It's All in Your Algorithm

Is My Algorithm Spying on Me?

 I ask myself, "Tammi, when did this start happening?" Sometimes I'll just think about something and it will show up on my algorithm.

I was sitting on the toilet the other day. HEH! I'm not embarrassed to say, YES! I look at INSTA when I'm on the toilet. What else is a scrolling obsessed human supposed to do? Stare out the window pondering world crises or perhaps ruminate over the price of eggs? Thankfully I don't eat eggs. But I digress.

So, sitting there on the toilet doom scrolling (Afterwards - I'm always like - "I can't get those five minutes back!") 

All of a sudden my algorithm goes into overdrive! One post after another.

"Is your clit dry like the desert"

"Does your vagina crack like a crevasse"

"Are your lady bits a bit out of whack"

Amidst my immediate confusion I asked myself—Are they referring to what I think they're referring too? Absolutely! The VJ! But here's the thing? How did my algorithm find out about a most private body part? 

Time for more research. Were other people experiencing this algorithm angst?

Sitting at coffee the next day with my close friend Cindy I broached the VJ topic. I had to know.

Not wanting to alert the adjacent coffee drinkers. I whispered, "Cindy, what are you doing about your lady parts? Is your algorithm assaulting you?"

A confused look came across her face. "My lady whats? What algorithm?"

I took a breath. Told myself - be patient. Sensitive topic zone.

"You know, lady bits, down there, your YOU KNOW WHATS."

She paused. "Oh those lady bits. "Not much, the usual." 

I thought - what's the usual? I rallied. OK Tammi. Stay on topic. 

"Your algorithm silly!" It's in your algorithm!" 

"My algorithm? I don't have an algorithm. Is that a body part I don't know about." She frowned. "I knew it! My mom left soooo much out!"

My brain lit up like a laser beam bouncing inside my head. Pressure, bright lights, sparkles! Normally, I like sparkles but this wasn't the time or place. 

"Cindy, be real. Everyone has AN ALGORITHM. Even you have AN ALGORITHM."

She looks defensive. "Well maybe you do but I certainly don't." Defensiveness turns to regret. Should I worry? Am I missing out?"

Cindy is ALWAYS worried about missing out. Big time FOMO. 

Another breath. I pulled up the Google. 

"A data-tracking system in which an individual's internet search history and browsing habits are used to present them with similar or related material on social media or other platforms."

"Oh that thing. She looks relieved. "Mostly just Rottweilers playing with babies and DIYs on how to get rid of toe fungus. I don't even have toe fungus! And really - Rottweilers! What are people thinking!? Those things 'll bite a baby's head off!

I respond. "Well, if that happens they certainly won' t show it on INSTA." 

I try to steer us back to the topic at hand. I had to know.

"But no posts on the lady bits?" 

Cindy focuses. I can see the wheels turning. "Maybe one," She whispers. "Something about a device that looks like a cross between a zucchini and a misshapen suppository." Her eyes cross. "Do they really want you to stick that up your butt? That's gross!"

"I giggle. "Not your butt silly, your VG."

"She grimaces. "Well really. I can't BELIEVE they put that stuff on the INSTA or even the Google in general. I mean isn't that illegal?" 

"They may be pushing the boundaries of propriety by mentioning vaginas (one INSTA ad even had a woman holding a stuffed vagina to demonstrate). I mean when they are advertising men’s ED stuff or manscaping equipment they never hold a stuffed penis and balls." 

But wait! Maybe they do. My algorithm doesn't give me access to that stuff (more investigation needed there).

Cindy grimaces (again). "Ooh don't say those words in public Tammi. Yuck!" 

"Totally yuck." I agree. At this point I thought it was best to end the conversation. 

"Let's table this topic for now." She agrees and we part until the next time.

So after much study and one very hell-of-a weird conversation I have reached my ‘scientific’ conclusion.

Is my algorithm spying on me? Definitely - YES! But then I realize. I do have control. I can steer my algorithm in the direction I want it to go.

Puppies and kitties playing with cute babies, (no worries about biting heads off there), Timothée Chalamet, smiling turtles, baby elephants here I come!

 

2016 Here I come!

“You want to compare yourself to an insect Cassie? If you’re an insect then you’re a mayfly. Here for a day, then gone… It’s always been that way. We’re here, and then we’re gone, and it’s not about the time we’re here. But what we do with the time.”

—Rick Yancey, The 5^th Wave

There's No such thing as a bad hair day on the water.
Coaching Dominican sailor Guillermo Flaquer,
winner of the 2014 13th Annual Caribbean Midwinters Regatta.

Year 2015 was transformative for me. I had a real life adventure living in Cabarete in the Dominican Republic for three months. Not only did I avoid the horrible northeast winter I was able to fulfill my dream of coaching Laser sailors coming to the Laser Training Cabarete from all over the globe to train in the warm waters and challenging conditions. Living in a foreign country is different from a vacation. I had the opportunity to form lasting relationships with people from many different countries and see how other people live outside the United States. The experience helped me see myself more as a citizen of the world. While our cultures can be different we are inherently the same in many respects. Fathers and mothers love their children and people strive to live a safe and happy life despite the struggles they may face on a daily basis. I met Dominicans who lived in beautiful mansions in gated communities and others who lived in stucco shacks with dirt floors. Honestly those living in shacks had bigger smiles than those in the mansions.

While in the DR I had time to reflect on my life back home. Questions kept popping up. Was I doing everything I could to foster a singular life and be an exceptional person? What did all that mean? Certainly spending time in a foreign country was singularly adventurous but was that enough? What was I getting out of this experience besides a nice tan? As I lay in bed at night, exhausted after a long day of coaching, the questions would filter up through the fatigue.  Aspects of my life back home plagued me like unfinished business. One particular relationship with my ex-husband picked at my brain. We had been divorced since 2012 and while we were on cordial terms I still harbored anger towards him. The anger would surface at various times boiling over in a poisonous mix of emotions. Back home I felt like I had no control over it. I couldn’t forget and I couldn’t forgive. I was in a state of emotional purgatory. Being in the DR was like having a big “time-out” from the situation. I was able to realize that the recurring anger was akin to knife wounds injuring me over and over. I would start to heal but then some random happenstance would bring the pain back to the surface. Again I’d be be wounded and again I would have to recover. I had to get out of the anger cycle. But how?

The first step was acknowledging that enough was enough. The anger may have helped me get through the initial stages of divorce but after three years it was having a detrimental affect on my life. I have always been a person who believes that negative energy needs to be jettisoned in order for positive energy to work. It's ironic in this situation I wasn’t following my own credo. I was trying to move forward in so many ways but if I truly wanted to transcend and transform I had to remove the cancer of anger from my soul. Realizing I had to get off the anger train was a huge step, allowing me to dissect the issue. First and foremost I acknowledged if I could overcome the feelings my life would open up to infinite wonderful possibilities. I visualized a future devoid of anger in which I would be setting an awesome example for my son and I could be proud of myself. The next step was figuring out how to accomplish the vision. Having already spent considerable time in therapy I decided I needed to go to the source of my anger. I began to talk with my ex, not to rehash the old stuff but to ask new questions and listen. Listening for me means engaging without preconceived agendas put in place to justify a particular perspective. Instead opening lines of communication with the hope of developing new perspectives. Through this process I realized how much my own need to hang on to pride, hurt, AND the idea that I was the right one, the injured one, made it impossible to forgive and ultimately heal.

New Year's day Boston.
Our first family photo since 2011. 

My road of healing was not easy. There were many of tears and many difficult conversations. Ultimately I was awakened to the fact that I also had contributed to the hurt and I could see my ex as someone who was also in pain. At that point the door opened for us to reconcile, not as spouses but as friends and cohorts in the raising of our son. What a wonderful feeling!

When I tell my story to friends or family they say, “You’re so brave!” I’m not sure bravery came into play. I didn’t feel brave. Malala Yousafzai is brave. What I am deep down is a goal-oriented person. I also want to have a happy life. I didn’t want to carry a chip on my shoulder and I wanted to set a good example for my child. Those were my motivations. And I was lucky to have married a man who is essentially a good person. Not everyone has that advantage. For all those out there who are hurting, whether you can heal with the one who’s hurt you or not, you have the power inside to heal yourself. Setting goals is a great start. Maybe it’s a small as getting up every morning. Taking that first step is what’s important. Then making sure that step is meaningful. 

Art thieves and Insulin: Inside the World of a Post-op Mom

Where’d Anne go?” My 84 year old mother mumbles from her hospital bed, asking for my older sister. Mom went into the clinic last Thursday for a procedure which quickly escalated into triple bypass surgery. She got through the surgery fine but woke up the next day in considerable pain and a bit cranky. With several of her children and my niece (an OR nurse) standing by her bedside she tried to communicate through her oxygen mask. “What are you doing here? Am I dying?” “No Mom you’re fine.” My sister Anne said, “We’re just here to be supportive.” “Go away.” Mom followed up that statement with a look my brother-in-law calls “the stink-eye.” 

Please don’t think this is in any way normal behavior for Mom. She’s the most affable, loving person you’d ever meet. Since she moved in with Anne and hubby Richard a year ago (my dad passed in 2012) she has become the life of the party. 

The next day—even though Mom told us not to visit—Richard, niece Amy and I decided to go check on her progress. Anne strongly advised that we stay hidden while we talked to the nurses in charge of her care. “She’ll get pissed off and give you the stink-eye.” Call me crazy but I’m not really intimidated by this so-called “stink-eye.” Even so we decided it was best to leave her alone so as not to stress her out. 

After turning down the hall to her CCU room the “Leave her alone plan.” was quickly replaced with the “What the hell is up now?” plan. Mom was sitting in a chair glaring at the nurse. Her stink eye had morphed into a full-blown evil eye. Looking indignant she pointed at the nurse. “She’s an imposter! Look in her pockets.” Mom reached out to poke at the nurse’s pocket while emphatically urging us to “Call 911!” 

Apparently paranoid thoughts are typical reactions after anesthesia. In older folks the condition can be more pronounced. Patients think the nursing staff is out to get them and doctors are trying to kill them. They see plots everywhere.

As Mom repeated her plea to “Call 911 NOW!” she recounted her experience from the previous night. “There were two men in my room and they injected me with something to make my insulin go kerplewy.” This assertion was buoyed up by the fact that because of the stress from surgery, her sugar level was higher than normal. When asked to describe the two men she stated. “One’s name was Tom and he was tall and good looking.” Of course he was. “I didn’t get the other one’s name but he wasn’t in charge." Her voice turned ominous. "Tom was.” We tried to get her to drink something but she’d decided that the nurses had poisoned all her drinks. I had to test all of them before she’d take a sip. 

After attempts to reason with Mom failed we realized it was better just to go along to get along. Soon it was time for her medication. Amy whispered to Mom. “Grandma I have a secret stash of your pills that the nurses don’t know about.” Amy proceeded to sneak out of the room, down the hall, and on round-about route made her way to the nurses station to retrieve the “stash”. “She’d better watch out.” Mom declared. “I think they’re following her.” While we were waiting for Amy to return Mom called Richard over to her side. “Did you get the police to come yet? They should have been here by now.” “The police are really busy right now.” Richard said in a soothing voice. Mom proceeded to tell Richard that she was working with the FBI to break up an art theft ring. Because of that—most likely Tom and his nameless assistant—people were after her. “That’s why we need the police here NOW!”

It’s difficult to watch a loving parent in pain and helpless. Pills can help the pain and being there to provide support helps boost their spirit. Psychosis is tough to take because you worry they could hurt themselves or others. At the same time it's hard not to giggle at the ridiculousness of the situation but I kept thinking that Mom was probably pretty scared. In her mind, it was all real. With Mom the worst thing that happened was she threw her juice at the nurse. Fortunately she missed.  

Thankfully by late afternoon Mom had calmed down a bit and was getting back to normal. She even let the nurse she called an impostor give her a sponge bath. Mom didn’t want to be alone so Richard stopped by to drop bed linens off for Anne so she could stay overnight. I grabbed the quilt and started to walk back to the CCU. Richard shouted. “I almost forgot. Important news!” he called across the lobby. “Tell Grandma they caught the thieves.” Thieves? I must have looked perplexed because he came right over. You know the art thieves she and the FBI were trying to catch.” Richard laughed. “They reported it on CNN. Make sure Grandma knows her work is done.” 

Riiiggght....this day is just getting weirder and weirder.

Contemplating the Meaning of Trees

Woke up early this morning, 5:00 am. With the tenants gone (two students from a renowned Boston craftsmen school) my son and I have the house to ourselves. When they were here I forced myself to stay in bed until 7:00 am. By that time they’d be off to classes in piano tuning and book binding and I’d have the house to myself. My tenant Molly, a young lady from Colorado, was the perfect boarder. Quiet, always polite and mature well beyond her 21 years. On the other hand, Bob, a mid-30s fellow from California, was more difficult to deal with. My son characterized him as, “The most annoying nice person ever.” From Bob’s perspective everything was “Cool.” His time with us featured cooking really smelly food, requests to drive him here and there (hints that there were plenty of taxies in town were ignored) and seemingly endless descriptions of the sandwiches he ate for lunch (“Cool!”) or some minuscule aspect of piano tuning that no one was really interested in. Getting along with Bob was a challenge and most of the time both Molly and I would hide in our rooms rather than interact with him. For my infrequent encounters I set a 10 minute rule in which I’d make pleasant chit chat before escaping to my bedroom. Thankfully Bob left a week before Molly. The result was akin to the Munchkins emerging from their homes after the wicked witch was killed. Our “ding dong the witch is dead” moment was accompanied by sighs of relief and spontaneous dancing around the kitchen.

So finally they are gone and I can get up whenever I want. I can indulge in my pleasant morning ritual, making coffee and watching the news while sitting by the backyard window. The dogs are still in bed. It’s just me and the time slowly flows by. Each luscious second slipping past with me not really noticing. 

Trees. I realized this morning as a stream of random thoughts, ”I should start a website. What will I call my art studio? I need boxes.”—passed through my consciousness. Most woman love jewelry to mark special occasions. I love trees. 

I’ll be leaving this house in several weeks. It’s weird how you have to fix up a house to sell it. To leave it for someone else to enjoy. We lived with weeks of chaos. You don’t get a pretty house without contending with lots of noise, dust, and sketchy people (drunk painters, convicts posing as handimen) invading every nook and cranny of your life. At one point I counted 15 people in and around the house all at once. I crumbled under the combined pressure of the work, all the money I was spending, and bouts of deep sadness. Happy memories of raising the family here and the regrets of a marriage gone bad overwhelmed me. I cried. A lot. I felt like a recovering alcoholic, “Just get through the next minute.” Who would’ve thought the 12 steps would apply to home renovation. 

Vera and Dinghy enjoy the newly painted stairway.

Then there’s my trees. They surround the house like sentinels, protecting me. Enveloping me in their comforting presence. The lovely, lace-like red japanese maple nestled in the front yard. A gift from the ex-spouse to mark our first Mother’s Day in the house. The dogwood in the back. It’s velvet-like ivory flowers coming and going so quickly. Also a Mother’s Day gift. And my favorite pea green Japanese maple growing out the backyard window. So many mornings I've enjoyed watching that maple while sipping coffee and waiting to hear the seven-day forecast.  My trees are constant. Stately, Graceful. Some trees look stiff, They creak and groan in the wind. My trees are elastic—they rustle like taffeta and flow like velvet in the breeze. I’ve learned from my trees. Bend. Don’t break. Strength comes when you least expect it. When the wind is blowing hard and it’s so cold outside. Just preserver. 

I worry about my trees. Will the new owners love them as I do. Will they gaze out the kitchen window in the morning, contemplating the day as they enjoy the pleasant waving of my pea-green maple? Will their children grow up romping in the backyard under the dogwood as my son did? I hope so. 

Maybe the diamond ring would have been nice but I don’t miss it. When the marriage is over, that ring which seems so important, a symbol of never ending love and commitment, so often becomes a symbol of a failed relationship. Rings don't grow anything - except maybe resentment. I never looked at my trees that way. When my marriage failed I looked to them for comfort, not blame and like my son I see them as the precious gifts given with love. 

Trials, Tribulations and Golf Balls: A Thanksgiving Tribute to Family

55 years of Krimski family photos.

A week ago Thursday I lost my Dad, Jeff, to cancer. Dad grew up in Baltimore from sturdy polish stock (Pilahowski and Krimski). He was an amazing, complicated person formed by early personal trials which ignited a desire to transcend his mother’s plans for him to work at the local washing machine factory. He left home at 17, joined the air force and was stationed in Nouasseur, Morocco where he met Mom. He was 19 and she was 26. He went on to raise four children, giving us everything we’d need to become successful adults and raise our own families. His career is one of legends; a DJ at two of the countries top AM  radio stations, WBZ, Boston MA and WKBW, Buffalo, NY, he constantly challenged the status quo, changing the face of radio forever and paving the way for the FM revolution. He went on to enjoy a multiple Emmy award winning career as narrator for NFL Films until throat cancer forced him into retirement. After that he enjoyed years of boating and international travel with Mom. I was privileged to go on trips to France, Egypt and cruising in the BVIs with Mom and Dad.  

I recently read a story about a philosophy professor who showed his class a jar filled with golf balls. He asked the class “Is the jar full?” The class said "Yes". He then proceeded to pour pebbles, sand and water into the jar, asking each time, “Is the jar full?” Finally he explained to the class that the jar is a metaphor for our lives. The golf balls are the important stuff; family, health, passions and friends. If everything else—home, job, car— was gone and only the golf balls remained, life would still be full. 

As I sat by my Dad in his last hours holding his hand and washing his brow; as I watched my Mom hold it together while she watched her husband of 55 years dieing; as everyone laughed when I felt moved to perform dopey “Gangham Style” dance moves by Dad’s bedside; and as I thought about all the months my sister Anne has devoted to the care of Mom and Dad, performing all the skills of a hospice nurse without even realizing it AND never asking for credit, all the pebbles and sand and water diminished in importance. The golf balls became larger and larger until they filled my heart with joy. 

I don’t know a family who doesn’t have a jar filled with golf balls. Some are brand new—bright white and shiny. Others are stained, nicked, gouged and aged beyond use. Despite their condition they all belong in that jar. We may begin life as a beautiful bright white golf ball but we all end up less than perfect. My parents always said, “When you don’t have anyone else, you always have your family.”  I’ve pondered that saying many times over the years. Watching my Dad die brought it’s meaning—forgiveness— back to me. With family, forgiveness in the face of the unforgivable takes an open heart and remembrance that the forgiver will most certainly be the forgivee at some point. We may take a golf ball out of the jar but it’s never too late too put it back. 

Dad’s passing has been a life changing experience for me, rearranging my cells to reveal and renew the beauty of family and life. When I eventually get back to the day-to-day stuff will the feeling last? One can only hope. One thing’s for certain. Dad’s golf ball, with all it’s nicks and gouges, will forever remain in my jar. For Mom and siblings Anne, Peter, and Sarah your ball may come out for a few minutes but be assured, I know which drawer I put it in so it will certainly go back in the jar. 

Happy Thanksgiving to all my family of golf balls who where there for me during this difficult time. I love you all. Mommy, son Emmitt & hubby Dave, Shirley, Anne & Richard, Amy, David & Tory, Maya, Peter & Amy, Max, Spencer, Sarah & Broeck, Sam, Noah, Paul, Andrew, Peter, Lisa. 

Oh and don’t forget the puppies; Vera, Sailor, Dinghy, Scruffy, Mr. Bennett, Charlie, Scrappy and Silvie. WOOF!

I have always loved Christmas and I love to draw pictures of Santa. Even more, pictures of Santa with penguins.

Why penguins? 
Because elves are so boring? 
Reindeer take up too much room on the page? 

Actually, I just like 'em. 
Their cute and compact and always dressed in formal attire. Who wouldn't get enthusiastic about that? What could be better than a cute and cuddly penguin paired with Santa—the cutest guy ever!

In my illustrative world, beloved Santa is a multi-talented lover of life. He skates, he sleds, he flies in a balloon, and of course,  he sails.  His constant companions—penguins of course!

When I first illustrated Santa and his penguins naysayers clamored, "Outrageous!" 
So called rational people emphatically declared, "Penguins don't live at the North Pole!"

It's time to put all this conjecture to rest. The only solution is to pick up the red phone and call the big man himself. Yes—MR. C—Santa.  

"Yo MR. C! What's kickin?"
"Heh Tammi. Glad you called. Super busy up here." 
"Everything OK?"
"It's those darn iPhone 5s. Pre-christmas letters to Santa are flooding in already and I smell a few rats in the attic."

Dear Santa, 
Our three year old Jimmy has been so good this year. He's now potty trained, except for that one accident on the subway when he was sitting in the elderly woman's lap. He got upset at the stench of a nearby homeless "person" and did a very runny poop all over her nicely pressed polyesters. So embarrassing! But his temper tantrums are down to no more than three-a-day.  He really wants that new iPhone 5.  If you'd be so kind as to include a signature gold Gucci iPhone case Jimmy would be ever so happy. I've enclosed pictures!

Toodles!
Cami & Barnstable Pemberton 

I chuckle. "I hate when that happens."
"Totally. Anyway I've taken care of it."
"How'd you do that?"
"Tweeted."

 @santaclaus #christmas letters #North Pole license with #apple expired NO #iphone 5s for you!

"Glad to hear it. I'm sure you've heard the iPhone is the tool of the devil."
Santa laughs. "Well, that's stretching it a bit but Suri is pretty annoying. She beats the MRS. by a mile in that department." 
"Tell me about it."

"Sorry to cut this short. Those darn elves are in the middle of a work stoppage and I need to go check on the replacement elves. You'd think three meals-a-day, 401 k's and $15.00 co-pays would satisfy 'em but "NOOO!" They want to keep their $10.00 co-pays and get matching contributions too." Santa sighs. "Next thing you know and they'll be wanting peanut free. It's more than one chubby man in a red suit can handle!"

I emit a few clucking noises in agreement. When in doubt imitate a chicken. Soothes 'em every time.

"But I don't need to bother you with my trials and tribulations." admits Santa. "At least the replacement elves aren't as bad as the NFL replacement refs." Santa mumbles something about his fantasy team going to pot."They SUCK!"

It's time to cut to the chase. "I'm calling about the penguins."
That old chestnut again?" asks Santa. "I thought we put that one to rest along with the existence of the Abominable Snowman and the Island of Misfit Toys. I don't have time to fight this battle again!" Santa declares. "It's almost Christmas for peppermint's sake!" 
"Yes but people need to know." I say. "It's only fair."

"OK. Go for it. Don't forget to make prominent mention of the killer whale pod and keep any references to Russia at a minimum. I have licensing agreements to fulfill and I don't need an international incident." Santa declares. "Especially when I'm smack in the middle of a labor dispute. Anyway, I'm still on Putin's shit list for that unauthorized fly-over last Christmas."
I decide more clucking noises were in order. "I heard about that."
"Yah. Four hundred years of doing this stuff." Santa testily declares. "You'd think they'd be used to it by now."

Santa and I wrap up our chat. "Give the MRS. a big hug for me." I say.
"Stay classy San Diego." Santa laughs. He loves to quote Ron Burgundy.

As I hang up the phone I think of all the situations Santa has to handle. At least I can help put the penguin issue to rest.

But that's a post for another day......

Want to see more of my Santa illustrations? 
Go to Judith Krimski Illustration

A Heroic Woman and a Wonderful Organization

Lilly's book with a cover illustration done by her son.

I had a life changing conversation recently with a woman who is now my official hero. Her name is Lillian Alvarez and she's a beautiful 65 (but looks 50). Lily lives at Hearth’s newest senior living apartment building (more about Hearth later) but her story originates in Cuba where she grew up and started her family. In the 80's Lily, her husband and baby son escaped by boat from the island. It was a terrifying trip to the coast of Florida but once there they were able to make a happy life. Lily went on to have two more children. Four years ago her husband passed away and Lily decided to move to Boston to be near her elder son, an artist, and her daughter.

Why am I talking about Lilly? Because up until a month ago she was one of the many homeless elders struggling to survive on the streets of Boston. At first glance Lily doesn't resemble the stereotypical homeless person; ragged face, missing teeth, showing the ravages of drug or alcohol addiction. In fact, most homeless elders don't fit that description. Lily is a striking lady with short silver hair and stylish glasses. Her attire when we met—all white with strappy black sandals, was impeccable.

Last winter Lily moved in with a relative and her daughter until the landlord found out and told the friend that only two could live there. Fearful that she'd be kicked out of her place, the friend told Lily she'd have to go. Just like that she became homeless, in the middle of winter, in a city she barely knew. While the rest of us were snug in our homes, chuckling about what a mild winter it was, Lily struggled everyday to stay safe, eat and get a bed for the night at the Pine Street Inn. Some nights the bed wasn't there and Lily would scramble for a place to stay, or end up in the lobby at Boston Medical for hours on end, hoping no one would notice her and kick her out. Just imagine for a moment the terror this lovely petite lady must have felt. Is anyone prepared for a situation so horrible? Are you? 

Despite her dire circumstances Lily’s spirit never wavered. Yes, she was terrified and definitely depressed. She confessed she cried a lot. Who wouldn't? But Lily didn't give up. Fortunately, thanks to the people at Hearth who helped Lily navigate the "system" and ultimately provided housing for her, this story has a happy ending. 

Hearth is one of my most favorite non-profits, one I've worked with for many years. Even so I'd never really interacted with Hearth's "clients;" homeless elders in need of support services and permanent housing. Organizations like Hearth are peopled by angels. Those who go to work everyday because they care so deeply about helping homeless elders. They don't make the big bucks but they work hard for their pay. The satisfaction they get is the ability to sleep at night knowing that one more elder like Lily, is off the street and safe in a comfortable home of her own. 

A poem Lily wrote about her new life.

This eye opening experience was a forceful reminder of what we all want—to be cared about and respected, to have dignity, to feel safe—and what we can lose. No one plans or expects to become homeless. It kind of just happens. In the blink of an eye; a fall, illness, or sudden financial problems, could cause anyone to fall into homelessness. People with jobs, lives, homes, people who have families nearby, become homeless. Lily has family, so does Robert and Moe, two other formerly homeless men I met at Hearth. 

When it was time to say goodbye, Lily picked up a pair of small white jewelry boxes from her kitchen table. "I made these for you." she declared. Inside were handmade beaded bracelets and earrings. Lily shows that the human spirit can overcome and indeed blossom, despite seemingly horrible circumstances. Like Lilly, I hope I have the courage to face an overwhelmingly difficult moment in my life. 

What has this experience taught me? The measure of a person of means is how they treat the person without means. If you encounter a "Lily" on the street be kind, because the human spirit burns inside all of us, no matter our situation. That small moment in time that you reach out may be a turning point for the person you help. Or it may just be a moment where you can say to yourself, "I did the right thing." Sometimes that's all there is and it's good enough.

About Hearth

Hearth is a Boston-based organization dedicated to the elimination of homelessness among the elderly through housing, outreach, and advocacy. Hearth was founded by a group of seven professional women who realized that elders were a growing percentage of the homeless population and that no one was expressly addressing the issue. Now in its twentieth year, Hearth is an expert on the challenges and solutions of ending elder homelessness.

For more information about Hearth go to:

Hearth, Ending Elder Homelessness

Lillian's book can be purchased on Amazon.com

88 Llaves Que Abran Los Puertas a la Esperanza, 88 Keys, That Open the Doors of Hope

Who took the donut out of the donut hole?

Today I woke up at 7:00 a.m. to take Dinghy, our new puppy, out for “Pees and Poops!” One must exude a certain amount of enthusiasm (I like to channel Dan Aykroyd’s impression of Julia Child - “Save the livah!”) when urging puppies to do their morning “Pees and Poops!” As I attempted to persuade Dinghy to finish her business she zoomed around the yard in her “Let’s play chicken!” mode—a game where she darts about in circles like a crazed foul while I give chase. 

Finally, pees and poops accomplished amidst no small amount of chicken chasing, we proceeded to perform our morning yard check. Suddenly  I noticed a commotion across the street in front of the Josiah Quincy House (a historic Quincy home built by one Josiah Quincy, a mayor of Boston and China trader). Cops and men in some kind of catering uniform all peered through the Jo Qui house fence. The intermittent spit of police radios punctuated morning cricket calls. There was a white truck parked on the street with it's back open and I could just make out racks of what looked like baked goods. I thought, “Must be having a catered affair at Jo Qui today.” But why all the cops?

Just then my neighbor Pete appeared.

“What’s all the commotion?” I asked. Pete has lived in the neighborhood forever. He’s a Quincy guy of first rank. Any Quincy-worthy news, Pete  knows it before anyone else.

“Dunkin Donut truck got jacked.” Pete informed me.

“Jacked?”

“Yah." Throwing me a less than patient look. "As in stolen. Get with the program Tammi. You gotta know the lingo of a crime scene.”

“OOOPS. Sorry.” I didn’t actually feel too bad not knowing “The lingo of a crime scene.” Crime scenes aren’t really my thing. I’m more a food truck scene gal. Crime scenes or fresh made burritos from the Baja Burrito truck? I’ll take the burrito anytime.

I peered across the street. “So are those donuts in the truck?”

Yep. Ten stores worth.”

Wow. What will they do with all those donuts?"

Pete sneered. “Probably take the truck back to the Police Station and keep it as evidence.”

Ten stores worth of deelish Dunkin Donuts. Some poor little old lady just coming from church to get her baker’s dozen (Do they still do that?) is going to have to forgo her Chocolate Chunky Cruller and Boston Cremes. 

Can anyone say crisis in Quincy?

This is a total donut debacle of desperate dimensions. 

I can see the headline now. "Collective Cry Hits Quincy. No Donuts for YOU!"
For those of you who aren't aware, Dunkin Donuts was founded in Quincy so we are very serious about our donuts.

I imagine Quincy citizens raging about the Sunday donut deficit. 

Ritual Sunday sugar highs? NOT! 

Children plead with their mommies, "Mommy, why can't I have my Nutty Butter Peanutty donut hole?" 

Mom sighs, "A really mean man took your donut hole and now the police have it and they won't give it back." 

Meanwhile, Quincy cops are “examining” the “evidence” and “logging” it for the prosecution. Something tells me crumbs will be flying when the DA finds his evidence was “lost.”

As I peer at the truck trying to figure out a way to snag some donuts—someone might as well get a good sugar high and why not me? I asked Pete. "What do you think all the donut eaters will do today without their donuts?"

Pete looked thoughtful. "Let them eat cake?"

Cake. Hmmmm. Sounds good to me.