All my life I’ve been a planner. At age eight I promised myself I would dive off the high dive before my ninth birthday–and I did. At sixteen I planned to pass my driver’s test the first time–and I did. When the college of my choice accepted me, I determined to show my father I could graduate on the Dean’s List–and I did. My post college plans were to marry, produce two children two years apart, get a master’s degree, and have a career. All those things happened just as I planned.

Lately, however, my planning hasn’t been working out. Case in point: When my seventeen-year-old cat, Sam, succumbed to gravity last August, my plan was to wait an appropriate mourning period, then return to the Humane Society and adopt two senior cats, young enough to keep each other company but old enough not to outlive me. Then fate intervened.

It was definitely not my plan for my husband of forty-four years to fall in love with another woman–a secret he managed to keep from me for about two months. When the truth of his affair surfaced, he did the honorable thing and introduced her to me, and in an instant I understood why he was so smitten.

His inamorata now lives with us–a combination of shihtzu and poodle, which makes her either a Pooshitz or a Shitzpoo, we can’t decide which. We named her “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” a ten-month-old rescue puppy who has now been spayed, inoculated, chipped, clipped, and laundered–not necessarily in that order.

She has come to us housebroken, presumably by the same person who abandoned her. (The first fills me with gratitude, the second makes me crazy.) Shy at first, Lucy has now assumed responsibility for all furry or feathered critters in our fenced-in backyard.  Everything makes Lucy happy: kibbles, her chew toy, riding in the car, tickle games, and any sentence that includes the word “go.”

As Robert Burns once cautioned, “the best laid schemes ‘o mice an’ men gang aft agley,” but in this case, I couldn’t be more pleased.

The long slog toward equal rights for women began in 1792 when uppity Mary Wallstonecraft published her feminine treatise Vindication of the Rights of Women.

At the time the prevailing opinion was that women are “created to feel rather than to reason” and that any power they aspire to “must be obtained by [their] charms.” Mary, on the other hand, regarded “delicacy of sentiment” and “susceptibility of heart” as synonymous with “weakness.”

Her ideas gradually caught fire with other outspoken women, one of whom was Elizabeth Cady Stanton. She drafted a Declaration of Sentiments stating that if women were to be bound by the government’s laws, they should be granted an equal say in its operations. This eventually led to the Equal Rights Convention of 1848, held in Seneca Falls, New York, and attended by 260 women and 40 men. It ended with 100 votes–cast by both sexes–approving a resolution that “secured to women equal participation with men in the various trades, professions, and commerce.”

The torrent of sarcasm and ridicule that poured forth from the pulpit and press didn’t discourage Stanton. “Just what I wanted,” said this 32-year-old warrior. “It will start women thinking, and men too. And when men and women think about a new question, the first step in progress is taken.” Sadly, when she died 55 years later, her life’s ambition–equality under the law–was still unfulfilled.

One hot August afternoon in 1820, the Tennessee House of Representatives–after much heated debate–reached a 48 to 48 deadlock concerning ratification of the Nineteenth Amendment that had recently passed in the State Senate. When the speaker moved to table the issue until the next legislative session, and thus practically assure its defeat, Harry Burn, a 24-year-old Republican lawmaker, thought about the letter that he carried in his pocket. “Dear Son,” his mother had written. “Hurrah, and vote for suffrage! Don’t keep them in doubt . . . Be a good boy.”

Harry had never wanted nor expected to cast the tie-breaking vote, especially since it might compromise his upcoming bid for reelection. But when the clerk called his name, he honored his mother by voting “aye” for women’s suffrage, and thus guaranteed that “the right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by . . . any State on account of sex.” Thanks to Harry Burn, the Nineteenth Amendment was ratified 91 years ago today, August 18, 1920.

About a hundred years ago, I kissed my mother good-bye and climbed to the second floor of Denison University’s Stone Hall to meet my fellow freshmen for the first time. By the end of the second week, twelve of us had become friends–gathering nightly in one suite or another, playing bridge, dishing, sharing experiences. We called ourselves the “Dirty Dozen” for reasons no one remembers, and as semester followed semester, our friendship grew. We borrowed clothes and class notes; we found each other dates; we celebrated each new romance and mourned the breakup of old ones.

Two left school to marry in junior year. Two more transferred to other colleges. The remaining eight of us graduated together, eager to begin our adult lives yet vowing to write, to visit, to call.  A few of us went on to graduate school; all married and started families. Our lives diverged, and eventually we lost touch.

One day in 1983 my mother called from Ohio to say that a letter for me had arrived at her home, where I hadn’t lived for more than twenty years. One of the Dirty Dozen was trying to locate the others with the thought of planning a reunion–no easy task given that we had scattered to California, Pennsylvania, Georgia, Florida, Massachusetts, Ohio, New Jersey, and London.

Thanks to her persistence, a date for the first gathering since graduation was confirmed. All we needed was a place to rendezvous. Without missing a beat, my mother volunteered her country home–large enough to accommodate twelve guests and isolated enough that we could make all the noise we wanted. She promised to arrange for a caterer, to ready the beds, and to vacate for the three-day weekend.

On my flight to Ohio I recall wondering what on earth we would talk about. Would we find anything in common after all these years? Since my parents belonged to a country club, I thought if worse came to worst, golf, tennis, and swimming would help to fill the time. This, I said to myself, will either be the longest or the shortest weekend of my life.

My mother and I sat on her screened porch listening for the sound of a car coming up her long, winding driveway, bearing the Cleveland contingent–the first four DD’s to arrive. When we heard a “beep-beep,” we hurried to the turnabout, our hearts thudding with excitement. There was the Cleveland car, and just behind it another, and another, and another. The Dirty Dozen had converged at my mother’s gate within seconds of each other from all over the country! The doors burst open, and twelve young girls with middle-aged faces flung themselves into each other’s arms, laughing, hugging, weeping, and laughing some more.

We never used the tennis courts. We ignored the pool. We put on our pajamas after dinner and didn’t change out of them until the next afternoon. Among us we counted eight original husbands and four replacements; three teachers and two realtors; eight Republicans, one Democrat, and an Independent; six golfers and one sailor, two agnostics and five Protestants, two smokers, ten pairs of pierced ears, twenty-three breasts, six uteri, and one person who, until then, had never heard of the “G-spot.” We talked and laughed until our voices grew froggy and our faces cramped. It turned out to be the longest and the shortest weekend of my life.

Since that remarkable first reunion twenty-eight years ago, the DD has met every summer in a variety of locales from a rustic house in the Michigan woods to a borrowed beach house on Cape Cod. Every weekend we spend together enriches our lives and strengthens our bond. We remain the Dirty Dozen, even though two of our members have left the world.

How can I explain what this sisterhood means to me? Now that much of life–homemaking, child rearing, career building–is behind us, we have–as Ossie Davis predicted–”become more than ever who we always were.” But when we gather for our weekends, it’s not to reminisce. Nor is it to discuss husbands or grandchildren or aging parents or, God help us, the state of our health. It is to measure our own lives against the those with whom we share a common history, to seek information only a same-age sister can provide.

Last weekend we met in Pennington, New Jersey, to update each other about ourselves and to own what scares us, excites us, makes us sigh with pleasure. As always we gave voice to our plans and dreams, revealed what’s working and what’s not, and listened to each other without judging. And that’s what the Dirty Dozen does best.

          Dede               Sally               Susan             Carole                       Lee         Lyda           Rhea

He appeared at our kitchen door one rainy morning looking like, well, something the cat dragged in. He was soaking wet, had protruding ribs, and was missing a chunk from his left ear.  He didn’t meow, he chirped as if he’d been raised by grackles. “Don’t feed that cat, “I said to Fred, “or he’ll never leave.  So of course Fred did, and the cat didn’t.

He set up housekeeping under our back deck, never letting us pet him, but roaming the neighborhood at night and returning “home” each day to empty a bowl of kibbles. Bed and board greatly improved his appearance.  His ear mended, his ribs disappeared, and his bright orange fur began to glisten in the sunlight. We named him Sammy Davis, Jr., our very own Golden Boy.

Sam was a happy cat–but lonesome.  Over and over he tried to ingratiate himself with Callie, our pretty female cat, but she would only hiss in disdain and walk away. Sometimes women need to do that.

We decided if he was going to fraternize with other neighborhood cats, we should have his health checked. But how? Street-wise and wily, he wouldn’t let us get close enough to grab him. So we stopped filling the kibble bowl for a couple of days and caught him in a humane trap. Off to the vet he went.

This week the country is celebrating books in general and the 107th birthday of Dr. Seuss (Theodor Geisel) in particular.

A successful cartoonist, he wrote much loved children’s books that subtly promote racial equality, respect for the environment, generosity, ecumenism, and world peace. I once assigned The Butter Battle Book to my college composition class in hopes that the absurd warfare between the “Yooks” and the “Zooks” would spark lively debate and provide good fodder for essays on the subject of nuclear arms. It did. The book became a New York Times “Notable Book of the Year.”

My husband and I chose to honor Dr. Seuss by volunteering to read Green Eggs and Ham and Horton Hears a Who to kindergartners at Garrison Elementary School for the Arts. We each wore a red-and-white-striped-cat-in-a-hat for the occasion, and audience participation needed no encouragement.

The school, by the way, is WONDERFUL!  We walked down halls showcasing student drawings and paintings, saw a dance class in progress, heard a sixth-grade orchestra rehearsing, and noticed a classroom full of electric pianos enabling students to practice while wearing headphones. As we were leaving, a fifty-voice chorus of eighth-graders stood in a circle in the first floor gallery and sang a lovely, six-part round, their teachers conducting from the center.

Yes, an academic curriculum–math, science, and English–is an important part of the plan.  But unlike most schools, the arts are valued and encouraged at Garrison, where artistically inclined children are swaddled in a nurturing environment.

Dr. Seuss would approve.

Take seven women writers who have never met. Isolate them for four days and three nights. Provide them with comfortable accommodations, abundant good food, a bit of wine, and a goal. For the first hour they “make nice.” Then they begin to share their stories—fictional, non-fictional, and poetic.

They have retreated to lovely Ossabaw Island, Georgia, to hone their skills and serve as each others’ sounding boards. Most already have publishing credits.  All are passionate about their craft. All have at least one manuscript in progress.

They gather for work sessions, then withdraw to their rooms, to the porch, to the forest, where they can think and absorb and revise.

As the days progress, egos are set aside and friendships blossom. A camera appears, and they pose for group photographs. A guitar appears, and someone starts to sing. On the afternoon of the last day, email addresses are exchanged. And plans for future get-togethers. And hugs.

The full moon of the night before delays the rising tide, so the boat trip home must wait an extra half-hour. All the better. No one wants to leave anyway.

Who says women aren’t good at chemistry?

Beautiful Georgia knows how to protect her barrier islands, and Ossabaw is one of the loveliest. Pottery shards unearthed there confirm that it was inhabited at least 4,000 years ago. Eventually, it passed from the Guale Indians to the Creeks, who sold it to King George II in 1758.

The island was purchased in 1924 by the Torrey family of Grosse Pointe, Michigan. Their daughter, Eleanor “Sandy” Torrey West, inherited life estate in 1960, and since 1978 has been the only permanent resident. That same year the island was sold to the State of Georgia as its first “heritage preserve,” set aside in perpetuity for scientific, educational, and cultural uses only.

One of the largest of Georgia’s barrier islands, Ossabaw has wooded uplands with freshwater ponds, marshlands threaded by tidal creeks, and a long stretch of pristine, white sand beach. It is accessible only by boat, a half-hour trip that I have made a number of times.

I’ll be making that trip again next week to participate in the island’s first four-day Writers’ Retreat. Can’t wait to sleep with the whisper of wind in the pines and awaken to the sight of free-range donkeys, wild hogs, and maybe an alligator or two.

Some grammatical blunders shouldn’t be forgiven. For instance, “rise up.”  When was the last time you noticed smoke “rising down”? Ditto “raise,” “lift,” and “hoist.”

If you’re not careful, you’ll commit “a myriad of mistakes.” Well, I hope not. “Myriad” is an adjective. Used correctly it should directly precede the noun it modifies: “myriad mistakes.” Think of “myriad” as an upscale substitute for “many,” and you’ll get it right every time.

When you work on a tan, you don’t “lay on the beach,” you “lie on the beach.” “Lie” means “to rest or recline.” Its principal parts are “lie” (present tense), “lay” (past tense), and “lain” (past participle). “Lay” means “to put or place.” Its principle parts are “lay,” “laid,” and “laid.”  The confusion happens because “lay” plays two roles–as the present tense of one and the past tense of the other. I know it’s confusing–but you’re not a dummy. You can learn this!

In the wake of last week’s tragic shooting in Tucson, Arizona, much finger-pointing and name-calling concerning culpability has taken place, yet on the playground we all learned–or should have–that such tactics accomplish nothing positive. I suspect you feel as I do–that it is “others” who are indulging in inflammatory invective, not us, and we sigh and step back prepared wait until “they” get over themselves. This, I am realizing, also accomplishes nothing of lasting value. Meanwhile, during this period of back-and-forth negative rhetoric, a terrific opportunity is being squandered.
     One very astute person named Elizabeth Lesser has come up with a simple way to begin a dialog that can elevate the way we treat each other. I commend to you her short video.