Sixty Years of Memories

Flashback:

Pick any year between 1950 and today, and undoubtedly on October 20 I would have been celebrating my birthday. I remember the birthday parties and the orange halloween cakes. I remember the presents from the kids, friends and family; the cards, good wishes and cakes; the years of candles blown out. I remember that when I turned 18, my parents drove up to UConn to take me to dinner at the Altneveigh Inn. I remember that my first date with John was on my 20th birthday in Paris, and that I got engaged to John on my 21st birthday. I remember that on our 50th birthdays we threw a halloween party, complete with costumes, and that Rachel missed it because she was in Israel then, and Marc had his first date with Cheryl the next day.

Flash forward:

Today I turned 60. I am glad to be alive, and to have lived to see my children married and with families of their own. I was glad to go with John to Paris to celebrate, and deeply grateful for the generosity of friends and relatives who are treating me to assorted invitations, cards, good wishes, and gifts. Although I am filled with an overwhelming variety of emotions, the predominate one is gratitude for all that I have experienced during the past sixty years, and all of the people I have known.

To me, birthday celebrations have been important. They have helped me to mark the time, and created lasting memories of the people who have been in my life. They have focused my reflections, and prompted me to pause to appreciate my life. In the next couple of months, I will be attending a 90th birthday party and a one year birthday party -- celebrating a life well lived, and the promise of young life. So to us all, whatever age we may be -- L'Chaim - To Life!

Oh to be an author!

Flashback:

The year is 1967, and I am surreptitiously carving quotes from John Kerouac's On the Road into the school desk while the teacher drones on. Many things have been carved into the desk before, but not by me. It is, however, the end of my senior year, and it is now or never. Now or never not just for carving words into the desk, but for breaking away, for going On the Road, for defying convention, for being a writer. But how can I write, without writing about sex and longing, feelings and hating, loneliness, and passion? And how can I write about those things, knowing that my parents will read them? No, I think, I don't have the guts. I will never be a writer. I will just go home, and eat scrambled eggs for breakfast.

Flash forward:

I have just had my sixtieth birthday, and I am now writing a blog. Judging by the reactions of my readers (friends and family), I'm not that good at getting my point across. Maybe not becoming a writer was a good decision after all. Still, I'm convinced that there is some universality to what I am trying to say, and that the story of my life is not so different from other people's stories. I want to talk about my view of what the things are that are really important and what the things are that matter.

Thus the blog about shoes wasn't really about shoes, it was about these things: that feeling happy about something doesn't depend on whether or not it is expensive (t-shirt vs. expensive shoes) or whether you are old or young (flashback vs. flash forward) but on your attitude that the particular thing is a treat, or a good buy, or a luxury, or just something that you wanted. It's also about making the best of a bad situation (wearing hand-me-downs or needing to wear orthodics) to the point where you see it as a good situation. So it's about relativity, but also about longing, and longing fulfilled (the nice shoes), and longing that will never be fulfilled (wearing high heels again).

The blog about Halloween may have sounded like a lot of venting, and in a way maybe it was, but it was also about this: that even when you feel low and discouraged, you can suddenly feel again that kind of pure happiness that you felt in childhood. I tried to honestly describe my low not to get pity, but to try to make the point stronger that you can be feeling pretty low and discouraged, but still experience that pleasure of just feeling happy. It's harder, in a way, to describe the happiness. Do I flash forward to fireworks as a symbol for passion? Do I come out and say that I know a thousand things may be going wrong in my life, and I understand that a thousand things may be going wrong in your life, but let's all try to get past that and just feel good when we get the chance, and try to appreciate each other? Do I just come out and say that rather than trying to say it through a story?

What do you do if you can't write like F. Scott Fitzgerald? How do you describe the fact that incredible pain and incredible happiness sometimes go hand in hand. How do you say that sometimes something that might be viewed as sorrowful isn't all that bad, and that something that society seems to view as a good thing isn't so good for you.

My view of life may be naive, because I've never lived through a sorrow that was so horrific that it crushed my very soul. Yet, my observation of knowing people who have lived through such sorrow is that they survived by actively seeking out and appreciating what remained in their lives that was good and beautiful in the truest sense. My Grandmother grew up in poverty, fled persecution, worked in sweatshops, was widowed at 46, and then lost a 23 year old son in World War II. Yet she was truly happy being with her family or good friends. She loved having her grandchildren visit. She was always ready with a cake in the freezer in case company dropped in.

It follows that my Dad lost his Dad as a teenager, and his brother shortly after that. My mother also lost her mother when she was a teenager. Both of my parents grew up in poverty. Yet their smiles when we went on a picnic, or a day at the beach, were filled with joy. They appreciated the prosperity that let them have a comfortable home, clothes, plenty to eat, now and then a day or a week at the beach, and bicycles for the kids. My mom loved to swim. My Dad played catch with us in the back yard. They had lived through a lot, but their love of life, and their joy in their family gave them so much.

My Aunt Nettie never had financial problems, but she married late, and never had children. She had been a teacher, and she loved children, and she must have longed for a family of her own. Instead, she took that love and she spread it around to all of her nieces and her nephews. She came for visits, and I though of her as the maternal Grandmother I had never met. When she was gone, and I was an adult, I met an adult from our congregation that at best would be categorized as "slow", though I never knew the real diagnosis. She told me that my Aunt Nettie had befriended their family, and had given her a confirmation present. In tribute to Aunt Nettie I befriended her too.

Her name was Emily, and she inspired me. She was slow, and annoyed people, she needed social workers, and suffered from paranoia. Despite that, or maybe because of it, she appreciated any little kindness that anyone showed her. At first, we drove her to the bus so she could have a day at the beach. Then, when that bus stopped, we took her to the beach now and then. Finally, we took her once a year to Elizabeth Park, had her over for some holidays, and drove her now and then to services. She wrote a thank you note for every ride and every outing, no matter how small. She never forgot a hostess gift. She enjoyed life whenever she had the chance, as narrow as her life was.

I feel humbled to have known such courageous people. They were not rich or famous, well-educated or well-known. But, in my opinion, they lived life brilliantly. They knew who they were, and what mattered to them. They never apologized for who they were or for who they weren't. They appreciated sunshine and fresh air, being with friends and playing with children, praying and celebrating. They complained, they got angry, they had frustrations, they mourned. But in the end, to me, their overriding quality was an unabashed love of life.

I once thought that you could only write about life if you could somehow write simultaneously in a thousand different colors, to capture the richness and the nuance in every situation. I want to try to write like that. I am now sixty, if I am going to do it ever, I must do it now.

I think I will continue to blog. I am, at last, an author.

Wardrobe Delights

Flashback:

The year is 1955, and I am playing in the neighborhood in the early summer, wearing my new sneakers and my new Davy Crockett T-Shirt. The sneakers were a yearly occurrence, but always a welcome one, freeing our feet from the oxford shoes worn by children during the school year.

The T-shirt, though, was really special. Best of all, my brother had an identical Davy Crockett T-shirt. That meant that, not only could we dress as twins now, but when my brother outgrew his, I could wear that one when mine got too small. I sure felt lucky to be the little sister. It was a real two for one deal!

Flash Forward:

It is late summer 2009, and I am perusing the "name Brand" section of the Nordstrom's shoe department. Because of my orthodics, and other issues with walking, the stylish high heels and sandals are out of the question. Fortunately for me, however, this has lead me to the belief that it is not inappropriate to splurge if I find a pair of comfortable shoes that will accommodate my orthodics, and still look stylish. This might sound like a tall task for some, but in the Nordstrom's brand name shoe department, nothing is impossible.

Then I see them! Suede Stuart Weitzman loafers for half price! Red and black. Black and red. Everyone who knows me knows that I have a thing for red shoes, but the black are more practical. Red or black? Black or red? Finally it hits me, maybe I should buy them both. After all, I can't go around embarrassing my husband by wearing orthopedic shoes before I am 60! I make the purchase, and go gleefully home.

Still I wonder, were they really half-price? I go back to the mall the next week when the sale is over, and there they are, at double the price I paid. I sure feel lucky to have spotted them while the sale was on. It was a real two for one deal!

The Fragility of Life

Flashback:

The year is 1969, and I am lying on the bed in my dorm after dinner, barely breathing. Some of the other students in the dorm found me wandering the halls, gasping for breath. A nursing student guides me to my bed, and tells me to tip my head back, to clear my air passages. I follow her instructions, and put all of my energy into breathing. I hear other students saying that they called the infirmary and were told that it is probably menstrual cramps, so they are going to get the house mother. I want to tell them to find my roommate, who is my best friend, but I can't speak.

As I lie there, it becomes increasingly difficult to breathe. I think: it would be so much easier just to stop, but then I would be dead. I think: it wouldn't be so bad to die, it feels peaceful, and I don't feel afraid, but I will try to breathe a little longer.

Men rush into the room and immediately place an oxygen mask on my face. It becomes easier to breathe. One of the men lifts my hand and examines my fingers. He says: she doesn't look quite as blue. With the oxygen mask on my face, they lift me onto a stretcher, and take me to the infirmary with the sirens blaring.

In the infirmary, the doctor looks to me to be annoyed to have been disturbed. He immediately diagnoses an allergic reaction, and gives me a shot of adrenalin. Almost instantly, I am breathing easier. They keep me overnight, but send me back to the dorm for breakfast the next morning. My dorm is on the other side of the campus, and I feel light headed and unwell as I walk along, annoyed that they didn't allow me to rest longer.

But for the first time, I understand the fragility of life.

Flash Forward:

I am about to celebrate my sixtieth birthday, and I have lived fully.

Because of my early brush with death, I plunged forward in life, without regard to convention. Less than two years after the incident, and before I had finished college, I was married. Three and one half years after that I was nine months pregnant, and attending my Law School orientation, with my husband waiting in the library in case labor began. By the time I was thirty, I had two children, a full time job as a law clerk, and a husband who was working full time and going to law school nights as well.

Those busy, rapid, giddy, joyful, years proved to be a blessing. By the time I was 34, I had had a hysterectomy, after suffering for years with acute pain from large, but thankfully benign, tumors. Thank God I had had my children before the pain began! At 56, I was forced to retire due to chronic illness, but I was grateful for the long career I had had up to that point.

I am not by nature, a perpetually cheerful person. I kvetch, I complain, I argue, I yell. I try to see my life in melodramatic terms: after struggling to build a career in a male dominated firm, I am felled in my prime by chronic degenerative illness. But to be honest, it's not that bad.

The truth is, the office politics were getting very aggravating, and the long hours were keeping me from taking vacations. I had a great disability policy (thanks to the firm), so the early retirement was not a financial burden. Thanks to a bevy of brilliant and compassionate doctors, I keep going with a concoction of prescriptions, obviously created by another bevy of brilliant and compassionate doctors and scientists. My family and friends have been loving and supportive, my husband is still the love of my life, and my kids grew up to be amazingly kind and accomplished adults.

I still complain, I even complain a lot, but happy surprises interrupt my gloom. My children-in-law are both such nice people that I would be proud to have them as friends even if they weren't married to my children. The biggest surprise is the sheer joy that being a grandparent brings. Somehow, it brings you back to a time in your life when life was full of wonder and joy. As the babies are delighted by a sunbeam, you remember to enjoy the delights of sunlight. As a child is excited by a museum display, you remember the joy of learning.

I have now stepped into the role as family elder, a little more tired, a little more warn, but perhaps, if I am lucky, a little more wise. Despite my best efforts to be gloomy, I find my self looking forward to what the next stage of my life will bring. That's me, the inadvertent optimist.