It smells like Kibera.

I was washing my car the other evening, and I smelled Kibera in the air.

The pungent scent of burning wood - in the U.S., that's a scent usually reserved for the chilliness of fall. It's a comforting, cozy aroma conjuring up memories of football games and holidays. But here, the smell of burning wood is usually not present in the midst of blazing summer stickiness. As Steven tossed old branches from the recent rain storms into our backyard firepit, I, in the front yard, was not thinking much about autumn or Dallas, TX...

As the low-lying sun cast a goldenness all around me, I stood there with washrag in one hand, recalling the day I first stepped foot on the chaotic streets of India and the dirt roads of Kibera, the biggest slum in East Africa. That burning smell. The beads of sweat all over my body. Gazing down at my feet, I realized I was wearing the same brown sandals that had touched both of those third-world soils. Whatever they are burning there in the slums - trash, wood, food - it's a scent you don't soon forget.

But it's not just that. It's the activity of life - a very different kind of life - swirling around you...this beautiful mess of smiles, poverty, laughter, need, and desire.

I remember experiencing this as I strolled down Kibera road with Moses on my left and Peter on my right, two of the teenage orphan boys who live at our Calvary Youth Hostel there. Moses and Peter were great conversationalists, inquiring about my life in America. "We heard that everyone goes to college there. Is that true?" I thought about how much I took my college studies for granted and felt ashamed, as they were desperate for a chance to get any kind of higher schooling. But as much as our lives were different, I felt like we were friends.

During our stroll, we passed shanty shacks selling meats and vegetables that seemed hardly edible. We meandered through trash and human waste flowing quietly along the red caked dirt road. We passed children in half-shirts and naked bottoms who waved joyously. And of course, we smelled the stench of burning wood and felt the perspiration trailing down on our faces.

What is it about this place that draws you back? It was filthy, frightening, and despicable. Yet, it was joyous, hopeful, and shimmering. Perhaps what is compelling about these poverty-stricken places is that they are drastically different than where I am standing here in Dallas, TX. Yet the people I visited there were yearning for hope and life just as much as I.

Priceless.

Thanksgiving - November 22, 2003 from The Cowarts on Vimeo

Where the streets are paved with gold...

My grandfather left his home of Paceco in the area of Trapani, Sicily in 1920 because he heard that in America, the streets were paved with gold. Not only is it a bit surreal seeing his name on the original ship manifest from the "F. Palasciano" which carried him to his home in the New World, but it’s almost impossible for me to imagine leaving such a gloriously beautiful place as Sicily for the hustling-bustling streets of New York City. I guess I can thank Grandpa Stefano Piccione for being hopeful and naïve enough to make the journey.

As I ponder my heritage and admire this vibrant photo of a port in Trapani, my heart jumps. Look at that water. I can almost hear it lapping against the boats and smell the espresso brewing at a nearby waterfront café. I stare at it again and again and can't help but think...could there be a tangible reason I yearn for "la dolce vita"? A pre-disposition to living in a small waterside town where the sun beats strongly year-round, the square (or piazza!) is the town gathering place, and the passeggiata is the "big event" of the evening? Maybe the reason I treasure experiences and places like these is that they run in my blood...literally.

My grandfather passed away when I was 2, so I never had the chance to sit with him over a cup of strong coffee and ask him if he ever missed his Italian home. Unlike his granddaughter, this gruff family man whose hands only knew hard labor would not have pined away for the life that he left behind...at least not outwardly. I do know that he became a brick-layer, married an Italian-American New Yorker named Maria, and they settled in tiny Madison, NJ, "The Rose City," where I grew up and where my parents still happily reside. I also know my grandfather fiercely loved his children: my aunts Lucille and Paula, and my dad Frankie. I hear Grandpa could eat an entire pound of pasta by himself in one sitting, ate 4 sandwiches for lunch, made his own red wine, loved playing Pinocle, and smoked 10 packs of cigarettes a day (yes, that's 200 cigarettes...), yet he left this world with perfectly healthy lungs.

There are no streets paved with gold in Madison, but it was a lovely place to grow up. I did not always feel that way. As a child, I ungratefully resented the fact that I was a dark-haired Italian-American. I had weight issues stemming from our carb-loving family genetics. I was literally from the "other side of the tracks." My family was blue-collar. Unlike several of my close friends, we didn’t have sitting rooms or a butler’s pantry. We spent summer nights eating hotdogs at the picnic table in the backyard. My dad always had grit under his nails. Everyone on my street had a last name that ended in a vowel.

This is the tiny house where I grew up in the immigrant part of town. Across the street are three sprawling baseball fields, and to this day, the old Italian neighborhood men never miss a chance to hike up their britches and play some Bocce ball on a Sunday afternoon! And you know, there is something respectful about the fact that these men are still the working class people, the day-laborers of the town. They're the men who build the playgrounds and keep the town parks manicured. They provide the fresh meats and produce. They keep the school cafeteria floors polished. They coach our teams. I definitely took it for granted while I was there, and I regret that now. So what if I didn't grow up like the kids on "the hill"? There seems to be a beautiful simplicity about the way we lived.

Somewhere between childhood and leaving for college, I became a young lady, and with that came an adoration of the place I called home for the first 17 years of my life...and the homeland where my family history began. Having been to Italy, I understand now where this simplicity of life was birthed. A little over 3 years ago, I stepped foot in Milan with my mother and knew that, in a way, I was "home." This is a bit hard to put into words, but I finally felt like there was part of Who Christine Is that was explained once I had been to Italy. Not explained through words, but through experiences.

Just so I never forget, and since this blog is supposed to be about the "simple life," I thought I'd share a few of my favorite memories of Italy. May you enjoy them too.

Piazza San Marco in Venice.
One of my all-time favorite memories. Accordions playing in the background….the glorious St. Mark's Basilica against the bluest dusk sky as the sun is setting. At the close of the day in magical Venezia, a few couples start dancing in the middle of the square where the pigeons play.

Corniglia in the Cinque Terre.
We left our car at the entrance of this tiny medieval town and were immediately transported to another time. The golden Ligurian Sea glowed in the distance, and the only sounds were church bells and birds chirping. As we strolled through this little town at dusk, villagers resting peacefully on wooden benches called out a friendly, "Buona Sera!" At the edge of the town were rows and rows of olive groves and lemon trees. The constant smell of honeysuckle. No tourists. Time stood still. My mom and I stepped through narrow alleyways, stopping outside one family’s house to savor the sounds of Italian conversation and the clank of utensils on their pottery plates. At the inn/restaurant in his photo, we dined on a patio overlooking the ocean and received a personal Italian lesson by the owner, who taught me how to say, "I love my mama!"

Rosa & Annarella. On the journey from Sorrento to Rome, we were supposed to change trains at the tiny station in Casserta, but there were no more trains to Rome that night. Suddenly frightened and abandoned at midnight with our colossal luggage bags and my mom with her bright blond ponytail, we might as well have been wearing signs that said, "American Tourists...please take us for all we're worth." Then these two sweet Italian angels named Rosa and Annarella befriended us. Since I only knew a few Italian words, I spoke French to them, and they understood! They led us safely to a nearby hotel where we stayed for the night. Here we are...the Italian sisters :).

Sorrento's Treasure. Sorrento is a small city on the bay of Napoli and from its shores, you can clearly see Mt. Vesuvius. On the shores of Sorrento, I found a treasure. Thousands and thousands of clay tiles in every color imaginable, smoothed by the ocean and resting peacefully in the pebbled sand. Disguarded pieces of tile flooring from coastal homes, or perhaps shards of pottery from urns that once graced flowered patios, these were literal fragments of someone's memories. I spent about an hour there and left with my pockets full. Today, some of them are displayed in a glass jar in my bathroom, and the rest are stowed safely away, waiting to be used for the perfect craft project...perhaps a mosaic table, mirror, or countertop. I will know when the time is right to use them.

* * *

This September, a Beginner's Italian class is being offered at the Italian Club of Dallas. I'm strongly considering finally learning the language of my grandfather Stefano, my grandmother Maria, and so many relatives before them. It's my only way to feel close to them now and to understand more deeply the simple life they lived...and the life I strive to live.

Chlorine & Dried Popsicles: A Memoir of Summertime in Madison, NJ.

I grew up in a town where I knew my neighbors, their kids and their grandkids. In this small suburb, we could feel free to knock on our neighbor’s door to borrow milk for pancakes when all the stores wereclosed on Thanksgiving morning. In fact, I don’t remember a time that we ever locked our doors or thought twice about striking up a conversation with a stranger passing by.

I grew up in Madison, and summertime always reminds me of its breezy, carefree days. My family knew both of our next-door neighbors well: coincidentally, they were both older Italian couples with husbands named Joe. On one side we had the Marano's and on the other side, the Romano's. Summer was as perfect as it could be. I woke up to the crack of a Little League bat hurling a ball onto one of the three baseball fields across the street from our home, since the windows were always wide open to let in the fresh air. Summer meant riding my pink bike with streamers on the handles up and down the driveway while my mom gardened in the front yard and my dad grilled hotdogs. But most importantly, summer meant the privilege of spending every sun-kissed day at the Madison Community Pool. As late morning approached, mom would call upstairs and see if I was ready to go. Are you kidding? Of course I was! I'd grab my already-prepared beach bag and jump into her '70s Camaro, ready for another day bathing in the sun, playing with friends, and anxiously awaiting the arrival of Herbie the Ice Cream Man.

We always drove the same route to the pool: past all the Italian homes on our street, left on Ridgedale past the historic homesteads, right on Fairview, down the hill to the corner of Central where the huge, ancient Victorian was poised majestically, across Central, around the curve, past the soccer field and...oh yes…

As we swerved into the parking lot, I could already hear the sound of the diving board flubbering on the metal supports as someone plunged into the diving tank and as the crickets sang from the thick woods on the other side of the pool fences. My nose caught the scent of chlorine mixed with dried popsicles, a smell that can only be characterized as the stickiness of summer.

To my chagrin, Mom always parallel-parked at the farthest possible spot from all other cars so no one would hit her precious Camaro. So I had to stomp in the weeds as I shimmied out of the car with only my bathing suit, beach bag, and a dry towel wrapped around my waist. Woe to the day I forgot my sandals and had to draw in my breath and run on barefoot tippy-toes across the burning asphalt in a race for the front entrance, my mom clomping behind me in her wooden Dr. Scholls.

The entrance to the pool was a monument to my childhood. To the left, there was the grassy picnic area next to the bike rack, worn with tire marks from the ice cream truck's daily pit-stop. Right in front of the entrance sat a grass island in the middle of the circle drive which was home to the flagpole and glimmering “three big rocks.” These three big rocks were not only boulders; they were daily visiting spots, gossiping points, and home bases for freeze tag. They also had the world's stickiest surface due to years and years of drips from Creamsicles and Toasted Almond Good Humor Pops.

So past the rocks, and in we'd go. My heart raced: which lifeguard would be at the entrance checking badges today? Would it be the cute senior guy from Madison High who I had a crush on at age 8? Regardless, all guards had the same demeanor at the entrance: feet propped up next to the cash register on the desk and whistle on a chord double-wrapped around the neck like a choker (which my friends and I thought was SO cool and would imitate as soon as we got home). Upon being asked to show my membership badge, I would proudly expose my upper left hip where my badge was pinned to my one-piece, then walk a few steps further under the portico and remove my sandals (if I hadn't forgotten them). Why did I always remove my sandals within a few steps of the entrance? "NO FOOTWEAR ON DECK." This sign was glaringly obvious, and everyone who ignored it was harkened by a guard and asked to remove their sandals promptly, or else.

The best time to arrive at the pool was when it opened at 10 am. The guards were just taking their stands, and the water was clear and unbroken. There were few people there, except for that one old lady with the leather skin whom, if I didn't know better, I would believe had actually taken up residence in the women's locker room so she could be the first and last one there every day. The first important decision of the day was where we would "set up camp." We always sat on the parking lot side. Mom would set up her lawn chair, I would lay my towel on the grass next to her, and we'd both set off for the water. Once my mom stuck her first toe in the water, you were not getting the lady out unless she absolutely had to go to the bathroom or occasionally, for a badminton match. The "mer-woman" could swim for almost 8 hours straight, filling her time with laps, jogging in the water as her side ponytail swung from side to side, and chatting with the guards. Yes, Mrs. Piccione was well-known in these parts, and dare you hurry her out of the pool when the last whistle blew at 7:30 pm, or you were in danger of receiving a really dirty look and being kicked off staff by the manager, Al.

Before I entered the water, I'd usually scan the pool from right to left, awed by its enormousness. So many possibilities! First there was the kiddie pool and tire playground with the tetherball and volleyball/badminton courts in the far distance, then the 2-ft. and 3-ft. areas with the small winding water slide, and the blue and white twisted rope which sectioned off the 4-ft. area where most of the “big kids” swam. It was so vast that I could yell across the pool to my friend, but she wouldn't hear me as she dove in to do another handstand! Past the 4-ft area was the real temptation for all little kids like myself: the exclusive "adult-badge-required" 5-ft. lap lanes where diving was allowed. Yes, it was a celebratory occasion of childhood when I passed my "deep water test" and was allowed to swim under the rough blue and white rope with the attached mini buoys to the adult badge area. I'll never forget my first time in those forbidden waters. It almost felt like snooping around my parents' bedroom when they weren't home.

However, beyond the adult lap lanes was something even greater still...the glorious crown jewel of Madison Community Pool: the diving tank.

 You must really understand the diving tank in order to appreciate it. Being 12-ft. deep, this colossal chlorinated punch bowl was only for the brave. I started on the low dive, then the medium dive, but it was the pinnacle of summer the day I first jumped off the towering high dive. I remember jumping off so many times in a row that the bottoms of my feet were blazing from the impact later that night. And then there was the sweet victorious day when I actually did a dive off the high-dive. Deep breath…hands together in a fist over your head....stand on the edge....keep your arms straight and strong...then slowly tip your body forward and let it go over the edge head-first. The first impact was like diving straight onto concrete....but I did it! And after the first time, I couldn't stop doing it again and again.

[The above picture is how the diving tank looks today...sadly, they've removed some of the diving boards :(...]

One of the best games to play with friends in the diving tank was to yell out a question right as the other person jumped, and the jumper had to answer it before her face went underwater. This was best played on the medium dive. I'd wait in line for my turn, trying to anticipate what question I might be asked and plan out how I was going to jump high enough to have time to answer it. But no matter how much planning any of us did, it seemed we could never finish our answers in time, which of course made the game even more hilarious!

The Other Girls: "Say your full name and address!!"
Me: (Jumping as high as possible in a cheerleader-like split) "Christine Piccione! 43 Myrtle Avebbbbbbbbbbbbblllllllll......"

One big SPLASH! Everyone would then start giggling until I popped my head up gasping for air. I would climb out of the now-turbulent waters, flatten the stomach on my one-piece to release the big air/water bubble, and head to the back of the line for another round.

One event that kids at MCP could count on every single day was a visit from Herbie the Ice Cream Man. As soon as we heard the jingling bell signaling the Good Humor truck's arrival in the parking lot, utter anarchy broke out as children of every age jumped out of the pool, grabbed their towels, abandoned tether ball courts, mowed down their parents, and left the swimming area in swarms in an effort to be the first one in line to see Herbie (I learned the hard way to secure my ice cream money ahead of time so I didn’t have to waste time fumbling in my mom's purse as other kids trampled me in the mass exodus). Once I got to the truck, I was surrounded by wet hair, wet towels, the scent of runny suntan lotion, and often, wet bottoms brushing the sides of my hips, as I pondered what I was going to order that day.

Herbie had a very endearing stutter and was always wearing a buttoned-up white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, even in the dead of summer. He remembered our names, even when he saw one of us outside of the pool environment at a town baseball game or on the side of the street in one of our neighborhoods. He seemed to have an affinity for Cherry Bombs and always suggested those to the indecisive kids. Herbie was someone you could count on, growing up in Madison in the ‘80s.

After we'd received our selections from our beloved Herbie, my friends and I would head to the three big rocks with our sugary delicacies, our towels wrapped around our waists, or, if we were feeling naughty, twisted into a painful wet whip. We'd spread our towels on the burning rocks as to not singe our buns in the midday heat. Then, I would slowly open the paper wrapping and take that first delicious bite into the crumbly goodness of the Toasted Almond. My favorite bites were those beginning ones before hitting the stick…even though hitting the stick was special in this case, because that meant you were that much closer to your potential prize....a stick that contained the magical words, "One free Good Humor pop." What a joyous occasion this was...because it meant not one, but TWO, treats that day. If I was the winner, I would head victoriously back to Herbie's truck and order another (perhaps a Chocolate Eclair this time)...and always pretend it was my first in case my mom happened to see me!

After ice cream, I'd return to the pool area and relax on my towel for a little while. If I wanted to play badminton, my mom would get her pruny self out of the pool and join me. Sometimes as the day got later, around 4 pm or so, my dad and brother would come by. I remember my heart jumping when I saw them walking across the parking lot, because this meant that I could get piggybacks in the water from my dad and launches across the pool by my brother (which I secretly loved even though I screamed when he did it).

By 7 in the evening, I was finally tired of swimming, my lips were purple, and the sun was sulking lower in the sky. At this point, I would retire to our "camp" and sprawl out on mom's lawn chair, eating snacks like sesame sticks, carrots, and golden raisins that had been hiding deep in her pool bag. My hair would dry knotty and curly and chlorine-filled as I reveled in another day of carefree summer life.

At 7:15 pm, the guards started making their rounds and cleaning the deck. I loved to lie back on the lawn chair, close my eyes, and listen to the swishing sounds. They always had a system for cleaning the deck: one guard had a big bucket and would scoop up water from the pool and pour it on the deck. The other guard then took a big push-broom and swept the water all over the deck to the edge until it soaked into the grass. Sometimes I'd follow them all the way around the pool and dance on the edge of the grass, trying not to let the water touch my toes. At 7:30 pm, the loudspeaker clicked on and the announcement came, "Attention: The Madison Pool is now closed. Lifeguards, please clear the pool." The guards could not stand up quickly enough and blow their whistles in unison to signal that it was now time for everyone to get out of the water so they could go home and party the summer night away with their high school friends.

After a day at the pool, we headed home in our damp bathing suits…all except for my mom who kept her trusty navy blue sweatshirt in the bowels of her pool bag to wear over her suit. Blue sweatshirt, swimsuit, and Dr. Scholls...nothing else on the bottom.

Fast-forward to 2006, and the Madison Community Pool is thriving more than ever, attracting more and more families each year. My mom is the Social Chair on the Board of Trustees, planning parties and family events for the summer season. Although I live in Texas now and don't have a community pool, I still leave part of myself there each summer. Walk through the lobby on any given day and look for a colorful posterboard sign decorated with markered mini-pineapples, hula girls, or music notes advertising the next Madison Community Pool "Moonlight Swim" or other family event. Each poster is my contribution to a place that characterized my whimsical summers.

A Memoir of College Days.

Wonderful blog readers: I wrote this last week while in Nashville for a short work trip...

I’m sitting at a metal table outside the Massey Business Building on the campus of Belmont University, my beloved alma mater. It’s about 6:30pm, and the sun is at the perfect spot in the sky. It's my favorite time of day. Absolute quiet surrounds me...more quiet than I've ever experienced on this campus, with a slightly cool feeling in the air. I’m sipping a cold bottle of Aquafina from Corner Court. Suddenly, I feel like I’m 20 again, in another time altogether, since it’s been over 7 years since I did this.

When I was in Corner Court, there was a sweet man working there, and by the pictures on the wall of him with several students, I could tell he’s well-loved and most likely has been here awhile. I small-talked with him about how I live in Dallas now. I told him I haven't been in Corner Court for over 7 years, and I didn't even know how long they'd had the new wall colors and chalkboard paint. He laughed and kept talking about how much he loves the students and how great of a place it is to be employed. Nice 'lil guy. As I'm typing this, he just locked up Corner Court for the night and walked past me saying, “Ya have a good one, now! Ain’t as hot as Texas out here is it?” I just smile.

Oh, bittersweet nostalgia. The memories are flooding back freely...

It is now 10 am on a Wednesday, and I don't have another class until PR in the Music Industry with Mr. Elliott (my fave professor) at 2pm. I'm sitting at the metal table chatting with my best friends Christy and Angela, decked out in my trusty denim overalls and Belmont baseball hat, munching on a very unhealthy but yummy coconut chocolate granola bar and guzzling a Dr. Pepper. Up walks J.T., Amanda, Jonna, Surupa, Heath, and Jonathan...to our regular meeting spot. We chat about how ridiculous that Accounting test was and how late we stayed up last night cramming. But most importantly, how many people are coming over to watch Friends tonight? And who is bringing the guitar?

Yet, it is 2006 and I’m no longer in college, I only visit Nashville now, no one will be coming over to watch Friends tonight (although maybe LOST instead!), and I'm sure not drinking Dr. Peppers by the dozen. ☺ As I decided about a half hour ago to kill some time before meeting up with friends by walking across campus to get a drink at Corner Court, I passed some teenage girls, and we smiled at each other. I decided to be friendly and asked them why they were here. They said it was for church camp (Centrifuge) and then asked if I was a student here. It was weird...I had a little tiny pang inside when they asked me that...I guess it was that little part of me that really misses all of it...being a student and the college way of life. I paused, smiled with a slight sense of sadness and replied, "No, I graduated in 1999 [which I realize is when they were about 10, and I suddenly feel really old...]. I'm just on campus visiting...but it was a wonderful place to go to school." They giggled and kept walking to meet up with their group for icebreakers or trust falls. I continued on my trek to Corner Court...through the center of campus and past the beautiful iron gazebos where we sang worship music many a night while a friend played guitar.

This whole business of recalling the college life is hard to understand. I’ve been learning a lot about “being in the moment” and living life in the here and now...getting the most out of today rather than spending today dreaming about another time and place. But how do I live in the present and deal with such sweet memories? This place is such a part of who I am today...and so maybe that's the answer.

My husband and I have also been talking a lot lately about community living and how that was played out in the "carefree" college life. Recently on a walk one evening at SMU, Steven asked me what my top 5 things were about being in college, and then he recalled his. Both of our favorite memories had to do with being with close friends all the time and always having some new activity/social event to be a part of...fraternity/sorority parties, outdoor concerts, all-you-can-eat-pancakes during Dead Day, late night movie marathons... And we both expressed how much we loved having people around all the time and living in the same place as those in our closest community. So we started pondering why that sense of life/community is something that rarely seems to happen outside of college. Why are there so many of us roaming around saying, "Man, that was the life. What I would give to go back to that now." Is it just what naturally happens when you grow up? Or is it how we form our lives after college because it's somehow expected that this is how it is supposed to be? Why can't we still have the benefits of college life while also being grown-ups? It baffles me. And I don't have an answer.

The sun is getting lower in the sky, casting a golden glow on everything in touches. I'm no longer thirsty, and it's time to go meet some friends for dinner at a restaurant on Belmont Blvd. Just a few last thoughts before I go:

I think it's time I walked on the sidewalk rather than trampling the manicured lawn through worn shortcuts in a rush to get to class.

I think it's time to pause and appreciate the lovely roses in the garden by the Belmont mansion, because 7 years ago, I didn't stop once as I passed them twice a day.

I wish I had loved this place this much when I went to school here.

I wish I didn't have to admit how much it disarms me to reconcile the present with the past.

"Happy Thanksgiving Back"

Without a doubt, Thanksgiving is the best holiday ever. The smells, the weather, the food, the being with family….I loved waking up and knowing it was crisp outside and then following the smells of Thanksgiving morning down the stairs to see what awaited me there. In my house in New Jersey growing up, I always smelled my dad's coffee brewing, the turkey beginning to bake, and the distant hum of the TV as the pre-broadcast of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade was beginning (a must-see for all in the metro NYC area!). My dad would pick up my grandfather in the city of Bayonne and bring him back to the house, where my "Poppy" would declare as soon as he walked in the door, "WHERE’S MY BRUCK-FUST." Poppy always wore a 3-piece suit with cufflinks for his trip out to the “country” as he called our suburban town of Madison, since he had lived his entire life in the inner-city. This was a special event for him! So as Poppy entered in his formal duds, the rest of us were still standing there in our pajamas, and my mom in her fluffy deep purple floor-length robe. Using both of his pointer fingers to show me just how tall he wanted the glass to be, Poppy would then ensure that I was planning to include a “tallllll glass of orange juice” with his meal. Funny enough, throughout the years the requested orange juice size grew in height from a coffee mug to a Pilsner ☺.

My dad would bring home an authentic New York Crumb Cake from the local bakery, and we’d all groan as my mom ate off all the crumbs. I loved it when the cooking preparation began, as mom, still in her robe, would prepare the turkey. There were the typical “blechs” and “ewws” when she took the giblets out of the poor little bird’s insides, cooked them, and fed them to the dog. I don’t think I ever touched raw turkey giblets until I was 26 for that reason alone. I would, however, joyfully help my mom by cutting up the onions and carrots for the turkey’s brown-in bag. After everything started cooking, we’d get showered and into our casual clothes and watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade with Poppy. My grandfather was a cosmetician for The Rockettes back in the day, so he would look forward to the moment when “his girls” did their number in front of Macy’s – the highlight of the parade. How on earth did all of their legs kick at the exact same height anyway? To this day, I still don’t get it. And how about the Garfield float? He was looking for lasagna, but all anyone had to offer the poor guy was a big browned bird.

At this time of year, I also love movies that feature Thanksgiving. You've Got Mail is such a classic (but who am I kiddin', I could watch that movie on a sweltering summer day, I love it so much). Who can forget a troubled and distracted Kathleen Kelly getting into the "cash only" line on Thanksgiving morning with no cash in her wallet. Behind her in line, a customer named Henry begins to get agitated, ("And I'm HAYN-ry!") and annoyed cashier Rose won't crack a smile ("Get-in-another-line."). Thankfully, Joe Fox comes to the rescue with some comic relief, Rose cracks a smile and even answers his holiday greeting with a hesitant “Happy Thanksgiving back.” Sadly for Kathleen, Rose hasn't forgiven her for stepping in the wrong line and scowls at her as she zip-zips the card through the credit card machine. And it's finally Hayn-ry's turn in line...

Summer and the Simple Life in Madison, NJ

I'm trying to remember what it's like to live in a small town...a place where you know your neighbors and their kids, and you can knock on their open screen door to borrow milk for pancakes when all the stores are closed on Thanksgiving morning. A place where you can enjoy a night walk in the neighborhood by yourself and not worry about feeling safe.

I grew up in a place like this. In Madison, NJ, (pop. 16,000) I knew both of our next-door neighbors - coincidentally, both older Italian couples with husbands named Joe, on one side we had the Marano's and on the other side, the Romano's. In the spring, I woke up to the sound of a Little League bat hurling a ball onto one of the three baseball fields across the street from our house, and I heard these sounds through my bedroom windows, which were always wide open in the spring. Summers in Madison were as perfect as they could be. Summer meant going to the Madison Community Pool every single day. I'd wake up, eat some cereal, read a good book for an hour or so or watch cartoons, and then mom would call up the stairs and see if I was ready to go. I'd grab my beach bag and jump into the '70s Camaro, ready for another day swimming in the sun without a care in the world....and to see my friends and especially Herbie the Ice Cream Man.

We always drove the same route to the pool, up past all the Italian homes on my street, Myrtle Avenue, left on Ridgedale, past the historic homesteads with the wrap-around Victorian porches, right on Fairview, down the hill to the corner of Central Avenue, where the HUGE, ancient Victorian sat back majestically from the road, across Central, around the curve, past the soccer field and....oh yes....I can smell it and hear it now....

As we turned into the parking lot, I could hear the sound of the diving board flubbering on the metal supports as someone plunged into the diving tank...the crickets singing from the thick woods on the other side of the pool fences...the smell of chlorine mixed with dried popsicles, a smell that can only be characterized as the stickiness of summer.

To my chagrin, Mom always parallel-parked at the farthest possible spot away from all other cars so no one would hit her precious Camaro. So I had to stomp in the weeds as I shimmied out of the car with only my bathing suit, beach bag, and dry towel wrapped around my waist. Woe to the day I forgot my sandals and had to draw in my breath and run on barefoot tippy-toes across the burning asphalt in a race for the front entrance, my mom clomping behind me in her wooden Dr. Scholls.

The entrance to the pool was a monument to my childhood. First, there was the grass picnic area next to the bike rack, worn with tire marks from the ice cream truck's daily pitstop....and then the glimmering "3 big rocks" that sat on a grass island creating a circle drive at the pool entrance next to the flag pole. These "3 big rocks" were not only boulders; they were daily visiting spots, gossiping points, home bases for freeze tag, you name it. They also had the world's stickiest surface due to years and years of drips from Creamsicles and Toasted Almond Good Humor Pops.

So past the rocks, and in we'd go....who would be the lifeguard at the entrance checking badges today? Would it be the cute senior guy from Madison High that I had a crush on at age 8? Well, whoever it was, he/she inevitably had a whistle on a chord double-wrapped around his/her neck like a choker (which all of us little kids thought was SO cool and would imitate as soon as we got home), feet propped up on the desk that held the cash register, and then came the lazy phrase, "Hey...badges please." I would proudly expose my upper left hip where my badge was pinned to my one-piece, walk a few steps further under the portico, and remove my sandals (if I hadn't forgotten them). Why? "NO FOOTWEAR ON THE DECK." This sign was glaringly obvious as you went through the entrance, and anyone who ignored it was whistled at by a guard (not in a good way) and asked to remove their sandals promptly or else.

The best time of day to arrive was when it opened at 10 am. The guards were just taking their stands, and the water was crystal clear and unbroken. I'd usually scan the place from right to left....kiddie pool and tire playground with the tether ball and volleyball/badminton courts in the far distance, then the 2 and 3 feet area with the small water slide, under the blue and white rope to the 4 feet section, the main swimming area. It was huge. You could yell across the pool to your friend, but she wouldn't hear you as she dove in to do another handstand. Past the 4 feet to dun-dun-duh.....the exclusive "adult-badge-required" area: the 5 feet lap lanes. Yes, it was a celebratory occasion during childhood when you passed your "deep water test" and could then swim under the rough blue and white rope with the attached mini buoys to the adult swim area. I'll never forget my first time over there after I passed the test. It almost felt like snooping around in my parents' bedroom when they weren't home. I had to keep reminding myself that I was actually allowed to be there now. But past the adult lap lanes was something greater and more important still...the glorious crown jewel of the Madison Community Pool: the diving tank.

You must really understand the diving tank in order to appreciate it. 12 feet deep and shaped like a colossal punch bowl when you opened your eyes underwater, this section was definitely for the brave and big kids. I started on the low dive, then the medium dive, but it was the pinnacle of summer the day I first jumped off the beautiful, towering high dive. I remember jumping off so many times in a row that the bottoms of my feet hurt were red from the impact when I went home that night. And the sweet victorious day when I actually did a DIVE off the high-dive. Put your hands together in a fist over your head....stand on the edge....keep your arms straight and strong...then slowly tip your body forward and let it go over the edge head-first. The first impact was like diving straight onto concrete....but I did it! And after the first time, I couldn't stop myself from doing it again and again.

One of the best games to play with friends in the diving tank was to yell out a question right as the other person jumped, and the person jumping had to answer it before their face went underwater. I'd wait in line at the medium dive, trying to anticipate what question I might be asked and planning out how I was going to jump high enough to have time to answer it. But no matter how much planning anyone did, it seemed that you were never able to finish your answer in time, which of course is what made the game so hilarious. "Say your full name and address!!" "Christine Piccione! 43 Myrtle Abbbbbbbbbbbbblllllllll......" One big splash and everyone starts giggling until you pop your head up gasping for air, climb back out, flatten the stomach on your one-piece to get out the big air/water bubble, and go to the back of the medium dive line for another round. Classic.

So at this time of day, the pool was pretty much empty, except for that one old lady with the leather skin who, if I didn't know better, I would think had actually taken up residence in the women's locker room so she could be the first and last one there every day. The first important decision of the day was where you would "set up camp." We always sat on the parking lot side. Mom would set up her lawn chair, I would lay my towel on the grass next to her, and we'd both set off for the water. Once my mom stuck her first toe in the water, you were not getting the lady out unless she absolutely HAD to go to the bathroom or occasionally, for a badminton match. The "mer-woman" could swim for almost 8 hours straight, filling her time with laps, jogging in the water as her side ponytail swung from side to side, talking to the guards, you name it. Yes, Mrs. Piccione was well-known in these parts, and dare you make her hurry to get out of the pool when the last whistle blew at 7:30pm, and you were in danger of receiving a really dirty look and being kicked off staff by the manager, Al.

My pool activities were always different. Sometimes I would enter the pool at the 4 feet stairs in the corner, swing like a monkey on the aluminum pole for a little while, and then do some handstands. I'd venture across the 4 feet and see if any of my friends were camped out yet on the other side. Sometimes I'd practice dives off the edge of the 4 feet as my mom watched and rated them. But the day always held one unforgettable highlight: a visit from Herbie the Ice Cream Man. As soon as we heard the jingling bell signaling the Good Humor truck's arrival in the parking lot, utter anarchy broke out as children of every age jumped out of the pool, grabbed their towels, abandoned tether ball courts, mowed down their parents, and left the swimming area in swarms to try to be the first one in line to see Herbie. (Hint: Secure your ice cream money ahead of time so you don't have to waste time fumbling in your mom's purse as other kids are trampling you in the mass exodus. I learned this the hard way.) Once I got to the truck, even though surrounded by wet hair, wet towels, the scent of runny suntan lotion, and often, wet butts brushing the sides of my hips, I liked to stand in line for a little while so I could put some thought into what I was going to order that day.

After we'd received our selections from skinny Herbie with no teeth (and come to think of it, very suspicious sores on his hands and face) my friends and I would head to the "3 big rocks" with our sugary delicacies, our towels wrapped around our waists, or, if we were feeling naughty, twisted into a painful wet whip. We'd spread our towels on the burning rocks as to not singe our buns in the midday heat. Then, we'd slowly open the paper wrapping and take that first delicious bite into the crumbly goodness of the Toasted Almond. My favorite bites were those beginning ones before you hit the stick. Even though hitting the stick was special in this case, because that meant you were that much closer to your potential prize....a stick that contained the magical words, "One free Good Humor pop." What a joyous occasion this was....because it meant not one, but TWO, ice cream treats that day. The winner would head victoriously back to Herbie's truck and order another (perhaps a Chocolate Eclair this time)....and you would always pretend it was your first in case your mom happened to see you :).

After ice cream break, I'd usually go back in to the pool area and lay on my towel for a little while longer. If I wanted to play badminton, my mom would get her pruny self out of the pool and join me. Sometimes as the day got later, around 4 pm or so, my dad and brother would come by. I remember my heart jumping when I saw them walking across the parking lot, because this meant that I could get piggybacks in the water from my dad and get launched across the pool by my brother (which I secretly loved even though I screamed when he did it). Later in the day was a special time at the pool. The midday crowd started to thin out, and it was a different crowd of professionals coming by after work and a few other families who pretty much lived there all day like we did. Around 7 pm, I was finally tired of swimming, my lips were purple, and the sun was getting lower in the sky. I'd always head back over to our "camp" but this time I'd lay on my mom's lawn chair and watch her finish her exercises for the next 30 minutes. My time on the lawn chair was special and reflective. Mom always packed snacks like sesame sticks, carrots, and golden raisins deep in her pool bag. I'd dig those out and munch on them as I let my hair dry knotty and curly and chlorine-filled and revel in the carefree life of a kid in the summer. At about 7:15, the guards started making their rounds and cleaning the deck. I loved to lay back on the lawn chair, close my eyes, and listen to the sounds. This was their system: one guard had a big bucket and would scoop up water from the pool and pour it on the deck. The other guard then took a big push-broom and swept the water all over the deck to the edge until it went into the grass. This is how they "cleaned" the deck. Sometimes I'd follow them all around the pool and dance on the edge of the grass, trying not to let the water touch my toes. At 7:30, the loudspeaker clicked on and the announcement came, "Attention: The Madison Pool is now closed. Will lifeguards please clear the pool." The guards could not stand up quickly enough and blow their whistles in unison to signal that it was now time for everyone to get out of the water so they could go home and party the summer night away with their high school friends.

After a day at the pool, we always went home in our wet bathingsuits, and my mom had this one navy blue sweatshirt she would always keep in her pool bag to wear over her suit. Blue sweatshirt, swimsuit, and Dr. Scholls...nothing else on the bottom. Classic.

Well, the Madison Pool is still alive and well, and my mom is the social chair, planning parties and family events for the summer season. Even though I live in Texas now and don't have a community pool, I still leave part of myself there each summer season. Walk through the lobby on any given day and look for a colorful posterboard sign decorated with markered mini pineapples, hula girls, or music notes advertising the next "Moonlight Swim." Each poster is a DreamMore original and my contribution to a place that characterized my whimsical summers.