Author Archives: sherry

About sherry

After a long and happy career in Corporate Executive Recruiting, I retired and became the owner of a small country store in Marshfield Hills MA, which I sold to the actor Steve Carell at the end of 2008. Freed from the work-a-day world, I began to travel and then, of course, had to write about all that! After a while, I moved to Florida for what I thought was going to be 3 months of the year, but turned out to be 8 months. Still maintaining a house of the South Shore of Boston, summers are lovely. I have become a certified Yoga Teacher and continue to write. In the Summer of 2013, I published the book My Life at the Marshfield Hills General Store. When asked 'what's next?', I can honestly say I don't know. We'll see where the stars lead me.

The way we were …. Mixed Company

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The Way We Were…..

Once upon a time, there was a group of grown people who decided to do a show.  It was called “You and the Night and the Music” – a celebration of popular music from the 1930’s.  They had so much fun singing together, they formed a more permanent arrangement and called themselves “Mixed Company”.  Though they suffered loss and change, the core group remained together for several years before dissolving.  Luckily, there was one recording made – of a concert in Providence.  When I hear this, it brings everything back – the friendship, the music, the love.

Listen to Down to the River by Mixed Company in live performance
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67th September

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This is my 67th September. Always a month of change, mourning the loss of summer, tasting the reality of the coming cold. Like most Americans, I am programmed for a new ‘start’ this month, and memories easily arise – a new teacher, finding my classrooms, a skirt my mother made for me, a fresh blue sweater. In the Northeast where I’ve spent most of my life, September’s cool breezes bring energy and enthusiasm back, waking everyone from heat induced lethargy. We say we’re sad that summer is over, but in our hearts, we’re glad to get back “to business”, to feel recharged. Teaching and training a child with this disorder is not normal, as it can cause such distress that it interferes with one’s ability levitra properien to lead a normal life. Why not test it on younger women? Propecia is a teratogen, which means it can evolve into a buy cialis no prescription cancer. Bad practices:- Unhealthy practices can incur numerous health issues, peculiarly when it relates to sexual health. navigate to this site sildenafil tablets australia When patients are reported to the hospital or may suffer with the threat cialis pharmacy of permanent damage. In New England, work and purpose are part of our DNA and this season feels right to us. We are at home in it.

Even though I will not be here to witness the magnificent changes autumn brings or the bracing winter winds that reinforce our hardiness, my programming is deeply imbedded and I find myself thinking about what I will accomplish this ‘winter’. At present, I am merely courting ideas, but once re-situated in my Florida home, I am quite certain one or two will take root and I will be on to something new. It’s who I am, after all.

Summer’s Ending – August Afternoons

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Summer’s Beginning:
A June night ~

Walked down to the Harbor tonight – the second really warm evening of the year.  Kids running around the Gazebo.  Families taking a walk, eating ice cream cones from Nona’s.  Folks sitting on their boats, having a glass of wine or a cold beer.  Guys hosing down their decks.  Young couples (oh, so young!) holding hands, making plans, their futures open as the sky.  It’s New England, after all.  So, on a night like this, people gobble it up as though it’s the first and only strawberry shortcake they will ever have.  Summer is here, at long last.

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Summer’s Ending:
August Afternoons ~

Boo and I have gotten into the habit, over the summer, of riding down to the Harbor late every afternoon.  I have a three wheeler with a large basket in back; she sits there like the princess she is, watching the world go by at a comfortable pace, feeling safely off the ground.  We get down to the water’s edge, park and walk around a bit, stopping in at the Coast Guard Station and the Harbormaster to schmooze a bit.  The guys love Boo.  We talk about the rabbits that live under the shrubs and how it makes us so mad when the little kids chase them around, scaring them half to death.  The other day, I reported a huge dead seagull along the walkway.  They told me not to worry – the racoons would take care of that tonight.  I wonder aloud what might have happened to it; they tell me it probably just got old and  died – like all of us.  Except me, of course.

After grousing about being away from home all summer, I’ve finally gotten used to it.  I’ve structured new routines, scratched out my little daily ruts that comfort me so.  Life is fine.  The heat of the past couple of months has disappeared and left an umbrella of bright blue, a warm sun and cool ocean breezes.  This is nice….it’s like Punta Gorda in the middle of winter!

Speaking of Punta Gorda, it’s almost time to start packing up, preparing the migration back to Palms and Bougainvillea.  Bob decided to pull up some sea heather yesterday, while we were out in the kayaks – thinking he’s going to grow it in Florida.  We all know that’s not going to happen, but let him have his dreams.

I’m thinking about this term ‘snowbirds’ and wondering if I might start a new fad – changing it to SUNBIRDS.  I like the feeling of flying toward something, rather than away from something.  If I use it enough, maybe others will start to use it too.  Maybe make up some bumper stickers.  Watch for it.

Take a Rooster to Eleuthera

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TAKE A ROOSTER TO ELEUTHERA
 
The Travel Guides talk about Harbour Island, the tiny island off the bigger island of Eleuthera in the Bahamas.  They wax eloquent about the charming Loyalist cottages, luxurious resort hotels, high end and not so high end marinas, the stunning pink beaches and beyond words blue and turquoise waters.
But.  And this is an oversight I really don’t understand.  They say NOTHING about the Roosters.  Not mentioning the Roosters is like not mentioning the Hibiscus, or the Bougainvillea, or the coral sand.  They are EVERYWHERE.  Their numbers are legion.
You and yours are having French Toast on the porch of Dunmore Deli; they trot regally under the table next to you.  You visit  the historic library shaded by giant Banyan trees; they stand guard.  While you watch the sunset over the Caribbean, they take their evening strolls.  You are enjoying a vacation read; they take a short cut across your porch.

Inspiration!

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 Preface:

Reading this story I wrote in 2009, I couldn’t help but think it still rings true for me.  The circumstances are most certainly different, but I have just recently emerged from another ‘life changing’ experience and the fundamental principles of taking risk and being open to what may come still apply.  

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The winding, glorious streets of San Miguel de Allende
 INSPIRATION – March 2009
Before I left to spend the month of February in Mexico, some of my concerned friends expressed their dismay over my trip.  “You’re going alone? Aren’t you afraid?”  I admit I shared their concerns.  Even though I knew that San Miguel de Allende, a colonial city in the middle of the country, was safe and beautiful, the idea of not knowing ANYONE and being so far away, for so long, was unnerving.  
So, why was I doing this?  That was the big question with a fairly simple answer: to see what, if anything, was left inside of me.  To find out who I was at this odd juncture of my life, where so much of what had defined ‘Me’ no longer existed.  I was sick of looking in the mirror and thinking: Who am I now?  My business, my place in the community is gone.  My marriage is failing, my beloved dog has died.  All I saw was a sad, lost, purpose-deprived old woman.  I didn’t recognize myself anymore.

Our Little Harbor Town on the South Shore…

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After selling our enormous Victorian in Marshfield Hills, Massachusetts, we made the big move across the North River Bridge, a couple of miles away to a tiny house right off the main drag of Scituate Harbor.  It was really my idea.
Maybe it’s a nod to my City Girl Self – the one who would leave her apartment on the Upper West Side on a Saturday morning and spend the day roaming Manhattan, perhaps stopping to take a nap on the Great Lawn in Central Park.  Everything right under my nose!I loved it.
Harbor life is kind of like that – on a fractional scale.  During our summers, Boo and I walk down to the waterfront every afternoon to watch the fishing boats come in and load their catch onto the market trucks.  There is something so fundamental about it.  The easy comradery of the fishermen, washing down their decks, laughing or complaining depending upon the success of the day.
We don’t have to leave the Village very often, if we don’t want to.  There’s a well stocked hardware store, TWO nail salons, spas, an acupuncterist, chiropractor, dentist, dog boutique, gourmet restauarants, great Chinese takeout, pizza and sub shops, ice cream for late night cravings, as well as Mullaney’s Fish Market – they do have the freshest fish (and why not?).  There’s even a multi-screen, state of the art movie theatre.  Art galleries, toy store, gift shops, music store, dance studio….  honestly!  All in less than a mile stretch.  And, of course, there’s the beach only ½ mile away.   Oh yes, and three liquor stores, plus a grocery store that sells beer and wine.  We don’t want to take the chance of running dry, now do we?
And just to keep an eye on things, St. Mary’s Church, on the corner as you enter town, has Mass on Saturday nights and Sunday mornings.   The Methodist Church makes its presence known every day of the week, though– at 9:00 AM, 12:00 PM and 5:00 PM, as the carillon rings out Christian hymns that can be heard throughout the Village.   And, to make sure you know they have a sense of humor, it’s usually Christmas Carols – O Come All Ye Faithful, Hark the Herald Angels Sing – and occasionally Amazing Grace or Jesus Christ is Risen Today.  
The Irish Riviera.  That’s the nickname for this little gem, tucked along the harbor on the Coastline running from Boston to Cape Cod.   It’s the place the TV stations send their reporters to cover nor’easters and hurricanes when they find their way to the Boston area.  You’ll see them out on the jetty, or by the Lighthouse, yelling into their microphones while the wind, rain, snow, sleet, and surf just beat the hell out of them.  But, in the Summer – ah.  It’s all about the ocean breezes, the sailboats’ halyards clanging on their moorings, having lunch at the Mill Wharf, looking out at the sparkling sea.   One tends to forget winter – for a while.  

 

Star of the Day

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Star of the Day

from  a collection of short stories “My Life at the Marshfield Hills General Store”

by Sherry Campbell Bechtold 
copyright 2013
Years from now, the little General Store in the center of our village will still be there.  Some well intended soul will be stocking the candy corner and making recommendations on what wine to buy.  Every morning, a Charlie will arrive early and buy a lottery ticket, a cup of coffee and maybe a muffin.  Preoccupied young men will leave their cars running while they dash in and pay for a newspaper.  Kids will get off the school bus and pile into the store with way too much energy.  Lively white haired widows will look for greeting cards.  Young moms will bring in their toddlers to buy a pop.
Occasionally, maybe on a holiday weekend, folks will stop in and the owner won’t recognize them.  They don’t live in the neighborhood, but they ‘used to’.  They will walk around, smile and say “wow, I haven’t been here since I was a kid.  I used to buy candy here – right in this corner, just like this”.  They’ll ask the owner how long he or she has owned the store, and then they’ll talk about the way it was – years ago.
“There was this woman who used to own the store.  Her name was Sherry.   She was nice, and she didn’t seem to mind all us kids.  I remember she made me ‘do the math’ whenever I bought something.  She would say “if you can’t add it up, you can’t buy it”.  I guess it really bugged her that kids in those days couldn’t add in their heads!  And, if you took out money from your pocket – or your shoe – and it was all crumpled up, she’d hand it back to you and make you flatten it out, nice and smooth, and hand it back to her.  She was funny that way.  But, you know, the thing I remember most about her was her dog…..”
Her dog.  That lovely pale Golden Retriever, appropriately named Star.   She was there when Sherry was there.  If you saw Star, lying on the front porch or across the front door (so everyone coming in had to step over her), you knew Sherry was behind the counter.  They were a team.  Star’s job was to be wonderful….the object of love and adoration.  She was there for every toddler who wanted to bury his face in her abundant fur.  She was there to offer solace to every tired guy at the end of a long day at work.  She was there to remind everyone who was drawn into her sphere of influence that unconditional love isn’t just a phrase and that oh, well, I guess life can’t be all that bad.
 There truly was something special about this dog.  Before becoming a permanent fixture at the store, Star was a visiting dog at a local nursing home.  Weaving her magic web, she cast a spell of comfort and warmth among the lonely residents, occasionally performing a tiny miracle like inspiring a mute stroke victim to speak his first words in months.  “What a beautiful dog!” he said, stroking her silky ears.
“Star of the Day, who will it be?”, Ray Amorosi sang to her whenever he walked through the door to find her holding court.   She was always the Star of the Day.
It was late fall in 2008, just before Sherry sold the store.  Star was diagnosed with brain tumors and began to fail.  Less than a year, the vet said.  Unsteady and sometimes more than a little wobbly, Star came to the store every day with Sherry.  She would hear the keys as Sherry picked them up from the kitchen counter, and she’d wake up from her nap, slowly getting to her feet, goin to the door prepared to walk across the street – like very other day.  Once at the store, she assumed her place – blocking traffic – and went back to sleep, stirring only for a familiar touch.
When, on one November afternoon, there was a sign on the front door of the store “closed temporarily”, there were some who intuitively knew what had happened.  Beloved Star had died, at home, lying in the sun, with Sherry holding her and stroking her face.
It’s probably best that, a very short time after, Sherry turned over the store to new owners.  Being there without Star was just too painful.  Though, she was not the only one who was heartbroken – even grown men broke down in tears when they came in expecting to see the ever present Star.  It would never be the same without her.  It was the end of an era.
“I guess everyone thinks that their childhood was special and that nothing could ever be like that again.  But, you know, I think that being a kid here, at that time, coming to the store every day.  Sherry scolding me for not knowing how to add up my money – because she really cared; you know?  And that dog.  Everyone loved her dog.  And everyone loved her loving her dog.  It was pretty special.”
Star 3x2 JPEG copy 2
“Star” by Wiesy McMillan

The Lucky Ones

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Last night, we attended an event at the Punta Gorda Isles Yacht Club – we’re not members, but occasionally there is something special hosted there and we go.  This particular event was the “farewell” to our beloved Maestro of the Charlotte Symphony Orchestra – T. Francis Wada.  His last season as conductor has just come to a close and there seems to be no end to the love and gratitude our community has for this extraordinary person!

We were not here in Punta Gorda (heck, we had not even heard of Punta Gorda!) before Maestro Wada took the helm of the CSO.  During our first winter, looking around at things to do, we discovered that 10 minutes from our house was a concert hall where a Symphony performed.  I admit I had my doubts.  Having lived in New York City and Boston, I proudly consider myself a music snob.  So, with my nose sufficiently in the air, I went to hear this so-called Symphony Orchestra. (sniff).  I mean, how good could it possibly be?

Quite good, as it turned out.  And, that little concert hall (affectionately known as CPAC) proved to be as well designed as any of its size in any major city!  Who knew?  Well, now I did!  So, it came to pass that we have been season subscribers since.  And as the years have flown, our Charlotte Symphony Orchestra continues to grow and evolve, playing to sold out audiences who absolutely love them.  Maestro Wada has had everything to do with that.  His musicianship and creativity are, of course, exemplary.  But what has worked the magic is his SELF.  His loving, charming, funny, delightful, completely endearing SELF.  It may sound a little trite to say “everyone loves him”, but we all honestly do.

Last night was another sold out house – how could it not be?  True to Wada’s mission, there was entertainment and style, and unabashed energy for fund raising.  An endowment now in place, in Maestro Wada’s name, funding is in full swing and our dearest leader is more than happy to bend a knee – if that’s what it takes – to keep his Orchestra going and growing.  How can anyone say ‘no’ to him?  Well, they can’t.


–>
Sitting at the beautifully appointed table in the dining room of the Yacht Club, looking out at another stunning sunset, palms, the boats, the canals, being here to honor this man and this music,  I had a mystical moment of  ‘look where I get to live!’.  How lucky can anyone get?  


 As the evening ended, Al Holland – yes, THE Al Holland of the Platters(another fine, gifted human happily caught in Wada’s net) sat down at the piano to sing the celebration to a close.  As I walked down the hall to leave, and heard him croon “Only You……”  and I couldn’t stop myself from singing along ‘can make this world seem right…”.  When I got to the front door, there were a few others waiting for their rides and they were also singing, so we finished the song together, smiling at each other, enjoying our flashback.  Our music!  That was our time!  One of the ladies turned to me and said “We were so lucky”.  

Yes.  We were.  We still are.

The Rock Star

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“Nature Boy” by David Brega

The Rock Star (from a collection of short stories “My Life at The Marshfield Hills General Store”
by Sherry Campbell Bechtold, Copyright 2013


If they could see him now.  The ROCK STAR.  World famous lead singer of one of the greatest rock and roll bands in music history.  Flamboyant, effusive, that huge voice coming out of a mouth that easily spreads into a one of a kind smile that covers most of his face. 

 
This early Saturday morning, he’s out for an early run wearing rather ordinary gym pants and a ratty grey sweatshirt.  The spectacular rings are still there.  And, there’s that hair.  And the sunglasses.  Even without all the glamour and glitz, there’s no way he can be mistaken for an ‘ordinary’ citizen.  Today, though, he is doing an ordinary thing.  He’s just a guy out for a run, stopping in for a cup of coffee and a muffin. 
 
He’s safe here – free from the craziness of stardom.  This is off the record.  This is home.  It’s true that here – usually – no one really bothers him.  This may be one of the biggest reasons  he likes to live in our little Victorian Village on the South Shore of Boston.  He’s an accepted part of the scenery.  Sure, people like to wave and give a howdy to the Village Main Event.  “Hey Steven!  When’s the next tour?”  And, he loves to chat it up with the neighbors.  It’s also true that, when he comes into my store, it’s impossible to ignore his presence.  His personality just fills the space.  It’s who he is.
 
I ring up the sale, but of course he has no cash with him.  Not a problem.  Years ago, he set up his system with me.  When he does have some money on him, he gives me a bunch which I keep in a plastic margarine cup in the safe under the counter.  That way, he’s always covered.
 
“Thanks, Steven.  Have a good run.  Say ‘hi’ to Theresa for me”.  And he’s out the door, taking a left and walking down to the end of the porch, sipping his coffee as he meanders down our quiet, tree lined street with all its lovely, old homes. 
 
I did say that ‘usually’ no one bothers him. 
 
“Was that …….HIM??????”  Jim Harris bursts into the front door, fairly destroying the morning’s peaceful tone.  “Yes.  You missed him again.”  This guy has been trying to get face time with Steven for years.  Once, he staged a sit-in on the front porch for hours, claiming he would not leave until he met Steven.  I warned him that approach was probably not going to yield the desired result, that Steven was not ‘regular’ in that regard and could not be predicted.  He was having none of it.   He sat at the table on the porch until the store closed well after dark.  I guess his wife was looking for him and someone came to take him home.  And, here he was again, a victim of bad timing.
 
“DAMN!  I can’t BELIEVE it!”  Jim stands in the middle of the store like he just realized he threw away a winning lottery ticket.  “What if I just run after him?”  He says that, but perhaps realizes that he would be making a fool of himself and that would not be cool.  One does not want to be uncool with an international ROCK STAR.  So, he stands there, frozen in the moment when he almost met his hero.
 
“I don’t understand it, really”, I tell him. “Most everyone in the neighborhood has met him – either here, or at the movies, or at the supermarket, or on the road when he’s out for a walk, or at one of his kids school things.  It’s too bad, really.  You being such a big fan and all.” 
 
Jim hangs his head as though this is an acknowledgement of a personal failing.  “I guess I’ll just get a cup of coffee.”  Clearly he is crestfallen.
 
Pity overtakes me.  I reach under the counter and take out the margarine cup.  “Would you like to hold his private money stash for a minute?”.  He looks at me in disbelief.  “No way!”  “Yes, way.”  He gently touches the yellow and blue plastic cup with ‘Steven’ written across it in magic marker.  A touch closer to his idol, he smiles.
 

The North Rim…….

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THE NORTH RIM from “Our Bucket List Adventure” by Sherry Campbell Bechtold

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When we arrived at Jacob Lake, it was  already well into the afternoon and overcast  for the first time on our journey.  We faced a 40 mile drive to the North Rim and decided to “just go”.  We’re practically at the Grand Canyon for heaven’s sake.  Why wait another minute?
The road from the Lake to the Canyon is almost straightaway.  There are no other vehicles on the road.  There are no buildings along the way.  We drive – not in a hurry, but with purpose.  Dark clouds fill the vast sky and threaten rain – or worse.  Pine forests in the deepest green you can imagine frame the gold Aspens, bright as sunlight, opening to sweeping flaxen meadows.  It’s easy to imagine mule deer and antelope waiting in the shadows for dusk.  Somewhere along that long entrance road, we feel the world fall away behind us.  The radio is turned off and even the sounds of the truck engine fade into quiet.
In moments, we are transported into a parking lot not quite full of cars and RVs.   When we emerge from the truck, we realize the same magic Hush is outside too.  A few people chat imperceptibly and walk their barkless, well behaved dogs.  Even though there are no signs, we know where to go –  along a charming group of individual log cabins, pine trees and meandering walkways, leading to the beautiful North Rim Lodge.  Rustic.  Elegant.  A proud sentry for the North Rim.
A few steps around the Lodge and we’re on the stone patio overlooking the Canyon – indescribable, patient, bearing witness.
Miles away, on the South Rim and beyond, several rainstorms span the horizon, an occasional lightning strike connecting heaven and earth, distant thunder we can’t hear.  It takes some doing to adjust and begin to tune in to those around us.
A tour guide wearing an old cowboy hat easily entertains a few of his groupies with tales of past expeditions.  He hasn’t been home in 14 years.  Always on the road, a gypsy.  To our right, a delightful gentleman is engrossed in discussion of the Western Condor, which he has been hunting with his binoculars all day.
Tiny, fleeting life forms, we.   Destined to leave scarcely an echo in our wake.  We are blessed to be here.  In the face of this miracle, all we really have to offer is our gratitude.  Everyone seems to know that. There is a gentle comradery among us, above all there is reverence.
We learn that there is just enough time to drive to Royal Point for sunset, promised to be glorious because of the day long churning clouds.  After several miles of twists and turns on another lonely road, we find a small group of parked cars, and realize we need to get out and walk the rest of the way.  It’s so close to sunset, I’m worried I won’t get to the Point in time.  But the sights of Canyon and sky on both sides of this skywalk peninsula are intoxicating,  and I find my feet carrying me in that direction without hesitation.  I am entering into a state of Grace as I emerge from the walkway onto a stone platform.  Shafts of light cross the eastern Canyon walls, the rim brilliant against a charcoal backdrop, the plummeting depths of inner space, lost in darkness.  The western sky is a symphony of colors throwing a party with the setting Libra sun, as he whispers ‘goodnight’ and gathers the blankets around him.  
It’s almost dark when we rewind ourselves down the mountain and begin our slow drive over the plateau toward Jacob Lake through misty rain and intermittent fog.  A lone Coyote appears in our peripheral light in the meadow, and a little later, a Mule Deer catches sight of us and leaps through the tall grass toward the Aspens.  The fog clears, revealing a crystal clear night full of stars and directly in front of us, Big Dipper rests low on the horizon and is so enormous, I fancy myself walking through the meadow and reaching up to touch it.  Bliss.
 
I will live to wish I could return to this day time and time again.   And when the angels ask me to recall the thrill of them all, I will tell them I remember the North Rim.