fred Astaire was asked whom his favorite dance partner was — his choices included Ginger Rogers, of course, as well as names like Leslie Caron, Cyd Charisse, Judy Garland, Rita Hayworth, Eleanor Powell — the ever-gentlemanly Astaire responded, “Gene Kelly.” In considering the challenge of, as Ms. Rogers so astutely put it, having to do everything that Astaire did but “backwards and in heels” (think about what that means for a moment), it occurs to me that there are quite a few contemporary standout performances by women dance partners in film, all worthy of a solo spotlight. To wit:

Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing. While it’s true that a remarkable dancer like the late Patrick Swayze could make almost any partner look good, Jennifer Grey’s “Baby” character matched his expertise — hip swivel for hip swivel — in this 1960s-era coming-of-age movie set in the Catskills. Sure, Swayze’s Johnny Castle taught Baby how to dance (among other things) and she taught him how to be a mensch. But mostly, when Baby took a chance and did the lift, women everywhere soared. And sighed.

Rene Russo in The Thomas Crown Affair. When insurance investigator Catherine Bannon (Russo) lures art thief Crown (played by the devastatingly debonair Pierce Brosnan) into her net, things heat up with a dance scene at a Black and White Ball (to which Catherine notoriously shows up in black and red). Their dance can only be described as spontaneous combustion, from her dress, which leaves little to the imagination, to her moves, which leave the saxophones wailing for mercy. And leave Crown growling, “Do you wanna dance? Or do you wanna dance?” The only answer is, “yes.” Oh yes.

Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. John Travolta’s dancing prowess was well known by the time Pulp Fiction came out, so it was no surprise that his not-so-smart, gun-fumbling Vincent Vega was so smooth on the dance floor. But it was Uma Thurman’s Mrs. Mia Wallace who stole the show. Dancing to Chuck Berry’s “You Never Can Tell,” Thurman brought a level of cool to the twist that the dance had never seen before — backwards, sideways, and straight ahead. No heels required.

Renee Zellweger and Catherine Zeta-Jones in Chicago. The movie’s show-stopping finale, featuring bad girls Roxie Hart (Zellweger) and Velma Kelly (Zeta-Jones) on stage, is a tour de force of song and dance for both. It razzles, it dazzles, and it’s brilliant, ending with their shooting the lights out, both literally and figuratively. It’s all that jazz.

Dancing chic to chic indeed.

©2020 Claudia Grossman

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multiple choice

While life is filled with serious choices (too many to count), it’s the less critical ones that are often the most fun — and the most debatable. To wit:

Yankees or Mets? (For the love of legends like DiMaggio, Mantle, and Jeter, you’ve got to give it to the Bronx boys of summer.) Lakers or Clippers? (Again, I say, there’s only one correct answer here — hint: the one with all the championship banners hanging at Staples.)

Thick crust or thin? (As any true pizza lover can tell you, it’s got to be just thin enough to fold while you eat it. Any thinner is just wrong; any thicker is more wrong. And eating it with a knife and fork is just plain blasphemous.) Almond Joy or Mounds? (Neither. Trick question.) New York or Los Angeles? (San Francisco — Yankees and pizza notwithstanding.)

Ketchup or mustard on that hotdog? (Before you judge, you’ve got to try ketchup. I convinced B. to do that very thing years ago, and he’s never mustarded again. And my mother-in-law has never forgiven me.)

On line or in line? (It’s a having-been-raised-in-New-York thing, I think. I say “on line” — although a dear friend of mine from another part of the country once asked, “Really? Is there a line painted on the ground that you’re standing on?” No, there’s not, smartass. And where did she get that New York attitude from to begin with? Huh?)

Cone or cup for that scoop? (Clearly cone. Classic, pointed end, none of this fancy waffle-style nonsense.) And speaking of scoops, chocolate or vanilla? (Yes, I know that surveys say that vanilla is most people’s fave but come on. I mean, a) you can’t trust polls (have we learned nothing?) and, b) chocolate so rules.)

And, with Thanksgiving just a day away, the inevitable choice: on your sweet potatoes — marshmallows or none? I was a marshmallow girl all the way growing up. Truth be told, I never ate the sweet potato part. I’d just scrape off the marshmallow and eat that. (Of course, I was a very picky eater as a kid; so picky that when we ordered in Chinese food, my parents would convince me that the water chestnuts were potatoes to get me to eat.)

Anyway, it wasn’t until I met B. (who dislikes marshmallows intensely) that I finally tasted naked sweet potatoes. Turns out, I love them. And I’ve never looked back. (Adding too-much sweet to already-sweet is gilding the beyond-sweet lily.)

All of this, my friends, as my way of offering up a bit of lighter fare in these tough, tough days. I wish you all a safe, happy, and healthy Thanksgiving and hope that you enjoy as many marshmallows (or as few) as you desire.

Sometimes less is s’more.

© 2020 Claudia Grossman

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write of way

Writing is a tough business. Novel writing, specifically. And the only thing more difficult than writing that novel, at least in my own experience, is getting it published. The competition these days for literary agents willing to take a chance on an unpublished novelist’s first work — to say nothing of the fight for a place at the table of a traditional publishing house — is daunting and nearly impossible to break through. Do some first-timers find lightning in a bottle? They do, and more power to them. But for the rest, like me, the challenge is a mountain to be scaled — with the peak increasing in altitude with each attempt.

While my novel, The Mermaid Mahjong Circle — A Fairy Tale for Women, was met with enough enthusiasm by literary agents for many to request to see an entire manuscript after reading a few sample chapters, the result after that was often this: “We’ll get back to you in a few months … maybe a year.” Or, “We love your book but we only take on at most one new novel a year so …” Or, my personal favorite, “Please submit an overview of today’s fiction category trends, including titles and sales numbers, and cite how your book is different, which other novels it is similar to, and how you see us trying to sell it into a publishing house” — wait, I thought that was your job.

Tinkerbell and I have something in common; that is, we both believe. I believe in my novel enough that I didn’t want to wait for an agent to decide to sign me on — I was looking at a couple of years before I’d see my book in print and that, to me, was not acceptable. I also believe that my book is a little jewel, and I wanted my story told the way I’ve written it, not the way an editor might reimagine it. (Even as I write these words I’m hoping that the publishing gods do not wreak havoc on me should I ever try to submit a second novel.)

My experience is why so many first-time novelists turn to self-publishing as a way to get their work out into the world. The advantage to self-publishing is the amount of control it allows the author in terms of every aspect of her book — from not having to make anyone’s edits but her own to how the book will look and feel.

The downside is that self-publishing means that the marketing of the book, and the dollars and effort it takes to do that, fall onto the writer herself.

Instead of publisher-arranged book-signings and tours (à la Carrie Bradshaw), there are me-arranged Zoom-style book talks, podcasts, mailings, and virtual appearances at private book group get-togethers.

Instead of publisher-contracted advance reviews from New York Times bestselling authors on my book cover, there are lots of reviews on places like amazon and goodreads, generated by my doing the legwork (and my proverbial legs are pretty weary, I must say). And instead of publishers getting my book to celebrities who have their own book clubs, I’ve been working the phones and email, finding celebrity reps who are actually interested in forwarding my book to their clients (yay, me!).

Mostly it’s been all about my finding creative ways to break through the clutter of social media and get the book into readers’ hands.

Indie writers love their work in a way that makes them unshy about asking friends to “like” and “share;” that makes them untiring (well, sometimes a little tired) in efforts to find new audiences to reach; that makes them unrelenting in wanting to get their work out (like right now — enter to win a free copy of my book here from now through December 15!).

Which brings me to my point — next time you’re in the market for something new to read, whether a thriller or a romance, a tale of espionage or a fairy tale, think about choosing something self-published by an indie writer. Often the only thing standing between their book and a bestseller list is an opportunity, a stroke of luck, or perfect timing.

Believe it.

© 2020 Claudia Grossman

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proof through the night

Four years ago I wrote a post entitled Pigs Are Flying because, let’s face it, the world had seemingly turned upside down that November day, and all we took to be logical and sensible suddenly was not. You might want to give it a quick look before reading on — I’ll wait. Done? Okay. The results of the 2020 election have put the earth back on its rightful axis for me — and, by the judge of things, for millions around the globe — making this a good time to update that 2016 post. To wit:

Pigs are firmly back on the ground. Mittens are no longer needed in hell, where snowballs have turned to steam. Needles are safely hidden back in proverbial haystacks and apples are once again falling not at all far from their trees.

In the world of science, the planets are no longer even considering reversing their orbits, and the sun is happy to honor its contract of continuing to rise each day. The man in the moon is once more thrilled with his gig (earth being a much better place to be looking down at again) and the force of gravity has a new and stronger grip (as does reality). Sales of one-way tickets to Mars have dropped considerably.

The figure in Munch’s The Scream has been erased from the $5 bill, with Lincoln back in his place of honor, and order has been restored to the hierarchy of rock, paper, and scissors. Horses, while once again allowing themselves to be led to water, have now regained their freedom of choice as to whether they want to drink, and cows are back to being non-committal as to when they will come home.

The number of angels dancing on the head of a pin has increased to being too high to count; in related news, every time a bell rings an angel once more gets its wings. A stitch in time has gone back up in value to nine, and, while there are still clouds, we will soon be seeing more silver linings and less tarnish.

Our sense of order is awakening once more, along with the comforting thought that the things we always knew to be so are recognized as truth once again. The times they are a changin’ — again — but this time in the correct direction for human rights, for compassion, for decency.

One thing does remain the same: Silence no longer speaks volumes — silence is just, well, silent. So continue to use your voice. For liberty and justice for all.

For the dawn’s early light.

ⓒ 2020 Claudia Grossman

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mother ship

Oil and water. Of all the relationships out there, there may be no other as complex as the one between mothers and their daughters. Those far more renowned and expert in the subject than I am have researched and written about this dynamic; my own experience is just that — my own. But it is within the relationship I had with my own mother that I’ve come to find myself. After much heartache, many tears, and finally, some peace.

My mother and I were very close in many ways (we lived in the same house for the first two-thirds of my life, so the literal closeness is obvious). My father died when I was 19 — and because I felt compelled (okay, I’ll say it, guilted) into staying with (and supporting) my mother until I “ran away” from home at 38 — the relationship was, unfortunately, not as emotionally healthy as I would have liked. I was complicit in keeping myself in that situation; I just didn’t think I had the strength to leave it.

Did I love my mother? I did, very much. But did I love the situation I felt myself trapped in? I did not. And here’s where the dynamic comes in.

Were I a stronger, more confident person back then, clearly I would have said to my mother, “It’s time for me to fly the nest. I’ll help you however I can, but I cannot live my life for you.” And were she a more confident, less afraid person herself, she would have said, “You’re right. You need to live your life on your terms, not mine. Go and fly, little bird.”

But. The funny thing about mama birds and baby birds is that unless the mama bird is willing and the baby bird is brave, the tie that binds can cause much damage.

Soon after I left, my mother did sell the house and move somewhere smaller, and my (and our) support of her became more reasonable, although her expectations of me did not. And, ironically, I suppose, I never truly confronted her about our issues because, once I was finally ready, she had become an old woman. I always knew that she loved me; she was just unable to give me the one thing I needed — my freedom.

What did I inherit from my mother? Mostly, and sadly, I think, her anxiety. The good news is that I have worked long and hard to fight mine, and I continue to do so every day. Some days are good. Other days, not so much, But I keep on fighting. My mom, unfortunately, let hers get the better of her.

On the lighter side, I also inherited her love of sweets, her sometimes wicked sense of humor, her great hair. And her faith in true love.

I’m a big believer that, aside from any kind of abuse, of course, blaming our parents for who we’ve become and who we are to this day is not productive. At some point, and after a lot of hard work in therapy, I learned that, going forward, my life was my own and my actions could not just be reactions to my mother’s cues.

So to answer the question now, after many years of my mom being gone, how I feel about her — the response, to me, is simple. I love her and I miss her. I do not miss the push-pull dynamic or the emotional heartbreak. I miss her laugh, her nagging me to push my hair out of my face, her unflagging willingness to talk to me about recipes.

Yes, I am my mother’s daughter. But more importantly, I am myself.

Winging it.

© 2020 Claudia Grossman

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keeping tabs

There are lots of signposts that remind us of where we’ve been. Like a certain song first heard decades ago that whisks you right back to that moment each time you hear it (Van Morrison, anyone?). Or that faded-to-super-soft concert tee that you still can’t part with because it makes you feel cool again each time you pull it on (Frampton Comes Alive!). Or that fragrance you — or someone you had a crush on — once wore (Shalimar, maybe? Or Polo?). One waft of it now, and you’re flashing back to times past.

Or, in my case, a sparkling beverage in a hot-pink can. Yup, that paean to the 1970s soft-drink world — Tab. Full disclosure: I used to drink diet soda a lot (a can and a donut were my idea of breakfast for a long time). Tab was my choice when I was a teenager and then a college student and even after that.

For those of you who may not know, Tab was Coca-Cola’s diet choice way before Diet Coke came along. In its signature bright pink can, it stood out. Although clearly not the healthiest choice (in place of sugar, it was sprinkled with saccharine), it was the choice of those of us longing to look like the models on the cover of Seventeen magazine. And the taste? Let’s just say it was an acquired one.

The summer I met B., we were between our junior and senior years in high school and attending a program at Cornell. I have vivid memories of putting my quarters into the soda machine to grab an icy cold can of Tab during those hot, humid, Ithaca afternoons. (And vivid memories of B. running into me at the mailboxes and saying, “You really like that stuff, huh?” Such a smooth talker.)

Tab followed me throughout college — my tiny little dorm fridge was always filled with those pink cans. (The caffeine is what kept me going through the thousand-and-one papers I wrote for English Lit.)

And when I visited B. in San Francisco in the mid-1980s (yes, our relationship story spans decades before we actually got together for good), what did he have in his kitchen just waiting for me? That’s right, the man bought me Tab — enough to last the dozen more years until we got married. (Only kidding. About the amount of soda, not the number of years.)

So what changed? Diet Coke came into the picture and tasted better. Plus, Tab was more and more difficult to find. Finally, I gave up the whole soda thing. Sure, I might order a Diet Coke once in a very blue moon these days, but seltzer (excuse me, sparkling water) is now my beverage of choice. And yes, my breakfasts have become much healthier too (also more boring and less fun).

So it’s not with the regret of missing something I love that I received the news earlier this week that Tab was being discontinued. Just the regret that those memories are now truly only that — memories.

So rest in pink, you bubbly, effervescent friend. You were fizzy while you lasted.

Utterly fan-tab-ulous.

© 2020 Claudia Grossman

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the write to cry

Seven months ago I wrote a blog post about the absurd (because at the time, that’s what it seemed like) day I had tracking down a package of toilet paper for my mother-in-law (now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d see myself write). Six months ago I wrote about what it’s like to have my husband teaching his college business-law classes from home (go ahead, ask me anything about torts). Four months ago, my post was a chronicle to banana bread because that’s all I was baking for weeks (now I can’t look at the stuff without gagging). Two months ago? My tribute to our new way of being in the “same” room with old friends — the Zoom session. All trying-to-be-light observations about the ominous times we are in.

Last month, I beyond sadly wrote about the passing of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the woman in whom so many of our hopes were invested. A trying-to-remember-her-light observation during the ominous times we are in.

To say it’s been a long seven months is, of course, an understatement. To those who have suffered themselves, whether it is by falling ill with the virus or by losing someone you love to it, my heart breaks for you, and I can only wish you the physical and emotional healing you so dearly need.

It occurs to me that one of the hardest things about this time is how suddenly our normal lives were taken away from all of us. Losing our way of life seems grief-worthy in its own way. In trying to process the changes, in trying to deal with the uncertainty, in attempting to get from day to day without feeling like the world is ending, I realize that maybe we need to process this loss by going through some of the traditional stages of grieving — including sadness, denial, and anger — before we can reach a place of acceptance.

Not acceptance of the situation as it is (because it is so not okay), but acceptance that it’s all right to feel horrible some days. Acceptance that we can hope to get through this (even though that sometimes feels like an impossibly tall order). Acceptance that it’s okay to feel crappy about it all — and, through that, hopefully, find the fortitude to keep on going.

“Good grief,” said everyone’s favorite round-headed kid. Maybe what’s good about the collective grieving process is that it helps us see more clearly what’s important, what’s essential, and what we’re made of.

In that spirit, make someone’s day. Make someone laugh. Make someone a banana bread (just not me).

And make a difference. Vote.

© 2020 Claudia Grossman

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charm school

Okay, raise your hand if you remember those old-school charm bracelets. To me they seemed the accessory of choice for those perfect, suburban TV moms of a past era — think June Cleaver of Leave it to Beaver fame — women who vacuumed in pearls and heels, who had dinner on the table each night at six sharp for their ideal, if somewhat unevolved, husbands and adorably impish kids, who never had a hair out of place. These were the women who seemed to live charmed lives (hey, it was the suburbs in the late 1950s) and, therefore, wore the bracelets to match.

But those ubiquitous accessories were worn by more than those TV icons of the day. My mom and her friends wore them with pride and panache whenever a dress-up occasion came along.

My mother’s charm bracelet was something to behold. Milestone birthdays and anniversaries called for charms, and my father gifted her with them. Then there were the charms from each state they had visited — a wrist full of colorful New York, Massachusetts, Connecticut, California, Pennsylvania, and Washington, DC, shapes jangling with every move of her hand. There were the charms to mark the birth of my brother and me; the “just-because” gold heart; the of-the-time, diamond-accented sunburst celebrating another life moment. 

My mom so loved her charm bracelet that she started me with one of my own when I was about 12 or so. It had just a couple of charms at the time, but it grew to include sweet-sixteen mementos, a piano, a seashell, a locket, and more. But the bracelet was never something I really cared for or enjoyed wearing — its weight, its noise, and its very “jewelry-ness” bothered me — so, for the most part, it stayed in its box.

Charm can be a fleeting thing, I discovered one day. To wit:

My mom would soak her bracelet every so often in a jar of liquid jewelry cleaner. On that particular day, I came across the jar of cleaner on the kitchen counter. Noticing that the liquid inside looked dirty, I assumed that she had removed her now-clean bracelet from it and — yes, you guessed it — I threw the jar out. Only it wasn’t empty. Uh-oh.

The mistake wasn’t noticed until the next morning, well after the trash had been picked up from the curb. Too late to recover a lifetime of charmed moments caught in gold.

Oy. To say that I felt awful would be a huge understatement. While insurance covered the monetary loss, my mother never replaced the charms — I guess it had something to do with collecting each charm at a particular moment of her life.

At some point, over the years and the miles from east coast to west, I lost track of my largely unworn charm bracelet.

But one day, while looking through a drawer, I came upon a surprise — one charm that I had, apparently, saved. It had been a gift from my parents when I graduated high school. Something to mark the beginnings of my talents. Of all the charms that used to be on that bracelet, this is the one that has held its meaning, fulfilled its promise, and stayed with me all these years.

A tiny gold typewriter.

Charmed, I’m sure.

© 2020 Claudia Grossman

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