Untouched photo, parking lot near Bloomingdales 7/15/26

There has been all kinds of freaky shit going on, weatherwise, a deluge just ended, a friend telling me that she had to wade through rivers to get home. And then there was that weird sky, which the Canadians told Donald Trump, was in honor of him, just as the green reflecting pool was in honor of Greenland, and that he should breathe in as much of the orange tribute that he could. It's better now but there's still that COVID smell in things.

World Cup, Wimbledon and then the Tall Ships. It has been a month of excitement swirling in the sometimes vanilla city of Boston.

If it weren't for Marmite, England might not have made it to the semis

I worry that Laura's scapes are going to strangle me at night

When early in my HR career I thought that resting my bare feet on my trash can was a way of make interviewees feel comfortable, I met a woman named Katharine who went on to be hired as the executive assistant to a man who'd regularly nip out for a few sets of tennis at the B&T. I'd met him on an errand to get a check signed in my first week on a summer Friday afternoon. Opening the door to his department, I was greeted by a whirring sound and his strawberry daiquiri stained tongue, which was regularly found hanging out of his mouth.

My boss, who had the habit of taking credit for work I'd done, was not a bad person, just likely dropped on her head as a baby, as we like to say. The first Christmas I reported to her, she gave me an acrylic brown and bright blue argyle sweater, with gold threads running through, three plastic gold buttons on each shoulder. I knew that she was proud of her purchase and took great pains to wear it once, but always wondered what in my regular office attire had inspired such a choice. 

Katharine and I became friends, the same age and single, both enamored of a weekly column in the Phoenix about Alice K and Ruth E,, also two single women, one of whom was in the most charming way a tad selfish, while the other a victim of said selfishness. In those early professional years, we may not have respected our bosses, but understood they controlled our future and felt thus constrained, which was in great contrast to a rich life we both craved.

There was a feeling of unbridled freedom when quitting Symphony Hall on a summer evening, intoxicating. We'd walk in a vague direction, between us a tacit understanding that we'd end up where  we were pulled. Filenes Basement was often a stop, with much determination to find that right size and color, only to put it back, the hunt being more appealing (and cost effective) than the kill. There were the people we'd recognize on the street who felt like placeholders; the Bikes Not Bombs guy with buttons all over his hat, the homeless guy with the dyed black or orange hair and our favorite, the Irish nun in brown who spoke quickly and poetically, almost in prayer, asking for money at the Downtown Crossing T stop. Boston was a rich and rewarding playground, enveloping us in the theater of life. A pastime  it turns out has enriched not only both of our lives, but now those of our kids as well.

Last week we determined a time and place to meet, she coming from her house by the sea, me from my grass tennis courts, with some vague talk of the Tall Ships. We started with coffee and then ambled over to the North End. Finding every restaurant packed, we ended up at an old standby, Antico Forno on Salem Street, where for some reason, we've never had trouble getting a table.  After a satisfying late lunch, we found ourselves walking down Hanover  towards the water and, just past the Paul Revere monument in front of the Society of St. Joseph's, were distracted by a police car with flashing lights in the middle of the street. After taking in the requisite three plastic chairs outside the Society, filled by OG Italian men with large bellies and shiny dark hair, we saw a huddle of younger men, all with grave faces, taking orders from their elders to properly get the Virgin Mary, adorned with dollar bills, ready to be carried. The red and black attired marching band appeared, providing pomp and ceremony as they walked ten feet to the adjoining society. A bit of waiting ensured with that feeling that something was about to happen, so we joined the small scrum and watched as they then exited the second Society and began a march towards Cross Street. We silently said goodbye and thank you very very much.

I supposed we had both imagined but not articulated battling crowds in Seaport to get a tiny glimpse of a ship. But instead, we wandered to the end of Hanover and found an empty bench in the shade, looking out at the boats parading back and forth around the harbor, right in front of us. We chatted, admired, made inappropriate jokes at which our woke children would blanch. In concert, we got up, ready to walk, admiring spots we'd seen a thousand times, finding some docked Tall Ships. I was most grateful to be able to take  photographs of four Chinese women my age who wanted to be captured jumping together in front of a Tall Ship, painfully wanting to ask them for a photo. But no.

After, a wander through the old Financial District, enchanting when empty on a summer afternoon, seagulls doing their thing and shadows making the old buildings look older, worn granite sidewalks that have been there for hundreds of years. We parted at Park Street, where wasted men are still harassing young pretty women, though no longer us. 

Streetscape near the courthouse

Feet of a vet

Trying so hard to not take photos without permission. But loved this suburban couple, threatened by the big bad subway.

And yes, sorry again for not asking permission

A ship that is tall, disappointingly built in 1997

Italian men lifting the VM. Worst thing about World Cup is the prevalence of "the hair cut"

We'll always be in our late twenties in spirit

Early morning reservoir runner

*****I have a new hosting service, Articulation, because Weebly wasn't cutting it. This transition has left me rowing through the cruel and choppy waters of technological adversity. My hope that putting this up on the website is not merely a mirage, but actual dry land. Because of said challenges, this is a very old post. 

Carin asked early on in the summer whether I'd be going back to the Reservoir early morning walk ritual, and after thinking about it, thought I probably wouldn't because there was no longer any need to vehemently insert it into a day, not that time is abundant. But it turns out to still be an almost daily draw, an active contemplation rather than any kind of exercise, whether creative time, meditation, or plain old being out in the world. Today, it was creative, writing in my head. And along the way I laughed aloud, making more of a fool of myself than I already had by warming up my otherwise bare arms by keeping them inside my baggy t-shirt. 

Back in the late naughties, I had a company called picture life books, dedicated to preserving individual and family stories and their photographs, in coffee table books. One of my clients was a young and beautiful couple from southern California who were both toiling away at what turned out to be a fruitless climb from minor to major celebrities. The book was intended to capture both their family stories and then theirs, so I spent a bit of time interviewing parents and grandparents. There were wonderful stories, including one about a piano transported across half the country on a covered wagon. But my favorite was about an Italian immigrant matriarch who lived in Chicago who incessantly told her descendants to watch out for falling flower pots, which were common on windows and porches. Yes, Ma, they'd say while figuratively rolling their eyes. Well, guess how her life ended?  Flowerpot, square on the head, dead as a doornail. So maybe not all phobias are crazy.

Some picture life books, photos by Mary Giordano Brackett

Bozeman has been on my mind lately. It's funny, the time we were battered by hailstones on a hike, the staggering view of snow covered peaks from the CCC lodge, dinners out or beers on that great downtown main street aren't the things that crop up. It's random moments. And images. Nat and I talked about it the other day, texting favorite photos. It is a staggeringly beautiful place. But then it turns out, there are so many in the United States, aren't there?

A strong moment that keeps reappearing is the day we meant to hike but ended up turning around at the trailhead after reading the sign saying only idiots would progress without bear spray. To get there, we walked for some amount of time along a path that was prettily overgrown, strewn with purple and pink wildflowers. We were stomping along, giving resident snakes a heads up that large, scary mammals were coming through and they best get out of the way. In her inimitable way, Nat softened our stress by injecting humor, pronouncing them snahkays, which they will now forever be.  I believe she has an even bigger fear of worms, which reminds me of the time that, like a practical joke that went too far, when getting out of the car in Williamstown, there were thousands and thousands (no exaggeration) of dead worms, strewn all over an asphalt parking lot. I worried she would faint.

The David Hockney view, as Nat calls it, just east of downtown Bozeman. One of the images that comes back to visit.

My number one image, the Tetons, south of Bozeman on the way to Jackson, WY

On the sidewalk in Cleveland Circle the other morning, I looked down and twitched, then relaxed, feeling absurd. I sent the photo to Nat with no comment, and she asked me if it was a w*rm, to which I replied "no, it's a stick". But it was only today, walking around the reservoir that I thought about her spelling, so horrified was she that she equated a worm with He Who Will Not be Named. And that's what made me laugh out loud.

A stick, about four inches long

There was much talk on the porch last week about how the Scots visiting for World Cup had injected life into downtown Boston, and right they were, though there were also Norwegians and Moroccans, giving the town, I really can't call it a city, a less provincial atmosphere. In fact it was downright jolly. I took a spin through Quincy Market on my way from one place to another and saw loads of people at the outdoor bars watching footie on big screens. And the Scots really had taken over, they were everywhere. The first photo below was taken without permission, which I felt bad about after and wanted to rectify. I passed up a few posses of Scots, some with drab tartans, others too drunk, but eventually, I found the two lads in the second photograph below. They were delightfully accommodating, mentioning that they felt like Brad Pitt and George Clooney, having been stopped for photos regularly. One offered to have his photo taken with me, which of course I accepted. We chatted a bit, they told me the kilts only came out on special occasions, of which coming to the US to see their team was one. I thanked them and got a "Cheers, love" back.

A friend of mine who is not a big football fan had a birthday the other day. The week prior, her boyfriend (do we call them that at our age? ) said "Ever since you were a five year old girl in West Virginia, I know you've dreamed of seeing England play Ghana, and so I've arranged to make your dream come true, AND on your actual birthday!"  She's a good natured lass and laughed.

​There are too many teams to root for.....

Tartan and tatoos

Scottish lads and HomeGoods, Downtown Crossing

Third husband? Maybe not