In this Story... with Joanne Greene

In this story, a look ahead to 2025. I’m Joanne Greene.Vision boards are easy. You look through magazines and find photos of places you’d like to go, outfits you’d see yourself wearing, cars you’d want to drive, vacations you’d like to take.When creating a verbal vision board, there are no suggestions, no ideas from which to choose. You’re making the cake from scratch, without a mix or a recipe.2025 sounds like the far-off future, yet it’s moments away. In 1979, I hosted a radio show called “The 80’s”, filled with interviews and speculation on where things were headed. Five years later, I could hardly believe we’d made it to 1984. George Orwell surely had a few things right.What I couldn’t have imagined, years ago, was Waymo, the robot car as my 3-year-old grandson calls it. I couldn’t have conceived of artificial intelligence, where my skills as both a voice over talent and a writer would be supplanted by a free service, available to all, in seconds.While in high school, I read Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring”, a book published in 1962 which exposed the dangers of the pesticide DDT & questioned our collective faith in technology. Carson, among others, sowed the seeds of the environmental movement, which grew against the odds. I came of age being skeptical of corporations looking the other way when concern threatened profits, ad campaigns that convinced us chemicals were safe. Natural settings called to me, though they were not the natural habitat of my childhood, just outside of Boston, where I spent more time in movie theaters, bowling alleys and department stores. As a teenager it became clear that I could breathe more freely outdoors, that I could think more clearly surrounded by trees and bodies of water. I moved to California post college and grew to love hiking, finding both solace and adventure in wild places.In 2025, I will become certified as a nature and forest therapy guide, spending more and more of my time communing with plants, insects, and animals, finding peace in stillness, slowing down enough to notice what most of us, including me, generally miss. I imagine bringing groups of people into natural places and, with any luck, guiding at least some of them into liminal experiences that ground them and expose them to new parts of themselves.After a career in radio journalism, more than a decade running out of the box Jewish programs at a community center, and publishing a memoir, I could not have predicted that this is what my next chapter would be. It’s about listening to that still, small voice within and taking a risk. I rarely regret the moves I make when I trust my gut. Here’s to new beginnings and a very happy, healthy, growth-filled, new year!Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!

Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!In this story, what it takes to earn a “Middle Aged Woman” badge. I’m Joanne Greene.Back in the early to mid 60’s I was a Bluebird and then, a Campfire Girl. We wore cute little red vests adorned with badges that our moms sewed onto the sides after we completed various challenges. If I’d been in charge, we’d have sewed those badges on ourselves – to get a sewing badge, of course. I vaguely recall sewing badges onto my son’s boy scout shirt but, since I hadn’t practiced in an effort to earn that badge, I kept sticking myself.What if there were a badge one could earn for being a full-fledged “Middle Aged Woman”? An ideal Middle Aged Woman, that is, one who does and says all the right things and knows when to keep her mouth shut. Currently, girl scouts can receive badges for being caring and considerate (at home, at school, and with friends)…for respecting oneself and others (difficult to measure, of course)…and for using resources wisely (reducing use, reusing materials, and recycling).Arriving at middle age, as a woman, probably means that you still send hand-written thank you notes, that you moisturize, that you take it upon yourself to ensure that everyone around you is happy or at least not in pain at all times, that you’ve learned to pick your battles at home and at work, that you strategically let things slide, that you take the blame when you make a mistake and don’t point fingers when someone else messes up.But I would submit that there are other defining criteria. I, for instance, would like to get credit for making sure that the refrigerator contains food that every family member would enjoy, for feeling obligated to take on a volunteer role at the school, church, synagogue, sports team or at least go somewhat overboard when it’s my turn to bring snack. A middle aged woman is on the cusp of caring less what others think. Have I shared with you the graph of age & (pardon the expression) “give a shit”? The older a woman gets, the less she feels the need to impress. But we’re not talking about older women. Not yet, anyway.Middle aged women dress in layers because too cold is often followed by too hot. We might color our hair, wear make-up, or get Botox injections and, then again, we might opt for a daily yoga pants and stained sweatshirt look with a baseball cap or a beanie in winter. The point is middle aged women get to decide. And, these days, as some of our basic rights are being threatened, it’s the all the more important to make wise choices. To stand up for what we believe in. To defend the rights of others. I, of course, am no longer middle aged but, in truth, I care more than ever and I don’t need no stinkin’ badges to prove it.

Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!In This Story, I sign up to be a nature and forest therapy guide. I’m Joanne Greene.A drastic response to the presidential election? Actually no. But I’m sure glad that I registered for the six-month intensive course a month or so ago. Allow me to explain.Forest therapy is inspired by forest bathing, which was founded and developed in Japan, under the name Shirin-yoku, in the 1980’s. Apparently going from a primarily agrarian economy to one in which most people spent 10-20 hours each day in front of a computer screen was resulting in poor health outcomes. The idea was that getting Japanese citizens out into nature on a regular basis would lower blood pressures and boost immune systems. And, what do you know, it worked. Since then, numerous studies, in Japan, in the U.S. and throughout Europe, have arrived at the same results. The science is well documented in the book “The Nature Fix: why nature makes us happier, healthier, and more creative” by Florence Williams.Forest bathing is largely focused on health outcomes and participants are medically tested before and after the three hour immersive experience to prove the benefits. I’m working with the Association of Nature and Forest Therapy which broadens the focus from human health to the interconnectedness of all living things – including beings in the non-human world – like trees, plants, insects, birds, and wild animals. If we’re going to protect this planet, it’s important that we think beyond ourselves.In the course, I practice sitting still, in one spot, and notice what’s happening. On forest therapy walks, I spend 15 minutes focusing on what’s in motion, and then share my experience with the group. The forest is the therapist; as guides, we’re there to open doors. Rather than trying to direct the experience of participants, we offer invitations. “Perhaps you’d like to wander down a trail and look for something that calls out to you. Then, consider stopping and notice what you see, hear, and feel.”There are clear parameters to a forest therapy walk but within the designated framework, that’s been thoughtfully developed over many years, there’s much opportunity for the guide to add make it her own.Once certified, I’ll be able to take groups into natural places and help individuals to slow down and hopefully have a liminal experience, where time is altered and a sense of well being results.Right now, I love hiking but years from now, if my mobility is compromised, I still want to be able to spend time in wild places. It’s where I find peace, where my creativity flows, where I remember to prioritize what’s most important. To learn more about this experience, check out anft.earth.

It’s the day after and I’m numb, crumbling under the weight of knowing that we are not what I thought we were….what I was raised to believe…what I hoped and trusted would win out in the end. It’s a feeling of mourning, of deep loss, not of shock but of resignation, the horror of evil going unpunished, of otherwise decent people looking the other way, an awareness of what it must have been for Germans in the 30’s to witness a collective loss of conscience.Would I feel better if I had gone door to door in Arizona or Nevada? Would I feel even more like a fool if I’d filled out five hundred more postcards? My contributions of time and money didn’t matter in the end, but they were expressions of hope, of belief in the overall goodness of human beings, of truth to win out in the end. I know that life isn’t black and white, that binaries only serve to divide, but where in a nation run by a convicted felon who cares not about policy or any of the values on which this nation was founded and built, will I find my place?I will find it here in my community where we treat each other with kindness…I will find it in the woods where politics do not reside, where I can focus, instead, on the interconnectedness of living things.I fear for my grandchildren who, I can only hope, will spend decades trying to undo the damage that will be unleashed. There’s a deadly virus in our judicial system that will continue to metastasize before our eyes. The future feels bleak and yet there’s plenty that we can do, today, tomorrow, and beyond, to strengthen whatever is left of our safeguards, to build stronger communities based on mutual respect, to extend a hand to those in need, to build institutions and alliances that take care of those in need of protection, that serve those willing to work, to care for their young and their elderly, to engage in acts of kindness.Germany reemerged from the darkness and so will we. Dictators die, pendulums swing. We know what to do.

Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!I know they’re not kosher, but I didn’t know that as a kid. Lobster isn’t kosher either; go figure. Some Jewish people in New England make exceptions; that’s all I can say on the subject. Fried clams are deep fried, which means they might clog my arteries, and perhaps even give me indigestion, given that once I get started, I can’t stop until every last clam is dipped in tartar sauce..or perhaps cocktail sauce if it’s provided as a second option, and ingested, eyes closed, in a state of bliss that can only be described as foodgasmic. A soft moan might be heard emanating from deep inside my memory banks as I’m drawn into the best of my childhood by the smell of salt water and the warm recollection of tiptoeing between rocks on Nantasket, Crane’s, or Wingaersheek Beach during hot, humid Boston summers. When a grain of sand lodges in my back teeth, I smile, knowing that these clams are authentic. As if there was any other kind. Ew, even the thought of a faux clam is chilling.Clam bellies were an acquired taste I developed post childhood as I’d only eaten clam strips – the neck of the clam – up until then. For many Wednesday suppers, as we called them, my parents took me to the All You Can Eat Fish Fry at Howard Johnson’s. My mom would chide my dad for ordering a second helping, which was perplexing as isn’t that the point of the All You Can Eat Fish Fry? While they were grousing about French fries and fried fish, such alliteration, I would chow down on clam strips, fries and cole slaw. Now that I know that “whole bellies” as these soft- shelled clams are known, include the clam’s gastrointestinal tract, I understand why they’re so tasty. I also can’t unknow that and the image is somewhat disturbing.Fried clams, for the uninitiated, are Ipswich clams soaked in evaporated milk, dipped in some combination of regular, corn and pastry flour, and then deep-fried in canola oil, soybean oil, or lard. They’re as iconic to New Englanders as barbeque is to Texas, Poutine is to Montreal, and tacos are to Mexico. The earliest mention of fried clams on a menu can be traced back to 1865. It was the menu of the Parker House hotel, now the pet-friendly Omni Parker House on School Street in Boston. The hotel and dining hall opened in 1855 and on that very first menu was an original creation – the Parker House Chocolate Cream Pie, now known as Boston Cream Pie. And, while I’m digressing from the topic of clams, allow me to share that in 1958 –I was just four – Boston Cream Pie became a Betty Crocker boxed mix. In 1996, longer after I’d abandoned my state roots, Boston Cream Pie was proclaimed the official Massachusetts State Dessert. And it wasn’t a slam dunk with competition from the Toll House Cookie, the Fig Newton, and Indian Pudding. You’ve never heard of Indian Pudding? It's a centuries old dessert, perhaps our nation’s very first, made by colonists with cornmeal they’d been gifted by Native Americans and molasses.You’re welcome for the suggestion of a great Thanksgiving dessert!But back to my beloved fried clams. It’s sad yet quite special that they are both seasonal and regional. Wanting what we cannot have on the west coast… and, everywhere, throughout the winter months….makes the fried Ipswich clam taste even sweeter.

Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!In this story I zoom in on things that fascinate me. I’m Joanne Greene. Walking slowly, or standing still, in a forest allows me to see, hear and feel things I miss when hiking, chatting with a friend, focusing on where I’m going rather than where I am. There’s movement, even in the absence of wind. Leaves drifting and silently falling from branches; insects building, feeding, mating; birds planning for their future, hiding acorns in tree trunks.Dried leaves remind me of the aging process. Like aging leaves, human skin and hair dry out, skin wrinkles and sags, joints stiffen, and then we fall to the ground. I feel for the leaves; we are all alive and in some phase of deterioration. Nothing living lasts forever. Even the Redwoods.Yet we can connect with the living through invisible dotted lines, by absorbing chemicals from the trees, gazing into the eyes of any animal, communicating more deeply over time with our pets. When my dog does exactly what I ask her to do is she learning English words or is she learning to read me? Is our growing codependence and interspecies love a good thing? Is this even a question worth asking?She loves cheese and bread like every dog, and so do I. My childhood featured cream cheese (for shmearing on bagels), cottage cheese (that only my mother liked) and American cheese, individually wrapped, for cutting in fourths and placing on Ritz crackers for an afternoon snack with tomato, or possibly, V8 juice. The smell of Kraft Parmesan cheese made me gag, yet today I inhale the fragrance of Parmesano Reggiano and my mouth waters. I discovered the seeming endless world of cheese while working at Papillon, a wine and cheese café one summer during college - Port Salut, Camembert, Burrata, Emmentaler. In Amsterdam, I learned that Gouda is pronounced Gouda (Chouda.) And my education is just beginning.Some of us love the cuisine with which we were raised- comfort food, a taste of home. Others of us moved on, in my case from iceberg lettuce, canned vegetables, London Broil, and chopped liver. I’m fascinated by Ethnic foods of all varieties and even though the grandfather for whom I’m named was a kosher butcher, I can live without meat. Give me spices like zaatar, garam masala, curry and ramen and pho. I’m always game to try a new place, eat with my hands, sit on the floor.And while on the floor, I might turn upside down or sit in a lotus position. Yoga has been my savior since 1974 when I sang “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine” at the Theosophical Society in Boston and calmed the f down. Slowing down my breathing is at the center of the miracle. Over the years I’ve learned to count my inhalations and exhalations, to focus on one Drishti or point at which to stare, to send blessings to my loved ones, my neighbors, the guy who annoyingly beeped his horn at me when I didn’t leave the intersection fast enough for him. I’m captivated by the ancient knowledge that stretching and strengthening our bodies in certain ways would improve our health – both physical and mental. And they weren’t necessarily overstimulated by cell phones and social media, traffic and multiple competing demands on their time and thoughts. Technology has so many answers, making our lives easier and more efficient, but ancient wisdom, like mother, often knows best. It’s the emphasis on balance, on interconnectedness, that I need, now more than ever, that I believe our world needs now. We have so much to learn from simply observing nature.Take the spider, for instance. Can you even imagine what it takes to design and create a web that is not only magnificent in its structure but durable, flexible, and can trap live prey? It’s an engineering feat beyond comprehension. As a young girl I knew that I was supposed to fear spiders but, after reading Charlotte’s Web, I simply saw these inventive, delicate, yet dogged creatures as my friends. I’ll coax an indoor spider onto a piece of paper and gently place her outside, rather than squish her like a bug as, admittedly, I’ll do to flies, ants, and other uninvited guests. To me spiders are royalty…and I will remain in awe of their artistry and practicality, the way a lack of light hides their webbing and a beam of sunshine reveals their glistening, symmetrical creativity.I am endlessly fascinated by the worlds I’ve yet to uncover….

Early the morning of October 7th, 2023, I took a call from my daughter in law Marie who, unbeknownst to me, was in the process of becoming Jewish.She said, “My mom called to tell me how upset she was about the attack on Israel.” I held my breath. Her mom lives in France. I’d been awake for all of 20 minutes, blissfully unaware. When we hung up, I turned on CNN and began to grasp the magnitude of the still unfolding catastrophe. In the moments and weeks that followed, I understood that Hamas had unleashed the worst assault against the Jewish people that had taken place in my lifetime. The pain and confusion were just beginning.I felt personally attacked – the first time I’d questioned my safety as a proud Jewish American. From the start, people on the left, my people, or so I’d always thought, were justifying Hamas’s actions, couching the unbelievably gruesome assault in the larger context of the occupation, as though there was any way to justify the slaughter of peace loving concert goers, as if there could be an excuse for attacking the very Israelis who lived close to Gaza in hopes of building bridges, of helping people whose own government put them in danger.I read a post that my young Muslim friend posted - the friend who, on behalf of her mosque, sent flowers to the JCC after a bomb threat forced our evacuation. She’s the partner with whom I planned interfaith activities to bring Muslims and Jews together – an Iftar, an art exhibit – as part of the Salaam, Shalom, Speaking of Peace initiative. Her post, like so many, condemned the actions of the Israeli military, the killing of innocent Palestinians. Her tone stung and I reached out, asking if we could meet to discuss our collective pain. She responded with an emoji – a tiny symbol that may have meant we were okay, the two of us, but that was it. Our people, I feared, were no longer okay with one another.I felt betrayed by the left, by the very people with whom I’d spend decades marching for justice, reproductive rights, voting rights, affordable housing, against racism and Islamophobia. I watched what was happening on college campuses, wondering where I would have stood as an eighteen-year-old. Would I, too, have seen Israel as the all-powerful occupier, the military giant, a puppet of the United States? Would my sympathies have gone to the thousands of Palestinians abandoned by their leaders yet killed by Jewish bombs? Why is no one on the left talking about the Israeli women who were raped, whose bodies were mutilated?During the first intifada, as a radio talk show host, I felt pressure from the Jewish community to speak out publicly. “You have a platform,” they said. But I was a journalist. I hosted debates giving both sides a chance to make their case. I asked questions, like my people have done for centuries. We learn by asking questions. With age comes perspective and, knowing so much more now about the history, it’s hard to listen to people who haven’t taken the time to learn. “From the river to sea,” they’re chanting but, when asked, too few knew which river and which sea were being referenced, not to mention the fact that their chant was calling for the end of Israel. Too few of those sacrificing sleep in encampments, feeling solidarity with the oppressed, had knowledge of all the attempts that have been made to make peace with Palestinians while ensuring the security of Israelis. As Former Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir famously said, “You cannot negotiate peace with somebody who has come to kill you.” On October 7th, 2023, Hamas came to kill, rape, torture, and kidnap Jews, as many as they possibly could. Hamas denies Israel’s right to exist, therefore a peace treaty with Hamas will never be attainable.It’s human nature to try to fix things, to come up with solutions, to reduce conflict to good and evil, us and them, the occupiers and the occupied. But most conflict is filled with complexity and nuance and, as such, demands empathy. We are meant to struggle. We make a grave mistake when we tell ourselves that we are totally in the right and not at fault at all. Our tradition offers us an opportunity to make teshuvah, to accept our human frailty, to look, to see, to acknowledge, to turn, and to try harder next time.My heart feels the pain of the hostages and their families, the displacement of families from Israel’s northern border, the trauma of Israeli soldiers who put themselves at risk every day, and the worry that plagues all Israelis and all people who fear for their safety. And my heart cannot grow cold to the suffering of innocent Palestinians, people displaced from their homes time and again, people used as human shields by their terrorist government. They didn’t ask for this and the hatred they’ve come to feel for Israelis, for Jews, for me, is understandable. May this war end. May something good come from all this horror and loss. May there be answers.

Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!In this story, I board a cruise ship. For decades, my image of a cruise featured loud, gluttonous fressers (that’s Yiddish for people who stuff their faces with abandon at the all-you-can-eat buffet.) I envisioned tiny airless rooms with, at best, a porthole; smoke-filled casinos with spilled drinks due to sea turbulence; and long lines of parents with screaming children waiting to board and disembark at every port. Unappealing? Ya think?….But then, in the 1990’s, we bought a timeshare that came with a free Royal Caribbean cruise for two. The inside passage of ALASKA, we agreed, would be our destination. Hoping an Alaskan cruise would attract nature lovers and not be the cruise of choice for dedicated party animals, we signed up for a weeklong adventure, starting and ending in Vancouver, British Columbia, that would include stops in Juno, Sitka, and Ketchikan.Ever the optimist, I focused on not having to unpack and repack every couple of days – a big plus – and on the fact that the ship we’d chosen featured a spa area with healthy food choices and numerous exercise opportunities and options for pampering. We reserved an upgraded cabin with a door leading out to a small private deck. Our bases were covered.Eyeing our fellow travelers as we boarded the floating city that would be our home for a week, our minds began to settle. There were people who looked enough like us, smiling, chatting, anticipating a good time. When asked on the guest form if we were celebrating anything that week, we shared that it was our wedding anniversary, figuring telling them might mean a bottle of champagne or some chocolate covered strawberries. What we didn’t anticipate was that it would peg us for participation in the Very Wed and Newlywed Game two nights later.What the heck? we thought when invited to be on stage to compete against other couples. Then they plied us with margaritas. Oh boy. Joined at the hip and hardly shy in front of a crowd, we answered their outrageous questions, winning nearly every round. The competition wasn’t stiff, of course, and we were letting loose. And then they asked the final question: “What is something your spouse continues to do that you find REALLY annoying?”Hmmmm…how should I answer this, I wondered? The first thing that popped into my mind is how Fred disappears, quite suddenly. When I say he gets lost, he tells me that he knew exactly where he was the whole time. We’ll be walking down a street together, for instance, and I turn to say something to him and he’s not there. Could have been a store that wooed him in. More likely, he stopped to take a photograph and either forgot to tell me or mentioned that he was doing so in a voice that I couldn’t hear.“I have a pet peeve,” I said to the game show host, convinced that none of the other spouses would share my answer. “My husband sometimes disappears. We’ll be together at an event or walking somewhere and ……At that precise moment, Fred left the stage. The audience went wild. I had to admit that he stole the show.But that wasn’t the end of the game.Two days later, people all over the ship were recognizing us. “Weren’t you the couple from the Newlywed game? You were so funny!” We nodded and smiled awkwardly.Back in our room, we turned on the television and there we were, a bit tipsy, sharing oddly compromising secrets on the television show no one mentioned they were producing of our Very Wed and Newlywed game. They were running it over and over again, 24 hours a day, in every room on the ship.We tried to be incognito…eating our meals in the spa section….keeping to ourselves as best we could, but it was not to be. Unwittingly, we’d gained our ten minutes of fame on a cruise ship named what was it…. Lengend of the Seas? Splendor of the Sea? Splendor in the Grass? Chicken of the Sea?

Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!Whiskers on kittens are okay but dogs’ ears really do it for me. Basset hounds take the cake, but I’ll stroke a spaniel’s ear, a lab’s, a shepherd’s, and, of course, any part of a doodle, anytime. Speaking of taking the cake…feel free. In my estimation cake is grossly overrated. With the exception of a really moist carrot cake, my mothers’ spice cake, or a flourless chocolate cake, I’d choose am oatmeal or chocolate chip cookie nine times out of ten. After my summer working at Household Finance Loan Corporation, above a donut shop, when I inhaled an ice-cold lemonade and a glazed honey dipped donut every morning at 10:30, I hate the smell of donuts. Pie is rarely worth the calories but a solid fruit crisp or crumble or Apple Betty gets the salivary glands going every time.Life is filled with food and chores.Why is ironing so satisfying? I assume because one sliding motion and a little heat eliminates the crease and thereby solves the problem. With that framing, I should enjoy vacuuming, which I don’t. But folding laundry? Oddly relaxing. While I enjoy the look of a well-made bed, I don’t relish the walking back and forth, straightening the sheets, pulling up the duvet and making sure what’s inside isn’t bunched up in one corner. Bed-making sucks. We’re living in the guest room temporarily, due to a little construction, and- don’t tell anyone but I’ve just been pulling up the top sheet. I tell myself it’s a summer look. But really, I’m just cutting corners. I love checking in with friends and family members but hate it when I’m ready to hang up and move on and the other person just keeps talking. Y’can’t just say, okay, I’m done. You’re starting to bore me. So, usually, I say something stupid like – I have to go to the bathroom or file my receipts so take care and have a great day! I also squirm when people tell me about people I don’t know and won’t ever meet. Who cares? Stop wasting my time. Strangely, I never get sick of listening to my kids and my heart skips a beat, like a teenage girl hearing from her new boyfriend, every time caller ID shows it’s one of them reaching out. Like every stereotype of a doting grandma, my face lights up and my smile is so wide it hurts when any of my three littles appear on FaceTime. The first bite of a perfectly ripe nectarine, bouquets of dahlias, the smell of a Eucalyptus tree and the majesty of a redwood. These make my heart sing and activate the gratitude which I continue to express for the feel of clean sheets, being able to walk for hours without pain, for my cancer being stage one, for sunshine and beaches, to Biden for finally stepping down, for age old friendships and the memories of laughing so hard we peed, for Motown and margaritas, for unbuttered popcorn and kettle brand sea salt chips, for vape pens and firepits, hot tubs and massages. I am ever so grateful for my husband and family…for good health and anti-depressants…for treasuring my Jewish heritage…and for finally having ….and being enough.

Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!My family of origin never took a single vacation. I didn’t feel denied; didn’t know anything different. My father worked seven days a week and we had neither the money nor the template for how to vacation. I remember my mother saying that some people needed to vacation, as though they were somehow weaker. She, by contrast, did not. Married and with my own children, I made family vacations a priority. Did it matter that one of our kids was both anxious and hyperactive? It should have. But instead, we just kept right on planning and moving through the meltdowns.But there was that first memorable trip when we took the family to Italy in 2002. Our high school wrestler tried to lift a SmartCar and we have the photo to prove it. We had our first round of beers together in Rome, eating filetto di baccala. At the Puccini Festival in Torre del Lago, the four of us watched Andrea Bocelli, blind since birth, carry Madame Butterfly offstage. The opera didn’t start until 10pm, which meant that at least two of us nodded off during the performance. On our bike tour through Tuscany, we ate epic caprese salads and stopped for photos at the site of a famous scene from the film Gladiator. The boys bonded on the day we went to Cinque Terra, preferring to remain on the beach in front of our hotel that featured topless young women; they wore mirrored sunglasses to shield their staring eyes.Family travel can be tricky, particularly when one’s family is filled with strong willed and opinionated people. Someone wants to just sit and read while someone else is up for major adventure. But this trip hit the absolute right note – a blend of group and solo activity, exceptional food, short visits to museums, and a private tour of the Vatican. I can still hear the voice of the guard in the Sistine Chapel crying “Silencio!”Perhaps the quintessential moment of the trip took place in our rented apartment in Sienna. As older siblings do, Danny played a trick on his younger brother, hiding amidst the blankets in an old wooden chest that stood in the hallway outside our bedroom. We told him it could take a while, so better get comfortable in there and be sure you’re getting enough oxygen.“Mikey, see if you can find any board games, or anything we can do together after dinner tonight,” I called out from the kitchen.“Where am I supposed to look?” he asked, mildly annoyed that I was assigning him a task. “I don’t know,” I said.“Check the drawers, cupboards, that old chest in the hallway.”Fred and I could hear the opening and closing of cabinets and held our collective breath as Mike approached the hall that held the chest that held Danny. And then we heard the piercing screams – Danny jumping out of the chest loudly yelling “BOO” and Mike’s blood curdling terror response. Somehow, we managed to hold Mike back; by then, he’d acquired both the skills and the incentive to cause major hurt to his brother.Neither Fred nor I had a reference point for what a family vacation should look like. I guess not having expectations set us up to accept when things didn’t go well. Our two weeks in Italy, when Mike was a sophomore in high school and Danny a freshman in college, was filled with all the right ingredients for a great vacation – phenomenal food, the right amount of touring, and a ton of laughs.