The Inside Press

Magazines serving the communities of Northern Westchester

Daniel Levitz

On Accepting Isolation-and Learning from the Prescient John Lennon

by

Artist: Corinne DECARPENTRIE, courtesy of pixabay.com

The fantastic and, generally, under appreciated John Lennon song, “Isolation” contains the following lyrics:

People say we got it made
Don’t they know we’re so afraid
Isolation
We’re afraid to be alone
Everybody got to have a home
Isolation

            I don’t think the wonderful ex-Beatle was being especially prescient concerning our current situation with Covid-19 but I do think he instinctively understood the myriad of feelings one might experience while enduring a forced segregation. His somewhat unique plight was being, perhaps, the most famous artist in the world and falling in love with a person that his enormous number of fans would not accept. His emotional isolation from the world he lived in was painful and raised questions of personal freedom, racism and an intrusion upon his own life choices from people he didn’t even know.

            Fortunately, Lennon was able, as great artists tend to do, to use his pain to drive his creativity. His beautifully raw first solo record, “Plastic Ono Band”,  is mainly about his life, love and struggle.  To those who’ve never heard it I can’t recommend it any more fervently. For those returning to it, I believe it can be a source of positivity in this specifically challenging period. Also, not a bad time, in general, to go back (or begin) listening to complete albums. Most of us absolutely should have the time to do so at the moment.

            As we are all now faced with a conscious and necessary effort to isolate and separate from anyone other than our own families I have no great words of wisdom other than the obvious. This situation should be taken seriously and every effort should be made to isolate and social distance. This is not negotiable and is the only hope to get things headed back in the direction of normalcy.

            For my family that means doing whatever work we can from home and otherwise trying to pass the time productively, meditatively and not generally freak out. At the moment I’m looking at three, way past their prime, bananas and contemplating baking banana bread. I’m taking my time with it and may even have this be my evening activity. The bananas can wait. How much blacker could they get anyway?

            My wife is taking work calls which I think is fantastic. Any sense of ordinariness is welcome and I’m happy to have her occupied by what is usually just another day’s work.

            My son, when not playing video games online with his friends, is now considering what graduate program to enroll in when, hopefully, schools are open again in the fall. A very strange feeling to get long awaited and diligently earned acceptance notices in the middle of all of this. It all seems to fade into the background as we wade through these strange days. However, any whiff of conventional good news linking us to the past and a hopeful future are welcomed. Notably, the discussions comparing and contrasting the various programs feel especially sweet and meaningful.

            The hardest day to day aspect of isolation for my family is the absence of my daughter who remains at boarding school. Safety-wise, she couldn’t be in a better situation right now. We miss her terribly and the only saving grace is that, I suspect, she’s happier right now being with her friends than stuck at home with the family like many teenagers would be.

            As for me, I’ve already went for a hike, chopped some wood (sounds more masculine when written down – the actual execution was not pretty but all my digits remain intact), texted with nervous friends/relatives, ate first and second lunches and am still, at my own pace, eying those bananas.

 

The Art of Being Neighborly on my Cul-de-Sac

by

It’s a week before the big day and our family has convened to strategize a significant plan of action. This approach must be executed with meticulous detail so that the inevitable impending onslaught will be met with precision. A disciplined chain of command will ensure that whatever blueprint we settle upon will come from the top. Which is most definitely not me. My wife, Laurie, has decided, as The Decider, that the candy should be put into easy to distribute, pre-packed little bags with plump pumpkins on them. While this laborious option will guarantee fairness and efficiency (and trackable statistical data my wise-guy son adds) I tend to lean towards the more chaotic and subjective. Why not greet each kid, assess quality of costume (along with their trick or treat statement) and then distribute loose candy based upon this information? With 200 to 300 trick or treaters expected you can see why I am not The Decider. Welcome to life on my cul-de-sac.

When we moved to our Northern Westchester digs everything seemed new and a bit odd but exciting too. In the city we’d walk the kids to school every morning and it was a sweet ritual. Leaving that and other distinct urban scenarios behind made me hesitant to embrace the move to this beautiful bucolic suburb. However, almost immediately, it was clear that the more rural versions of our established routines were equally wonderful. In this case, we’d lose the family time spent walking to school as, now, the bus-stop is literally in front of our house. This simple fact of geography led to very fast friendships for the kids, as well as parents, who would all gather on a near daily basis. It would be impossible not to notice that we’d absolutely landed in a neighborhood.

Some of the bus-stop relationships evolved into friendships that still remain. Others were fleeting and on occasion a little contentious but that’s just the way life is with people interacting daily, sometimes before coffee. What became intriguing to me over time was the evolution of the bus stop. You’d see your kids eventually age out along with their peers followed by new kids which were often younger siblings you might know. At one point a whole new crop of kids populates the space by the house and, not being connected to it other than seeing it from the window, you realize that that particular aspect of living in the cul-de-sac always continues. Just as sweet as ever but no longer a direct part of our lives.

It may be a personal flaw but I’m very quick to base opinions upon my initial impression of people. Fair or not, neighbors show themselves one way or another and, unwittingly, I reach a conclusion about who they are which will never change unless they prove otherwise. I know this is absurd and not particularly neighborly but here we are. Shortly after we landed in our house a neighbor said hello and within 10 seconds told me I needed a new roof on my house. Probably a wonderful person but, for me, he’ll always be that guy who was critical of our new abode when I was at the height of emotional vulnerability homeowner-wise.

Along those lines, when the kids were young, there was a mother at the bus stop with a child the same age as my son. She wasn’t particularly friendly, even a bit abrupt, and I rashly concluded she was just kind of a hard case. Our kids became friends and I got to know her a little better and, of course, she turned out to be a very kind person. It turned out this single mom had serious health issues and I always felt terrible about my initial shallow rush to judgement. One December she came by to ask me to tune an electric guitar she’d bought for her daughter. I happily did so and she gave me a warm and spontaneous hug. I watched her walk away, guitar in hand, in light December snow headed up towards her house at the end of the cul-de-sac. The neighborhood is quite simply a community of folks living in close proximity and all that that entails.

Adding a Personal Touch to Turkey Day

by

There’s something almost primal about Thanksgiving in our country. Who among us doesn’t have at least some early memories of the day be it related to travel, cousins, football, parades and, stating the obvious, food! Sure, there’s a lot to be said about the meaning of this wonderful non-denominational holiday. The importance of family/friends gathering and showing gratitude for the bountiful meal and what it represents is a powerful and meaningful tradition. The holiday even has a nice story about pilgrims and native Americans initially appreciating the beautiful land and its kind abundance together. But I digress, for the purpose of this story, dear reader, you can undo the top button on your trousers, dip a cinnamon stick into your apple cider and care not about the burnt marshmallow at the bottom of the oven.

The day begins really early in our house. My wife Laurie handles the turkey expertly and in a stress-free manner. When it emerges many hours later it will be juicy, golden brown and so excessively large that I had wondered if it would actually fit in the oven. My childhood memories of Thanksgiving in no way involve how the table may have looked but as a modern host the “table-scape” has become an important element. I’m not involved in this in any manner other than posterity related photography (see below) and (sincerely) praising my bride’s fine eye as the table looks clean yet absolutely autumnal with orange/red/brown details. There might even be a few pinecones involved.


As Laurie crafts her turkey magic, I am tasked with preparing the stuffing and having it done before the bird goes in the oven. I make a lot of it. Enough to fill the bird and lots more as a supplement. Is there any more subjectively controversial food item than stuffing? It’s quite personal and it’s connected to the version one’s been most exposed to. When we first hosted the holiday years ago we’d have several different types of stuffing represented from both sides of the family. Inevitably (barely) civil debates would arise about which was superior. Every year my simple recipe (cornbread, onions, seasoning and an absurd amount of chicken stock) is exactly the same and our regular annual guests are now addicted. The other stuffing’s are now but a culinary memory. Another Pavlovian success story!

Speaking of subjectivity, I love the unique dishes of different family’s versions of the feast. Somewhere along the way I started making chopped liver (!) on Thanksgiving. Initially, it was just an appetizer that I enjoy and wanted to try making. People seemed to like it and Aunt Sally, a respected elder of our clan, would request it so now it is firmly entrenched in our delicious ritual. I did think that, perhaps, this ethnically defined dish might be contrary to the spirit of the day. However, when I learned that our friend Shira makes stuffed cabbage (really good!) for Thanksgiving, I concluded that slightly off-message dishes add depth to the experience.


Dessert on the big day can be complicated. Too many times after overeating, I had been rendered into submission by the time dessert was served. (*Note to young over-eaters from a seasoned veteran: Go easy on the appetizers, mashed potatoes, stuffing and biscuits ). I’m a traditional dessert guy. Love the pumpkin pie. Our one departure is an ice cream turkey which is an ice cream cake shaped like a turkey with caramel skin, waffle-cone drumsticks and two flavors of ice cream representing white & dark meat (mint chocolate chip & rocky road respectively). Some consider it kitschy, I embrace it as a fully legitimate annual dessert item.

A happy element of the day is working with Laurie hosting. One of my duties is preparing two gravies. One is a light au jus that comes directly from the pan and the other a more formal gravy which is silky and luxuriant. One Thanksgiving, I looked in our fridge and saw a container of store prepared gravy! Was I insulted? Yes. Was I going to confront my wife while she was preparing a meal for 25 people? No. I may be sensitive but I’m not crazy. The “back-up” gravy controversy has faded, this year’s feast is fast approaching and I cannot wait!

Our beloved caramel coated ice cream turkey cake PHOTOS BY DAN LEVITZ

My Idea of Beauty at 19 and Now

by

Author and his wife Laurie

It was the late 1980’s and a Grateful Dead cover band was playing it hot at a local college bar. Across the room I saw her. A classic Deadhead chick in faded jeans and a tie-dye, covered with a loose peasant blouse. She was balancing a beer in a plastic cup while un-self-consciously bopping to the music. To say she was an enticing vision would be an understated lie. She was just outstanding. At 19, I probably fell in love at least twice a week but this moment stood out. I was not the type to approach a girl in a bar and I may have stared a little too intently but it definitely felt like lightning had struck.

As it turned out I eventually got to know this stunning hippy girl, just a little, and away from that moment in time the magic was gone. She was sweet and cute but there was no connection. In retrospect that moment at the bar, aside from my unwieldy 19-year-old ardor, was a great summation of my understandably naïve take on beauty.

Back then I was limited in my perception of so many things. If I were to consider my opinion of what was beautiful at that time it would now seem dated and superficial. I’ll present here, embarrassing as it may be, what might have been my vision of an ideal evening at that time even if it was, in reality, completely out of reach. I’d pick up my date (picture the hippy chick above but really into me) in my new red Porsche 944 (one of the company’s few failed models), we’d have a fine meal at TGI-Friday’s (who knew mozzarella could be deep-fried!) and then we’d head off to the movies to see the latest John Hughes teen angst flick (to this day I still don’t quite understand Eric Stoltz’s big plan in “Some Kind of Wonderful”). I know. This scenario is not appealing.

Cut to 2019 and the world is spinning wildly out of control and we the people are divided. Social media is pervasive and invasive and we’re clearly, as a society, moving forward into unchartered territory in so many ways. As for me, I’m as immersed in the chaos as anyone else but I endure and now I believe, I have a more credible and learned perspective on the subject of what constitutes beauty.

I can now see beauty in so many things that had been inconceivable to me when I was a younger man. Obviously, watching our children grow and evolve is a no-brainer but is also a profound movement away from inherent pre-kids self-absorption. Having worked for many years, I now recognize the allure of someone doing a job, any job, with commitment, honor and excellence. I’ve been fortunate enough to have unexpected friendships that make life more fulfilling and fun. I’m also lucky to still be able to compete athletically at sports I loved as a child. Not to mention the pleasure of good food be it a bacon and egg on a roll or fresh summer peach.

I can now see beauty in so many things that had been inconceivable to me when I was a younger man.

Undoubtedly, the most consistent and important aspect of beauty I’ve been fortunate to be exposed to is my wife. Laurie is the embodiment of gorgeous both physically and spiritually. I’ve known her a long time and am completely secure in our relationship yet I still have moments where I shake my head and say, “How the hell did I achieve this”? On a typical morning, she’ll get dressed for work and ask me how she looks. This daily exchange has occurred for years. My first instinct is usually to say “beautiful” because that’s the truth. However, I usually choose a more work-setting appropriate adjective. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I look forward to that interaction every day.

Way back, at 19, I had another one of those memorable moments not unlike at the bar with the Deadhead chick. A lovely girl pulled up in a funky orange European car wearing a red-sweater and blue jeans. She had stunning coffee-colored eyes that matched her long hair. My heart fluttered a bit as I caught sight of this beautiful young woman. It was years later that we got to know each other well. Of course, it was Laurie and the lesson I’ve learned is that true beauty can even transcend the naivete of youth.

Snow Days Bring Winter Warmth and Community Bonding

by

As my feet came out from under me and I started to fall backwards on the front stoop of my house the first thing I noticed was that time had started moving very slowly. My next thought was that this was not a good situation as I saw my unlaced sneakered feet elevate above the rest of me and found myself twisting slightly as my skull approached the waiting hard-brick top step. I didn’t feel panicked but was aware that there was something ridiculous about braining myself first thing in the morning while still in a bathrobe. Astoundingly, my body landed across the steps, as it would turn out, relatively unharmed. My head was the last body part to land and with acute clarity I felt it connect with the rock-hard surface about as gently as imaginable. As I lay there doing a toes to forehead assessment of any physical damage one thought crept through–I should have used more salt!

There are a myriad of realities to living in the snow-belt that is Westchester County north of 287. Better have all-wheel drive. A generator? Not a bad idea. Plow guy seems expensive and wakes your neighbors at 3 a.m. as they’ve communicated through strongly worded notes taped to your door? It’s still better than you shoveling the large wet snow-filled driveway and unwittingly flirting with your first heart-attack. May it only be mild.

The other big figurative snow-balls to contend with are the incessant snow days. In the past when the phone rang at 5 a.m. it was usually serious business. A health scare or worse. Fortunately, those shock-inducing calls were exceedingly rare. However, present day, anytime there is a hint of snow in the forecast you can expect the phone to ring at that same ungodly hour.

At best a two hour delay. Many of these calls result in full, no school, snow days. Which translates to no school for Bella and a day of professional productivity and otherwise being abruptly obliterated by a robo-call.

One morning early last winter the phone rang early and my wife dutifully answered it. I could tell by her expression that this was not going to be a two-hour delay. Outside the snow was steadily wafting downward and absolutely sticking. Ugh. I can’t recall specifically what I wouldn’t be accomplishing that day but I do remember being irritated that the heaven’s and Board of Education were annihilating my day.

Like any modern middle-aged man of responsibility I took my concerns to social media. The Facebook post went like this:

Like most kids I used to long for snow days which seemed exceedingly rare and elusive. The thought of sled-riding, pick-up snow football and a variety of potential misadventures all while not having to go to school made these days unbearably wonderful. Now, cynical and grizzled from life, I dread snow days like a looming medical procedure. There’s some kind of lesson here but I’m too engaged in my irritation to pursue it.

The comments and likes came quickly from friends, people I barely knew in high school and random acquaintances. The overwhelming theme was that I should stop being a snow-grinch and embrace the situation and the serendipitous opportunity of an unplanned day with my family.

So I did.

Laurie, Bella and I bundled up and headed up the cul-de-sac to see what was happening. It wasn’t crazy cold out nor windy so the little neighborhood hike would be not a frozen bummer. The fluffy snow was accumulating on massive pine trees and looked absolutely beautiful. Like a work of art. If you stood still you could hear the snow coming down relentless but gentle.

I did avoid one persnickety neighbor but after that it was like we walked on to the set of “It’s A Wonderful Life” (the happy part) and I was Jimmy Stewart reveling in the beauty of what’s all around me but often unappreciated.  There are kids sled-riding. The smell of a burning fire-place and smoke rising from an old stone chimney. We’re hugging neighbors and sincerely wondering why we haven’t seen each other for months. I joined a group pushing out a rear-wheel drive car stuck in the snow with gloved high-fives all around once the tires found firm footing.

As we looped back to our yellow house I couldn’t help but think of the contrast of how I felt before the walk and after. Through the simple act of a winter stroll I remembered the feeling of community that something like a snow day elicits. And, the winters here while challenging are most definitely communally persevered. It’s a long haul from start to finish but we all go through it and come out the other side ready for a beautiful spring.