BY IRENE FRANK
White! Who knew that
the color white could be
so intimidating? I was
taking refuge in a nearby senior
living complex while my rain swept
apartment was being restored.
I was ushered into a blinding
white world—white upholstered
furniture, white carpet, white walls,
white drapes surrounding white
panama shutters and a while granite
kitchenette. It was beautifully
appointed, but I couldn’t imagine
myself sitting on the white couch
with my comforting glass of red
wine and the Times crossword puzzle.
This definitely was not home.
The white bedroom had a white
king size bed adorned with many
plump pillows. The labels, written in
French, proclaimed them hypoallergenic,
filled with organic materials
and the shells made in China, filled
and closed in Canada, distributed
in California and shipped to an
exclusive shop in Manhattan. But
it did not have my Bed, Bath and
Beyond full body pillow which
molds to my contours and can be
folded in half to make watching TV
easier on the neck.
The white sheets were soft
Egyptian cotton of the finest quality.
The white quilt was lovely
but so heavy I had it
removed immediately.
Luckily, I thought to bring
with me my flat yellow
cotton blanket which I
could easily throw off it
a hot flash flashed. The
welcoming gift was an
oversized white bathrobe
with the company logo
proudly displayed on the
breast pocket.
The bath was floorto
ceiling white marble
and sported several sets
of just-bleached white
towels in three sizes: wash
cloths, hand towels and
bath towels. But I wish I
had my slightly frayed and
oversized blue bath sheet towel
which covers all of me. Above
each of the two sinks was a mirror
with embedded fluorescent tubes to
allow you to see each pore and flaw
should you choose to scare yourself
awake in the morning. It’s all good-
-but it’s not home.
The two five-star restaurants
serve up culinary delights. The
wait staff is patient and supportive.
I heard a waiter trying to convince
a resident that the New England
clam chowder did absolutely come
from New England. I did notice
that the food preparation had a
distinct pattern. If corn was on the
menu as a lunch side dish, in the
evening they offered creamed corn
chowder. If broiled chicken was a
lunch selection, then the evening
menu featured chicken stroganoff
or butterflied sumac za’atar chicken
breasts or Vietnamese chicken
meatball soup with bok choy. The
more exotic the name given the dish,
the better it was received. Leftover
chopped meat became carbonade
flamande or grilled kofta kebobs.
Over ordered veal became
osso buco or blanquette de
veau or bamija in okra sauce.
But the grilled ostrich and
grilled citrus gator didn’t go
over too well with these diners.
Knowing how to rework
ingredients to save money
must be a prerequisite for
the cook’s job. I’ll say, “Hail
to the chef.”
The desserts were magical
but after a while all I wanted
was a fat-free frozen yogurt
or a slice of Sara Lee cheesecake.
If this was going to be
an eight-pound holiday, I
wanted it on my terms!
I miss my piano. Singing
and playing Lerner and Lowe
or Rogers and Hart tunes got
me through my bereavement period.
The song books remain on the
piano to this day.
I miss the arcade where friends
meet and greet and commiserate
even though it be through
two masks and a plastic shield.
Never feel lonely in North Shore
Towers.
In my temporary luxurious residence
I do not cook, clean or think.
It’s heaven—but it’s not home.
Home is familiar and personal.
“Home is where the heart lies.”
A Place Called Home
COMING TO AN END
BY MARIAN NEMETSKY
When flaming orange banners
glide across a dark
blue sky and the light is
beginning to fade, we know that
the day is coming to an end. In the
theatre, when there’s a grand finale
and the crimson velvet curtain falls,
we know that the play is coming to
an end. When an army of brilliantly
colored crocuses pokes their tiny
heads through the earth, we know
that the winter is coming to an end.
Recently, I was catapulted into
a North Carolina marsh and made
friends with a young girl, barefoot
and wild, who was abandoned
by her family. She lived, loved
and learned all about her natural
habitat. As her story unfolded, she
found herself accused of a mysterious
murder. Our lives became more
and more entangled, but then, sadly,
I realized that I had to slowly pull
myself back from that experience.
There were only 28 pages left to read
when I knew that the wonderful
book “Where the Crawdads Sing”
by Della Owens, was coming to
an end.
Twenty-seven years of Sundays
at the kitchen table writing lesson
plans culminated in twenty-seven
years of reaching kids who were
hard to reach and teaching kids who
were hard to teach. In what seemed
like a blink of an eye, I was at my
retirement party, filled with mixed
emotions, knowing that my career
as a Special Education teacher was
coming to an end.
Now, even though we are still
wearing masks, social distancing,
washing and sanitizing our hands a
gazillion times a day, there is hope.
The vaccines have arrived and are
being plunged into our arms as fast
as possible to all those who are eligible.
In the near future, all who want
it will be eligible. Then, with joy in
our hearts and a lift to our spirits,
we’ll be able to say, the Pandemic
is coming to an end!
May 2021 ¢ NORTH SHORE TOWERS COURIER 33