Beverly Sills: Cheerful to the End

Though I'm not the world's biggest opera fan (I used to attend the Virginia Opera regularly with my mother during my teens, but not much since then), I was a big fan of Beverly Sills, who died this week. In one of the many ironies of her life, she had lung cancer--though she never smoked.

People have all kinds of role models in their lives, and she was one of mine. Not so much for her musical ability--few of us could hope to compete in that area--but in how she lived her life: with style, with kindness, with grace. As her obits point out, other opera singers of her era had nicknames like "la Stupenda" -- Beverly was called "Bubbles."

She managed to have a great career, both as a performer and an arts administrator, while always being herself--which was a damn fine thing to be. She spent important parts of her career in the Boston area and was a leading light of Sarah Caldwell's Opera Company of Boston. Her husband, Peter Greenough (who died last year) was a financial columnist for the Globe during the 1960s.

Though she had by all accounts a happy marriage, her children were born with physical and mental disabilities, including a daughter who is deaf:

It was an ironic trick of the gods to give me a daughter who couldn't hear me sing," Ms. Sills said on a PBS special last year devoted to her career, Beverly Sills: Made in America. "It affected my singing. The best times I had were moments on stage. To be able to pretend to be somebody else for three hours was such a relief.

Here's where the role model stuff comes in. I'm a naturally upbeat person, but sometimes you just have to push through on attitude, like Beverly Sills. Whenever I'm down, physically or emotionally, and feel like being catty or snippy or just plain cranky, I try to remember what she famously said many years ago (and thanks to my mother for first introducing me to this quote):

I'm not happy, I'm cheerful. There's a difference. A happy woman has no cares at all. A cheerful woman has cares but has learned how to deal with them.

I learned a lot about perspective from Beverly Sills and about how you treat the people around you even when things aren't going great for you. For me, that's a legacy that will last as long as memories of her beautiful voice. Wherever she is now, I hope she's not just cheerful, but happy, too.

Photo by Joseph Sinnott from the Concise Encyclopedia Britannica.

How Do They Do It?

This photo from the Globe's online real estate section (excuse me--the luxury section) caught my eye. And okay, I get that this is a pricey condo--open floor plan, beautiful materials, no doubt great location. What I don't get is: How the heck do you keep a place like this clean and uncluttered? Where's the junk mail? Where are the school notices? What about the newspapers, magazines, and books, books, books?

Or is that just me?

Riding On Bikes with Boys

Remember how great it felt as a kid to ride your bike everywhere? You could cruise around your neighborhood or head to the local convenience store for candy or hot chocolate. That used to be me, but not so much lately. "Lately" as in the last, oh, 12 years or so, thanks to some medical problems.

In the Boston area, which has a lot of serious bikers, including my friend Michele, I'm late to the party. Nevertheless, as part of my new "exercise or else" program (courtesy of my doctor), I've gotten back into cycling. My old bike (a Trek from the late '80s) is still in pretty good shape, but my husband bought me a new bike from LL Bean (a Schwinn, but with the ever-lovin' Bean lifetime warranty--woohoo!) to encourage me in my biking endeavors. And fortunately, you know what they say about riding a bike, and it's largely true, thank goodness. (The same is NOT true for roller skating, btw. You CAN forget how to skate.)

Jim has become a hardcore biker in the last several weeks, a change brought on by his desire to bike to his new job in Cambridge at least part of the way each day. (The rest being covered by T and feet.) Although he's still riding his old Trek (a less theft-worthy target at the T), we're talking fenders, lights, poncho, dry bag for his work clothes, baskets, a Kryptonite lock--the whole nine yards. In typical male fashion, if there's a gadget or attachment, he'll take it. For me, my main concern was a comfier saddle, so after testing out a few possibilities, I now have a nice wide seat (for my nice wide seat, heh). The better seat has made an "oh god I have to exercise" ordeal into a "hey, if we go out NOW we can beat the rain!" hobby.

So for the last few weeks, as the weather has warmed up, we've been trying to get out somewhere at least once a weekend (mainly the Minuteman Trail, AKA "America's Most Celebrated Bike Path," but also down near Plymouth), usually with our son. Yesterday, Jim and I (sans The Boy, who was occupied elsewhere with friends) rode to the Bedford Whole Foods (about 11 miles round trip). I have to admit, I'm proud of my generally out-of-shape self making the journey with only a couple of stops along the way. Partly it's because I've been exercising more, but I also give credit to the fact that I no longer try to climb elevations in third. Ain't gonna work, people--must. down. shift. (Growing up in one of the flattest places in America--Virginia Beach--doesn't make you an expert in using those 21 gears. Pretty much one gear will do down there.)

Of course, there's the whole, virtuous "I didn't take my car to the grocery store--I came by bike!" thing. Naturally, Jim burst my bubble by adding, "So of course we probably bought produce flown in on a jumbo jet from Chile." (To which I say, "Um...what's your point?")

I know this will sound corny, but after living in the Boston 'burbs for five years now, all of a sudden I'm literally seeing things I never saw before--meadows, woods, cool neighborhoods and old shacks, athletic fields--that you can't see unless you're on one of the trails. And in Lexington, there's a really good candy store, too. So I might be late to the party, but I'll be bringing great refreshments.

Kind Cops on Patrol

My doctor's office is at MGH, so for today's checkup I had to exit Storrow Drive and get past the construction site that will one day be a handicap-accessible T stop for the hospital. (Admit it: it's kind of funny--in a sick way--that the T stop for Mass General is so totally, totally non-accessible. Yup, just watch those people in casts and wheelchairs navigate the twisting steps!)

Anyway, I tried to get over to the left lane to make the turn into the hospital. Didn't quite make it through on the green light at the multi-way corner that's practically underneath the construction zone. And unfortunately, I ended up stopped over a pedestrian crosswalk. So imagine my concern when a young traffic cop started walking over to my car. I rolled down my window, expecting a "why'd you stop in a walkway?" lecture. (People can be so grumpy this time of year!)

"Which way are you going?," Nice Young Traffic Cop asked.

"To the hospital--I didn't quite make it into the left lane," I said.

"No, no--you're okay. Stay here and just drive across the intersection when I give the signal."

"But I'm blocking a crosswalk," I said.

"Don't worry, people have plenty of places to walk--you're fine," said NYTC. "Just wait for my signal."

I thanked NYTC and waved. He smiled.

When I crossed the intersection, there was so much of a backup that I still didn't make it into the left lane for my turn. This time ANOTHER cop told me that two lanes were turning left at this time (I think that's only during the construction period--don't expect this to be permanent).

Given that I always feel a bit like I'm taking my life in my hands driving through this particular piece of roadway, it was nice to know that Boston's Finest were looking after me. And the MBTA is making the T stop handicap accessible. And I found a parking space at the hospital garage quickly.

In the spirit of the holiday--it's all good.