From Germany with glove

It was two years ago this month that an unlikely sort of love story began. That is, my fondness for lost gloves. And it’s still going strong, which I’ve documented in a long series of photographs that I call “Glove Stories.”

Traveling for my [now former] job as a Senior Copywriter for a Boston-based travel company, I took the first half of a 16-day European river cruise along the Danube, Rhine and Main rivers. The Bavarian city of Regensburg was just one of many German ports we visited en route from Vienna to Amsterdam. With its lively open squares, welcoming sidewalk cafés, turreted town hall and spectacular Gothic cathedral, I liked the city immediately.

One of Regensburg's busy squares

Following an afternoon beer with some fellow travelers at one of Regensburg’s popular beer gardens, I decided to walk it off with a “self-guided” stroll. Wandering beyond the main square, I admired the meticulously kept yards and quaint houses—especially common in Germany—that lined the narrow, medieval streets. And of course, I had my camera just in case I encountered some visual treasure along my path. Which I soon did: in the form of a comfortably worn, brown leather glove…

My first "glove story"

For whatever reason, I found unexpected humor—and poignancy—in this abandoned glove, while various questions also came to mind. Did it come off its owner’s hand while he or she closed the trunk of the car? How did that person not notice? Were they burdened by packages—or was their hand just too cold to even realize the glove had fallen off? Maybe a well-meaning passer-by found the glove on the ground and tossed it on to the car? Or perhaps someone threw their companion’s glove from a passing vehicle during an argument, and it just happened to land there? There was no way to know for sure, but the unique photographic opportunity remained.

Ever since that day in late March 2010, I’ve become particularly aware of lost gloves—lying alone in streets and parks, on sidewalks and fences—and have photographed them just as they were found. From my own doorstep to Regensburg, and Nantucket to Cairo, I’ve seen dozens throughout my travels. And while I’m sure their back-stories are usually as simple as having fallen from a pocket or purse, I always find myself wondering how they ended up there.

Oh baby, things have changed

Never one to mince words, I must admit: Crying makes me cringe, germs make me nervous, and baby photos bore me. And at the risk of offending people I know and love, I’d really rather talk about bargain shopping or baseball than babies. While I’m always sincerely happy when my friends have children, I’ve never really wanted one myself—and I never want to sit near them on the subway, in an airplane or at a restaurant. In fact, when I recently read about the controversial  “no children allowed” movement, I didn’t totally disagree with it…

Obviously, I would make a terrible aunt. Until I became one and my life changed forever…Annabelle Nicole Maass—a 6-pound, 8-ounce, 20-inch-long peanut—was born this past Tuesday (3/13) to my brother Andy and sister-in-law Micah. By all accounts, the labor was fairly quick and easy, and everyone is healthy and happy. What’s almost as astounding to me as my brother becoming a dad (seriously!) is that I’ve been walking on air ever since (I just accepted a great new job, but still attribute my air-walking to Annabelle’s arrival).

Since the blessed day, I’ve told every person I’ve come into contact with that “I’m an aunt!” —as if they would actually care. I posted pre- and post-birth announcements, and photos of her (see above and left), on Facebook. I emailed friends with the happy news and even included my brother’s hilarious update about day two of fatherhood (“My specialty is wrapping her up like a burrito.”). Hey, if I had a Twitter account, I’d probably tweet hourly “Annabelle reports.” I’ve already gone shopping for what is sure to be the first of many adorable outfits I’ll buy for her…Basically, I’ve become one of those people who I used to tune out after ten minutes.

I can’t wait to meet my new niece! By the way, did I mention that I’m an aunt?

Ashes, ashes…

“Wow, that guy has dirt on his forehead,” I remember thinking…”Didn’t that woman look in the mirror before leaving the house?” I then wondered. Her appearance struck me as particularly odd because, other than her dirty forehead, the woman looked quite presentable—even fashionable—while strolling along Newbury Street.

After seeing a number of otherwise “normal” looking passers-by with gray smudges on their faces, I finally realized that I must be the clueless one here. Veiled in my private sense of ignorance, I knew one thing for sure: something was going on that a lot of people other than me knew about. I just needed to find out what it was without embarrassing myself…

Why would I be familiar with what I eventually found out was a common, but seemingly unusual, religious ritual? I mean, my Mom is a non-practicing Episcopalian, my Dad was a non-practicing Jew, and I graduated from a private Quaker high school, where none of my friends were practicing Catholics.

That was my first Ash Wednesday as a Boston resident. More than 20 years later, the beginning of Lent usually takes me a bit by surprise, as it did again just last week. But rather than causing confusion, it’s become a pleasant reminder of my having once been a newly minted Bostonian. And thanks to the work of New York-based photographer Greg Miller—whose spectacular portraits of ordinary people observing Ash Wednesday recently appeared on npr.com—I’ll now look forward to this annual observance with great anticipation.

When and how did you first become aware of Ash Wednesday?

The Old Man and the T

Having a seat always makes riding the T a little more bearable. Especially if it’s crowded. I mean, if you have to listen to identically dressed college girls try to have a meaningful discussion about “like, anything” … or watch a toddler suck on a metal pole while his distracted mother tends to her infant, you certainly want a comfortable vantage point, right? At the every least, I’d much rather sit down to play word games on my phone.

After years of riding the Boston subway, sweaty space invaders and thoughtless loud talkers have become part of my everyday life, and I rarely give their close proximity a second thought. But occasionally, an encounter makes me smile and stays with me even months later…

The obvious sense of pride he took in his appearance was refreshing—since so few people do these days. From his brown and white hounds-tooth cap and the polka-dotted shirt collar poking from his sweater, to his loose corduroy trousers and wing-tipped shoes, he was a well-dressed gentleman from another generation. No self-conscious posing—just unapologetic authenticity. Even the earnest way his wrinkled hands gripped the hand rail charmed me somehow.

“No, thank you, I’m just going to Boylston Street station,” he said softly when I offered my seat. “Me too,” I replied. It was only a few stops away, so I didn’t insist. But as we reached our mutual destination, he turned to me, admitting: “Maybe I should have saved my energy for all those stairs.” I offered to help, but again, he assured me that he’d be just fine. And before I rushed off to wherever I was going, he smiled sweetly and gave me a gentle reminder: “Now, you enjoy your life.”

Deconstructing the dog park

The more time I spend there, the more I realize that the dog park isn’t just a place for dogs to play and, you know, “do their business.” For dogs and the owners who love and walk them, it’s a microcosm of everyday life. And depending on one’s point-of-view and number of legs, the motivations to visit tend to vary.

For my girl Roxie, it’s all about indulging in simple canine pleasures, including but not limited to:

• sniffing stuff—from random grass patches to other dogs’ asses
• stalking squirrels
• eating snow (it’s like food, water and toys all in one!)
• peeing as frequently and widely as possible
• getting treats from other dog owners
• getting attention from other dog owners
• people-watching (to find sources of food and affection)
• running with wild abandon
• interacting with other dogs
• BONUS: rolling in the grass!

But as a human visitor, I see the city dog park through a very different lens—as part schoolyard, neighborhood bar, water cooler and, sometimes, even group therapy. A chance to engage, to be heard, to vent. Of course, it’s also a place to spend time with your dog. Bottom line? Taking Roxie there isn’t solely about being a good “dog mother,” and her entertainment almost seems secondary to my own. I think a lot of my fellow dog owners would agree. From grad students to house-husbands, writers to retirees, job hunters to professional dog walkers, we’re a diverse group. But here, most of us have two basic things in common: loving dogs and the chance to connect…

Kevin is popular among the dogs at Amory Park. Here, Roxie, Sydney, and Pele wait patiently for treats, while Brutus lingers in the background.

A typical day might be like a Dogaholics Anonymous meeting: all obsessive dog talk. Other days, we’ll debate current events, share job advice or TV show recommendations—or, as parents often do, gossip about that guy whose dog just can’t get along with anyone else’s. The funny thing is, even when the talk turns personal or serious, many of us only know each other by our dogs’ names. Perhaps that semi-anonymity enables us to be more open?

Canine or human, young or old…our senses, desire to make friends, need for validation, pursuit of pleasure, and spirit of competition (just to name a few) all come into play at the park. Looking for exercise and fresh air? Butt rubs and biscuits? A little conversation or advice? Just grab your best friend, and check out that dog park down the block.