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house: Philadelphia Metropolis This Old House
By Rachel Levy Lesser»
I grew up in a house built my grandparents. The new construction was complete in 1967, and it was distinctively theirs. The 6-foot bathtub and extra high counter tops were designed by and for my 6-foot-4 grandfather. The art studio complete with a science-like lab sink and oversized slots for canvases was what my grandmother, the budding artist, had always wanted.
It wasn't their house for as long as they would have hoped. After my grandfather died suddenly, my grandmother wanted nothing more of their dream home in Yardley. She moved to New York City where she could be near the art and culture that she craved.
This left my young parents in a precarious position. They had outgrown our small ranch
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Harder Than I Thought
By Debra Bourdeau McLoughlin»
It was harder than I thought.
We had joked about it - "Promise you'll pull the plug," my mother would say. "Sure, no problem, " I'd answer. And we'd laugh. As time went by it was less joking and more promising. I promise I won't let you suffer. I promise no life support. I promise I won't let you lay there with tubes coming out of you.
As I watched her sleep - at least I hoped she was sleeping - I looked at all the tubes. And I thought about broken promises, and the phone call. "You have power of attorney, will you consent to surgery? Without surgery, she will not survive the night." My brother, who was there with her, pleaded for her life. And so I consented, against the thousand promises, against my better judgment.
It was harder than I thought.
My siblings and I fought over feeding tubes and respirators and extra measures and what she wanted and what she didn't want, over medical care and nursing homes. Over life and death. Because one did not have the heart to stop treatment and another did not have
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Born to Boycott
By Janet Golden»
Not so long ago I emailed a close friend an article that revealed her favorite line of yoga wear, Lululemon, came from a company that promoted the works of Ayn Rand. I expected her to be grateful for the news and, since she is a good left political activist, to thank me for alerting her so she'd never shop there again.
Instead she asked: "Why did you have to tell me that?"
I was shocked at her response. But then, I come from a boycotting family.
Growing up in Southern California we boycotted all things John Birch Society. No Russell Stover candy ever passed my lips. As my mother taught me, Mrs. Stover gave money to the Birchers.
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Reading the City
By Samantha Kirk»
My father, a Navy veteran and contented suburban Maryland home-dweller, has trouble understanding why I love the city. When I talk about the row house I'm moving into in North Philadelphia, with its bathroom window offering an unobstructed view of the neighbor's bedroom, its crumbling drywall, its nightly chorus of stray cats, he waxes poetic about the Jeffersonian virtues of the countryside and the joys of homesteading. He knows I love the wilderness and the country; so why, he asks, have I spent most of my adult life seeking out the experience of the city?
It's true that I am quite the nature lover. I hike, I climb rocks, I garden; plant identification is one of my hobbies. Being able to read a forest or meadow by the leaf shapes hidden within it is a wonderful thing. Much, in fact, like walking down a city
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Philadelphia 2012
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