by Kate on March 31, 2011
My daughter Emmy’s Gold Crown Basketball coach is a guy named Ernie Kois. He’s in his early forties, works full time and he and his wife Liz have four girls: Morgan, Maddie, Olivia and Lilly. during Ernie holds practice two nights a week for an hour and a half each (he often drives many of the girls home) during basketball season and then spends most of his Saturdays or Sundays driving to games (they’re usually 40 minutes away and played as doubleheaders with a one hour break). I’ve never seen Ernie yell at a kid or a ref. I’ve only seen him give the girls positive feedback and signs of encouragement. I’m a pretty competitive person when it comes to sports and I played for a city championship girls’ high school basketball team in Pittsburgh. We were very good and even though it was a zillion years ago, I find it difficult to sit in the stands sometimes and watch these girls dribble with their heads down or miss layups or their inability to leave the ground on a jump shot. I try to take deep, deep breathes when the sweet ones, with not an aggressive bone in their bodies, neglect to rebound or take an open shot. I have to admit it makes me a little crazy. But I just squirm silently and cheer loudly for the good stuff and keep the rest to myself because as a mom, it’s important to pretend you’ve evolved even when you’re painfully aware of your deeper nature. Also because I know these girls are doing their best.
But Ernie, he just encourages and sees the good. I call him Coach K because there was this one play before the half of a game in Highlands Ranch where our team had the ball with like four seconds on the clock and I think it was his daughter Olivia who passed the ball the length of the court (Olivia weighs like 60 pounds with her ski boots on) that was caught by Allie Scheifele who tossed up a three that hit nothing but net right at the halftime buzzer. It was a Duke play (I immediately thought of Christian Laettner) only more miraculous in my mind based on the size of our players and their probability at pulling it off. (A high scoring game for us is somewhere in the twenties). From then on, I have called him Coach K, because a) I think he deserves the same respect and b) in my heart, he so earned that play as a reward for all he does.
At one point after the burrito buffet at our End-Of-The-Year team party, Ernie was downstairs with all the girls, playing “Just Dance” on the Wii with assitant coach Megan (another one of those angels we parents run into if we’re lucky) and the girls were cracking up. It was a sight, watching him try to imitate dance moves, having fun, not worried about the ridiculousness of a middle-aged guy doing teenage dance moves. Later when Ernie adressed both kids and parents and gave each girl a certificate for her season, he talked about them one by one with much praise for the unique things they brought to the team and the court. He cried as least three times. Once when he talked about how honored he was to spend the time with them and be their coach, once when he talked about the values he hoped they were learning together and once when he talked about Taylor Collins and how much he loved having her on the team and how sad he was she was moving to Ohio. There may have been a fourth time but I don’t remember it specifically. I felt then, and I feel now, that I’m so lucky Emmy gets to have a coach like that. He nominated my daughter for a Student Athlete Award (see above) unbeknownst to us—it was about sportsmanship and game and academics— and when he called to tell us she had won he was as excited as if it had been his own kid.
I am very close with my girls and I often try to point out, in a real world way, why I think certain attributes are important. My daughters have a mother who is a crier—they tell me about something sad they learned in history class and I weep, I hear a brutal news story on the radio and I weep. I tell them about some reporting I’m working on about someone doing really good work in the world and I weep. So I was thrilled to have Ernie in my camp. “Coach ernie really cried a lot.” Emmy observed. “I know Em,” I say, “I think it’s really cool when men are able to feel things so deeply and not afraid to show their emotions.” I thought back to my own dad who was an amazingly wonderful guy and in his 71 years I remember him crying only three times. Once when his own father, who had been invalid for many years, passed away. Once when we were watching “Brian’s Song” for the first time, and once when he said goodbye to my aunt while he was dying from cancer.
I know I am happy that my daughter has already been exposed to the sight of grown men— wonderful, responsible, successful, grown men— crying and that she understands there’s nothing weak about it. I know she understands because one time we were talking about a girlfriend of mine who is a sweet soul, but has not had the best of luck with men and Em said: “Mom, so-and-so deserves an Ernie Kois.” This is a secretly joyous mother moment in which I speak matter of factly and continue to drive the van. “You’re right, Em, ” I say. “ And so do you. All good women deserve an Ernie Kois.”
by Kate on January 14, 2011
Dec. 21, 2010, Our Audience with J.B.
The night I took my daughter Annie to her first Justin Bieber concert, I thought a lot about another time, another place.
I never did get to meet Bruce Springsteen. I still love his music. I still remember the day in 1974 when my oldest brother was babysitting and took me to a party in the Oakland section of Pittsburgh where our friend Bush was living. It was a college party, a heady thing for a high school kid, but what I remember most was the moment I heard this one song coming from these massive speakers. It just seemed to take me in. I stopped noticing anything else around me. This guy was singing to a girl named Sandy about a boardwalk somewhere and love. His voice was raspy and urgent and it hit me in a few places. I could feel the longing and the soulfulness and the poetry in his words. It was a perfect time in my life for teenage salvation and from that moment on, and for a very long time, my heart sought refuge in the music of Bruce.
I saw Springsteen within a year of that. It was at the Syria Mosque (now torn down), also in Oakland. I remember what I was wearing ( a pink buttoned down shirt and jeans and white converse sneakers) and that my cousin Judy and I had tickets in the second row. I felt a part of each moment, each syllable. My cousin and I screamed, and stood mesmerized—swapping one emotional pitch for another as if conducted. I remember feeling, at the core of my being that this was one of the most important nights of my life and mostly, that I didn’t want it to end.
I have seen Bruce a couple of dozen times since then in college gyms, and concert halls, small arenas, and giant stadiums. I’ve watched him in Pittsburgh, Hartford, New York City, La Trobe, Pa., the Meadowlands, Saratoga, NY, Denver Co,, Burlington, Vermont—multiple times in many of these spots. My favorite night was in 1979. It should be mentioned that that was the year of Darkness on the Edge of Town, and that summer I was a waitress at the Jersey Shore. I remember an almost two-week stretch of rain where all I did was wake up and head out to our garage, a freestanding structure in our backyard where my mom insisted we keep the stereo— to listen to Bruce. I’d listen for hours and then go to work, hoisting large trays of seafood and serving sun-burned vacationers.
That fall, I headed off to Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut. I was not thrilled with the idea of college, but I didn’t have any better ideas. I felt very out of place at Trinity—I was a public school kid with a foul mouth, surrounded by a well-mannered boarding school crowd. I was feeling whatever the opposite of in a groove is, and so when I heard Bruce was playing in Burlington, Vermont, I bought myself a bus ticket with my waitressing money. I called a friend who I knew at the University and asked if I could crash on her floor. Beyond her ‘yes,’ response, I just hoped that somehow I’d score a ticket. I did almost immediately upon arrival—a second row seat, I bought from the boyfriend of her roommate. A karmic lotto win if ever there was one.
The night was beyond anything I could have imagined. I was alone, although, of course, I felt like I was not alone because I was with Bruce and he sang for me (at least that’s how it felt and I’m pretty sure I had large company in those feelings). There was a moment when he held up his two fists at me and sang: ” Show a little faith.” I say he did this at me because I was standing on top of my chair in the second row and there was no one in between his eyes and mine. I held up my two fists back at him in response, and he went on to finish the line, “there’s magic in the night.”
There was magic. More than three hours of it. And I was revved and inspired and feeling truly charged to the possibility of something, even if I wasn’t sure exactly what that something was. I had been transported somewhere, that’s all I can say. I was also partially deaf from being so close to the speakers and my ears rang for days. I remember smiling for a long, long time and reading Pride and Prejudice on the bus ride home. Even at the time, I knew it was an adventure I would hold onto forever.
Three decades, two children, one divorce, one engagement—myriad celebrations and sadnesses and just basically, a real wonderful, real imperfect life later, I don’t care about meeting Bruce Springsteen. I’ve spent a good part of my life interviewing celebrities and maybe that’s helped me to realize that I don’t want anything more than what I have or have already been given by the music. When I get married for the second (and last) time this September, my fiance, Scott, and I have already mutually agreed about the first song we will dance to as husband and wife. It’s about love and friendship and hanging in for the long haul and it’s called “If I should Fall Behind.” It was written by Bruce Springsteen. But I won’t be thinking about Bruce. I’ll be thinking about a love of my own and the sweet, Canadian guy across from me who’ll be holding my hand and singing along.
by Kate on December 21, 2010
The road to Bieber.
37,000 feet.
Three girls. Three women. Ages 50, 15, 13.
One iPod, one iTouch one lMacBook.
One on a journey as a mom.
One as a fan.
One as a sister.
I read Oliver Sacks. I can hear past their headphones and Kanye West is toasting the douchebags.
I may be one of them. But it’s all in the name of love and Bieber.
Destinations: Atlanta, Chatanooga Nashville and Birmingham.
Purpose: Bieber Live.
It’s my gift to Annie for her upcoming 16th birthday..
And yes, she is spoiled and yes I am crazy and Yes the world is strange and yes I have earplugs.
Em and Scott have a date for bowling and barbecue.
But we, my oldest child and I, will—on the anniversary of my jazz-loving momma’s passing—be screaming two meaningful syllables: BEE-BER.
As my dear, and also departed friend, Bertha Waller would say: Lord Have Mercy.
by Kate on December 1, 2010
Three brothers, 10 grandchildren and a 71 year-old uncle on the soccer field equals a
perfect Thanksgiving. Move over Turkey Bowl. It’s Turkey Cup, the next generation.
There is truly nothing more beautiful to me than watching my nephews Luke, Daniel, Eli Aaron and cousin Jake Roth in motion on the turf, except maybe watching my nieces, Sophie, Abby, Sonya and Cary and my daughters Annie and Emmy right there with them. My father would have been beaming on the sideline and my mother would have been bragging to all her friends on the phone. I, of the hamstring impaired, kvelled on the sideline. One of the great sentences of the weekend came from my sister-in-law Michelle, or was it Ann (too cold and old to remember which), who said: “I wonder what the Kennedys are doing today?”
by Kate on October 30, 2010
It made me sad that my girls could barely contain their disinterest in the movie Broadcast News.
But they still love Gene Kelly and Singin’ In The Rain, so I’ll forgive them. I loved Broadcast News when it first came out and I love it now. I love Albert Brooks reading and singing and then singing in French. I love Holly Hunter’s character in so many different ways—the way she gives directions to the taxi driver, the line about repelling the people she’s trying to attract, the response to her boss when he says “it must be tough to always be the smartest person in the room,” —the list goes on and on. But mostly I love her daily stint of pulling the phone off the hook, sitting on the bed and crying. I have my own version of this ritual and it almost always happens in the car when I am alone. I may be crying because the world is so fucked up. Or because I don’t know how to be a better mother to my daughters. Or because I miss my own mother so very much. Or because I read something in the paper or heard something on NPR that broke my heart in a thousand ways. I cry because I need to release the sadness so I can move on with my day.
I also cry with joy—at my children, at my friends, at my family, at a sweet phone message from my boyfriend/fiancée Scott. I cry because my friend Paula Kaplan and my friend Jenny Burton both cried when they heard I got engaged. And I cry because my friend Jennifer hasn’t STOPPED crying since she heard I got engaged. I cry, too because I’m so damn lucky to be healthy, to have healthy children (please knock on whatever hard surface is near) and a secure roof over our heads and healthy food on the table. I cry because Maya Kaimal makes four different curries in a jar that I can whip up with veggies and sometimes chicken and my children think I’m a cook. I cry because my four, sweet amazing and beautiful nieces call me Tante and because all five of my nephews are such wonderful guys. There was a time in my life when I cried a lot more than five minutes a day, and a sweet soul told me: “No one cry more tears than they have to.” So I guess I have to. My tears keep me company through the crazy, wacky, messy journey that is life. I don’t know what I would do without them. I was having a missing-my-mom moment on our recent engagement trip and Scott said to me: “You love a good cry.” And he’s right. I do. I also NEED one. Daily. Just like Holly Hunter.
by Kate on October 21, 2010
If by married, you mean shackled for life, then yeah, I’m doing it.
You read that correctly. On October 16, 2010, somewhere along the walkway to the lighthouse in Cape Mears, Oregon, I Kate Kennedy Meyers agreed to a proposal from Scott Alexander Mowbray. “What did he propose?’ was my brother Stuart’s comment. “If you break her heart, I’ll kill you,” deadpanned my brother Dave, to which Scott laughed and Dave replied, “No, I mean it. I’ll kill you.” My brother Muzz, took the jag off approach and tried to talk like an excited girl. My daughters cried at the hair salon where Annie was getting dolled up for her high school homecoming dance. The Chinese hair stylist at Cost Cutters started yelling in Chinese because she didn’t know what was going on. Scott’s daughters Emily and Rosa were both happy and sweet from Vancouver and Toronto, respectively. My friend Jennifer in Maine immediately signed on to bake pies for the event. We don’t have a date yet, but she has already emailed requesting a list of our favorites. I told Emmy, my youngest, who immediately needed to know when the event would take place, that it would have to be after her Bat Mitzvah (this June) and then she said “Can we have it the day after?!” My nieces Abby and Sophie in Lexington, MA screamed with joy. They have never been to a wedding— so they too, are ready for a shindig ASAP. They also happen to be addicted to TLC’s Say Yes To The Dress, about the inner workings of the world’s premier bridal shop, so I’m hoping they’ll have some tried and true second time around sartorial suggestions. The brilliant and wonderful Anne Taintor has signed on to create the invitations. George and Stephie Lange have generously offered their front lawn in Maplewood, N.J. for the ceremony and we are hoping to take them up on that offer. George hasn’t offered his camera yet, but he’s the official photographer, anyway.
This has been a long time coming: first date January 7, 2005. At present we are in Northern California wine country and I’m enjoying the local bubbly as well as constant use of the word fiancée. My friend Michelle Conover told me that she thinks women are equipped to make a decision about who to spend their life with when they ALREADY feel like their life is the cake and getting married is just icing on the cake. I DO. My friend John Von Brachel told me that when he and Sue got married they were celebrating something that WAS, as opposed to something that will be. WE ARE. It only took me fifty years to get here and I don’t regret the ride, I only regret that a) my dad never got to meet Scott and b) my mom isn’t around to bask in the joy, kvell and help with planning. She was a crackerjack planner and a classy chick and right now I believe in the idea that she will be looking down, smiling and maybe even dancing because she was a great dancer. I believe this because I just can’t bear not to. As we say in Pittsburgh, here comes the bride, hon.