Flashback:
It is 1959, and I am standing in my new home laughing, because I am so happy and excited. I am excited to be in our brand new home, in a new development in West Hartford. Our new home is a split level, with a dining room, and a family room, and a half bath off the family room. It seems huge to me, compared to our small ranch house in East Hartford, which had only a living room, a kitchen, three bedrooms and one bathroom.
School in West Hartford is different than it was in East Hartford. In East Hartford, during math period I assisted the dullest girl in the class, I was sent down to lunch early to help collect lunch money, and I am sometimes asked to stay after school to help the teacher with a special project. Although I enjoy these special privileges, they are just intended to keep me busy, because I have already mastered the lessons. In West Hartford, I am working along with the rest of the class, the class designated for bright students. The work is more challenging and the overall experience is good. I am embarrassed, however, on the second day at school, when I wear one of my new school dresses for the second day in a row, as I always did in East Hartford. In West Hartford, all of the girls wear a different outfit each day of the week. In East Hartford, not everyone had a dress for each day of the week, but fortunately I do, and wearing the same dress two days in a row is a mistake I do not make twice.
One of the nice parts about being in a new neighborhood is making new friends. There are lots of kids around my age, and because everyone has just moved, everyone is interested in making friends. In fact, houses are still going up, and as we live there, more kids continue to pour in. The longer we live there, the more it seems as if everyone I meet is Jewish. I hear my parents comment that, although the neighborhood is new, the non-Jews have already started to move out. Although my parents view this as something of an insult, for me it is better than my neighborhood in East Hartford, where I was always the only Jewish girl in my class.
The majority of the influx of Jews is from the North End of Hartford. I know that area well, it is where my grandmother lives. I love to visit my Grandmother there. She takes me on walks to Mayron's bakery with its delicious rye bread, and to the local delicatessen.
But although my neighborhood is predominantly Jewish, the town overall is not. The homes are generally nice, and the school system is good. Therefore, the town attracts a variety of people whose families have either been comfortable for a while, or who's families are moving up thanks to the G.I. Bill and the economic boom following the second World War.
My family fits into the second category. My father was able to earn his engineering degree going to school during the day on the G.I. Bill, while he worked in the shop at Hamilton Standard during the day. Living in East Hartford or West Hartford, my father has Connecticut has a lot of engineers. Pratt and Whitney, Hamilton Standard, and Combustion Engineering are all in the Hartford area and are all major federal contractors. Colt is still one of the nation's largest guns manufactures guns, and the blue Onion dome over the major cold still presides over the rooftops of the city, as it has since before the civil war.
Interestingly, although Hartford was known as the Insurance capital of the world, it has also been a major manufacturer of guns and weaponry since the early 18th century. When Mark Twain moved to Hartford during , he extolled it for its beauty and its culture. His home was in an area largely populated by wealthy insurance company executives, just down the street from both the Hartford Insurance Company and the Aetna Insurance Company. When Twain wrote the Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court Yard, the Yankee he describes in a firearms engineer that uses his knowledge to use explosives to impress the medieval population that his power is greater than Merlin's.
Flashforward:
It is 1969, and the riots in the North End of Hartford following the assassination of Martin Luther King, are settling down. Even so, much of the area has been destroyed. Although driving through the North End of Hartford, down Albany Avenue, had been are usual way to get to downtown Hartford, where I have a summer job, my parents now advise me to go down Asylum Avenue. It doesn't take any longer and seems safer. The population of North End of Hartford is now almost completely African-American, and there is some percentage of this population, probably a small percentage, that seems to be openly hostile to whites. Or, perhaps they are just angry at everyone. In any event, after my Grandmother' suffered several incident's of harassment with stones being thrown at the windows of her apartment, she has relocated to elderly housing in the suburb of Bloomfield. My father and my brother, took the used golf clubs my father had purchased, to the free golf course in Pope park, in Hartford's North End, and were harassed and chased of the course by a group of angry black teenagers. Just a couple of years earlier, I had attended a
Despite these safety concerns, my parents are very supportive of my decision to volunteer through Hartford's Community Renewal Team, to volunteer to tutor some elementary school student in one of the low income housing projects in Hartford. The population of the housing project is almost entirely African-American, and its reputation is that because of gang violence, it is not a safe place for anyone. My Dad drops me off and picks me up from my tutoring sessions.
The girls a tutor are adorable, and their family is delightful. The girls are about one year apart in age, as I recall they were about 7 and 8. Their parents have just had a new baby, and he is beautiful. I remember realizing that I had never seen an African American new born baby before.
The family is very friendly to me, one reason is that
Thursday, October 5, 2023
Friday, September 11, 2020
Finding My Way Through Elul with Broadway Songs
During the Hebrew month of Elul, the month proceeding Rosh Hashanah, I usually spend some time in contemplation. I think over the past year, and I try to find ways that I can do more for, or behave better toward, the people in my life and society. This year, however, it has been especially hard because of the isolation due to the pandemic, and the devastation that the pandemic and certain recent governmental actions have caused so many. Feeling discouraged, I spent a few hours listening to broadway show tunes. As I listened to the songs, to my surprise, I found inspiration through the tunes and lyrics.
I realized that my feelings of discouragement are common feelings as I listened to the beautiful “Old Man River” from “Showboat”. Old man river is life, or eternity, or maybe God, flowing along as we try to deal with life’s hardships. As the lyrics say, “I get weary and sick of trying, I’m tired of living and scared of dying, but Old Man River, he just keeps rolling along.”
Listening to the song “Close Every Door to Me”, I was reminded that there can be hope even in difficult circumstances. The biblical character Joseph sings this song in Rice and Webber’s interpretation of the biblical story. While imprisoned Joseph sings, “Close every door to me, keep those I love from me, Children of Israel are never alone, for I know we shall find our own peace of mind, for we have been promised a land of our own.” His hope lies in God’s promise that we will arrive where we need to be, not only physically, but spiritually, as we find peace of mind.
The title song from “On a Clear Day” inspired me to realize that I can find my place in the universe if I take the time to stop and look around and to appreciate the beauty and eternity of the earth. “On a clear day, rise and look around you, and you’ll see who you are...you’ll feel part of every mountain sea and star, you can hear from far and near a world you’ve never seen before. And in a clear day, on a clear day you can see for ever and ever more.”
As I listened to more songs I found others that reminded me of the beauty of life and the sweetness of our blessings. “The Rhythm of Life” from “Sweet Charity” with its catchy tune and Chorus lyrics, reminded me of
the vibrancy of life, “The rhythm of life is a powerful beat, puts a tingle in your fingers and and a tingle in you feet,...to feel the rhythm of life, to feel the powerful beat, to feel the tingle in your fingers, to feel the tingle in your
feet...”
“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, ...snowflakes that stay on your nose and eye lashes, white silver winters that turn into springs, these are a few of my favorite things.” These are lyrics from “Sound is Muic’s” “Favorite Things”. They are familiar to most of us, but still serve as a reminder that blessings can be found in simple things.
Listening to songs at random, I was surprised to find that some quirky upbeat sings inspired me. The character who sings “Cockeyed Optimist” in “South Pacific” is a wartime nurse who remains optimistic. “They say the human race is falling on its face and doesn’t have too far to go..,.but I’m stuck like a dope with a thing called hope and I can’t get it out of my heart, not this heart.”
Even the song “Put On a Happy Face“ from “Bye Bye Birdie”, which puts a catchy to to that common expression, was an inspiration. It reminded me that the simple act of looking pleasant, despite our problems, can improve the world around us. “Pick out a pleasant outlook, lift up that noble chin, wipe off that full of doubt look, slap on a happy grin, and spread sunshine all over the place, just put on a happy face.”
When I listened to the lyrics of “ As Long as he needs Me” from “Carousel”, I heard the lyrics differently than I had heard them before. As a young girl, I had heard only the promise of undying romance. Now I heard the value of being steadfast to another even in hard times. I thought gratefully of good friends and living relatives, who have supported me during a long degenerative illness. I also thought of those who still need me, especially my grandchildren who have turned to me for comfort and support, even if only on Facebook, during this pandemic. I realized that I should be present for them for as long as I can. “As long as he needs me, that’s where I’ll always be, to cling on steadfastly, as long as he needs me.”
The times require us to be here too. If we can do nothing else, we can support and vote for leaders who will seek justice and harmony in our land.
In the musical “South Pacific” the characters struggle with the life and death issues that the war brings. As Americans, they also struggle with racism, as we do today. Oscar Hammerdtein’s brilliant song “You Have to be Carefully Taught” provides his perspective on racism.
“You have to be taught to hate and fear, it has to be taught from year to year, it has to be drilled in your dear little ear, you have to be carefully taught. You have to be taught to be afraid of people whose eyes are oddly made, and people who’s skin is a different shade, you have to be carefully taught.”
At this point in my life, when I am usually home, it’s hard to think what I can do to fight racism. Another song from Sweet Charity reminded me that there must be something I can do if I think about it. I can talk to my grandchildren about racism and history, and recommend books they can read. Although the song “There’s Gotta Be Something Better Than This” is sung in the movie by taxi dancers trying to improve their lives, the lyrics of determination inspired me to think how I can do better. As the song says, “There’s gotta be something better than this, there’s gotta be something more I can do, and when I find me something better to do, I’m gonna get up, I’m gonna get ou, I’m gonna get up, get out and do it.”
The song “Brotherhood of Man” from “Hoe to Succeed” made me realize that even if I can’t do as much as others, I should still try to do my best. I was surprised to hear a line of the song that says “mediocrity is not a mortal sin”. I love that line. It reminded me of the liturgy that says that God does not expect us to be as great as Moses, only to be our best selves. The song goes on to conclude that all of us (whether our abilities are great or mediocre) are part of “the Brotherhood of man”. As such we should be “dedicated to doing all we can” because of the “noble tie that binds all human hearts and minds.” The peppy beat and lyrics of the song gave me hope. And so I conclude this story of how show tunes inspired me with these aspirational” lyrics,
“Your lifelong membership is free, keep on giving each brothers all you can. Oh aren’t you proud to be, in that fraternity, the great big brother hood of man.
Tuesday, December 10, 2019
Sing Freedom’s Song
Today I feel the need to sing, out loud, with my friends and neighbors, to sing away our anger and our fear. To sing songs of freedom. To sing to drown out the voice of an American president who has said words that have threatened many Americans. Now he has singled out Americans who are Jewish to tell us how to vote. As if we voted with one voice. As if we did not vote as Americans.
Today, There are no more hootenannies, group sings, or sing alongs. But I remember the songs. I remember the lyrics, I remember the tunes. Songs never change, their truths are eternal.
I saw the movie “Yesterday”, in which only a few people on earth remembered the Beatles songs. I remember them. In college when people would sing and play the guitar, I could always provide the lyrics. I sang with others then, we all sang away our anger and our fear.
I am watching a special, on Public television, featuring folk singers from the 1960’s and 1970’s. Most don’t sing old folk songs. They sing songs composed during their era. They sing idealistic, anti-war, pro-humanity songs.
I am in a motel listening to the music while my husband sleeps. He is tired from our beach day beach day with our 11 year old grandson. We have had a beach day with him almost every year since he was a toddler. At 11, he still enjoys this tradition. He jumped in the ocean and swam and dunked under the water, all smiles. My husband joined him. The beach we go to is on Long Island sound. The waves are gentle, and people swim in the water. I watched from the shore. I used to love to swim in the salty water, every summer since I was a little girl. This stretch of Connecticut shore feels like home to me. Now I just dip my feet in the water, gripping my cane and my husband’s hand. But it’s worth it. I watch the sun sparkle on the waves, feel the ocean breeze blow on my bare arms and legs, and see my grandson’s smile.
As I recall my day, the folk music keeps playing. My favorite is Bobby Darin’s “Come and Sing a Simple Sing of Freedom.” He saw the need to sing then, we need to sing again. Several versions of “Turn, Turn, Turn” are played. It is Pete Seegers song with lyrics from Ecclesiastes. For everything there is a season.
Today, for me, many seasons have come together. It is a time of joy. I have recently been seriously ill and I am rejoicing to have made it to the beach with our grandson. It is a family tradition, a summer tradition. It is part of the American tradition of enjoying a summer vacation, whether at the shore, in the mountains, or sightseeing in our cities.
But today is also a day of anger and fear. Anger that a powerful man, the president of our country, has said words that threaten me. Fear, for my grandchildren, living in a country with increasing gun violence, where our leader feels free to threaten me and others with a claim of “disloyalty” if we don’t vote for him.
I will not dignify his comments by saying his name. I will only say that I will vote in accordance with my American values and my view of what our democracy should be. I will honor our founding fathers’ vision of a separation of church and state, by observing the religion I choose. I will honor the words George Washington wrote to the Congregation of the Touro Synagogue in Rhode Island, “to bigotry no sanction”.
I will sing. I will find other Americans to sing with me. Once again, we will sing songs of freedom. We will pledge our funds to politicians that share our values, and those funds will grow. We will speak and sing truth to power. We will do this as Americans, loyal Americans, raising our voices. We will cast our votes for those candidates that share the vision of an America where no one is intimidated based on the color of their skin, the religion that they practice, or the people that they love.
Let’s sing again America, let us sing!
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
My Turn to Vent
Flashback: It is January 31, 1971, and my husband John and I are promising to stay together for richer or poorer, better or worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.
Flashforward:
It is October 7, 2013, and once again, after I mention to someone that I have Parkinson's disease, the person proceeds to tell me how her life has been made very hard because her husband has Parkinson's disease also. There are many variations on this theme. There is, "My poor sister, her husband has Parkinson's disease too." There is, "my spouse had a stroke, but like you, he is uncomfortable driving and I have to drive him around and it's making me exhausted." There is, "I would have liked to take a big trip to Europe, but, like you, my spouse isn't comfortable traveling, so I can't go."
People, are you listening to yourselves? Somewhere in your comments is an implication that I have somehow, single handedly, set out to destroy my husband's life. Or perhaps just that they have tremendous sympathy for my husband, who, by the way, is feeling well at 64 and still practicing law and enjoying it. Meanwhile, I had to give up my practice in my 50's. In fact, while he is out running from hearing to hearing, getting new clients, and going to meetings, I am usually sitting at home nursing my aches and pains. But, oh well, that sure is tough on him. Or maybe I'm just selfish because I am unwilling to risk another infection by getting exhausted traveling abroad. My poor husband, with whom I have made two trips to Israel, rode on camels to Jordan, several trips to London, and literally countless trips to Paris, will have to restrict himself now to seeing our beautiful contiguous 48 states for a while. Poor fellow.
I work very hard at being cheerful, and when I can't do it on purpose, I am usually at least inadvertently optimistic. When I occasionally complain to John that friends don't ever ask me how I am doing (other than the usual perfunctory "how are you", or if we are visiting my daughter in the south "how y'all doin' today"), he responds that they do care, because they ask HIM how I am doing. Have I lost my capacity to articulate my feelings? I don't think so! So, I guess they are asking out of sympathy to him, because if I am not doing well, that is somehow hard on him.
People, I am still here, and my husband is alive and well, and having some of the best years of his life, thank you very much. I may need to nap every day, but that doesn't stop him from being out of the house 12 hours a day almost every weekday. I may get tired traveling, but we always stay in a suite, so he can have a room to check his e-mail and keep up with the office when I nap. I may not feel like cooking, but that doesn't mean he is tied down to the kitchen -- there are lots of places for takeout suppers on his way home from work.
Maybe I am being an inadvertent optimist after all. I am optimistic that my husband and I are still having a great life together, and, God willing, we will be for a while to come. After all, when I tell him that someone just complained to me that they are having a hard time because of their spouse's Parkinson's Disease, he always says, "Well, just be glad I'm not that person." And he isn't!
Flashforward:
It is October 7, 2013, and once again, after I mention to someone that I have Parkinson's disease, the person proceeds to tell me how her life has been made very hard because her husband has Parkinson's disease also. There are many variations on this theme. There is, "My poor sister, her husband has Parkinson's disease too." There is, "my spouse had a stroke, but like you, he is uncomfortable driving and I have to drive him around and it's making me exhausted." There is, "I would have liked to take a big trip to Europe, but, like you, my spouse isn't comfortable traveling, so I can't go."
People, are you listening to yourselves? Somewhere in your comments is an implication that I have somehow, single handedly, set out to destroy my husband's life. Or perhaps just that they have tremendous sympathy for my husband, who, by the way, is feeling well at 64 and still practicing law and enjoying it. Meanwhile, I had to give up my practice in my 50's. In fact, while he is out running from hearing to hearing, getting new clients, and going to meetings, I am usually sitting at home nursing my aches and pains. But, oh well, that sure is tough on him. Or maybe I'm just selfish because I am unwilling to risk another infection by getting exhausted traveling abroad. My poor husband, with whom I have made two trips to Israel, rode on camels to Jordan, several trips to London, and literally countless trips to Paris, will have to restrict himself now to seeing our beautiful contiguous 48 states for a while. Poor fellow.
I work very hard at being cheerful, and when I can't do it on purpose, I am usually at least inadvertently optimistic. When I occasionally complain to John that friends don't ever ask me how I am doing (other than the usual perfunctory "how are you", or if we are visiting my daughter in the south "how y'all doin' today"), he responds that they do care, because they ask HIM how I am doing. Have I lost my capacity to articulate my feelings? I don't think so! So, I guess they are asking out of sympathy to him, because if I am not doing well, that is somehow hard on him.
People, I am still here, and my husband is alive and well, and having some of the best years of his life, thank you very much. I may need to nap every day, but that doesn't stop him from being out of the house 12 hours a day almost every weekday. I may get tired traveling, but we always stay in a suite, so he can have a room to check his e-mail and keep up with the office when I nap. I may not feel like cooking, but that doesn't mean he is tied down to the kitchen -- there are lots of places for takeout suppers on his way home from work.
Maybe I am being an inadvertent optimist after all. I am optimistic that my husband and I are still having a great life together, and, God willing, we will be for a while to come. After all, when I tell him that someone just complained to me that they are having a hard time because of their spouse's Parkinson's Disease, he always says, "Well, just be glad I'm not that person." And he isn't!
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
My Alternate Universe
Flashback:
It is almost any year in our marriage, and my husband is encouraging me to join him in watching a science fiction show. Numerous versions of Star Trek, along with Dr. Who, Quantum Leap and Sliders have graced our television set. While I don't like shows with monsters who speak like humans, I have to admit that I do enjoy a good time travel show. Quantum Leap, for example, was always one of my favorites, leaping into another world, another life. I also enjoy the concept of an alternate universe. After all, the universe is so vast, who knows what could be out there.
Flashforward:
It is 2013, and while I never expected it, my world has changed. Oh, I'm at the same address I've been at for over 25 years, with the same husband I've had for 42 years, and often talking on the phone to the same sister I've had for 59 years. I speak with my own voice, I probably say the same old things, and appear to others to be nothing more than an older version of myself. The effects of over a decade of living with degenerative neurological and pulmonary disease, however, have altered my world. When I talk with friends and relatives who are near my age or even older, I often have the feeling that the world I encounter differs from their world. My world is slower, with more naps, less activity, and a kind of distracted inattention which sometimes requires me to focus to remember the time and the season, or the fact that I am cooking something on the range. I feel that I am living in my own alternate universe.
My universe is timeless. The ordinary sense of time does not exist. I float in and out of the day, judging time only by disciplining myself to look at a calendar or a clock. But I don't feel time passing. Day and night feel the same, and sleep makes sense whenever I feel dozy. In my universe each moment feels like forever. Each pleasure, therefore, is endless. Whatever is absorbing me is my world right then. Of course this means that each sadness is endless too. To avoid that consequence, in my world the focus is on pleasurable experiences. If I feel a little blue, there is no rule that makes me catch up on the news in the morning, I can watch an old movie instead. I can feel the pleasurable sensation of escape, and that becomes my world too, forever. If the phone rings, a cheerful conversation will fill my heart and mind, and when it ends, I can feel lost in the memory of it for as long as I please.
My universe doesn't have the rules that bind other people, I can float through my day however I want. There is no job, there are no committees, just a few pleasurable clubs, which I can manage as I wish. Book club books can be polished off in the 24 hours before the meeting. That can be my reading day, and I can immerse myself in the book so that it becomes my world. Laundry day can wait until I have nothing decent left to wear. I have lots of clothes, so no reason to rush. A T shirt and sweat pants can make me decent enough to open the blinds, or I can stay in my pajamas and keep the blinds shut. In the darkened room, I can linger before the images of the movies floating across the screen, dozing on and off, restarting and rewinding the recorded films. By the end of a five hour afternoon I will have watched a two hour movie. In my universe, that's good timing.
In my universe, I am constantly surprised by what I have to do in the coming week. There are doctors appointments I have made, lunches with friends, study groups I regularly attend. In my world, though, it's hard to remember, so when I check my calendar on Sunday evening, I can be pleasantly surprised by the activities I have planned. In my world, even my doctors seem like old friends. With appointments every 4 or six months, I see each of them more than I see many of my real friends anyway. They are all pleasant, and have soothing manners. They have given up on complaining about my weight, and seem to be enormously happy if I lose even a few pounds. I guess I can give them that pleasure.
In my universe, my preferred modes of travel differ from those of my friends and relatives. I don't care to travel on inexpensive airlines, I want an airline that actually assists passengers that need assistance. I prefer long layovers to short, and pay a premium to spend a pleasant hour or two relaxing in the airline's club. I happily check my luggage, no matter what the fee, rather than face the unpleasant aches and pains of lugging something heavy around. I am thrilled if the trip is short, so much less stiffness and fatigue that way. I love familiar places and things too. When I arrive, I want plenty of time to rest and sleep before I have to go site seeing or out to eat. Fancy restaurants are best at lunch, and evenings are best spent in a comfortable lounge chair with a high back that supports my neck. Itineraries should be planned with long lazy afternoons for napping.
In my universe, I am puzzled by people my age who rush, or do things quickly. I am puzzled that they do more than one of two things outside the house each day, or enjoy having plans each and every day. I don't understand how they manage it or why they care to live that way. I vaguely remember a woman with my name who lived that way, but she seems like a stranger now. I don't care any longer to talk to my peers about their numerous activities - but I remember that I have to listen to be polite. To be honest, I sometimes tune out when they start talking about their jobs and committees, their docenting and volunteering, their trips to foreign lands, and their projects around the house. What does that have to do with me, anyway, it's not a part of my universe. I like to hear about young people's activities, however, the younger generation of adults and the children. I am glad for them that they have this chance to be in a lively universe, it is good for their age.
In my universe, it is not a compliment to be told I am not old. I am old, at least I am old enough to get senior citizens rates, have plenty of aches and pains, and often use a cane. I want to experience old age, and I need to do it now, while there is time. You see, in my universe, it's a privilege to wake up each day and take a breath, and feel that drowsy few minutes before anything hurts, or any body part decides to move of its own volition.
My universe is filled with accomplishments and accolades too. I pat myself on the back for remembering an event or meeting, and another for remembering what time to leave in order to arrive on time. If I remember to leave enough time to blow dry my hair and put on make up, more applause. There's no real penalty, however, for letting my hair air dry and going make up -less, or even for forgetting my earrings or watch. If I can follow a conversations, and make it through a social event with no major spills, another award. I congratulate myself for being gracious when I receive embarrassing help. Like the stranger in the airport, who told me my sweater was on inside out. Or the people at my table who point out that there is food on my face, maybe on my cheek, often on my nose. Do they think I am a two year old? People I hardly know tuck in my tags and those annoying strings they put on clothing to make them easier to hang, and tell me when my shirt is half in and half out of my pants. Does it really matter anyway?
Perhaps I praise myself the most when I manage to make a meal without leaving out an ingredient. But who really cares if I forgot the pepper? I follow the rule not to leave the room when anything is on the range top. That way, I notice if it starts to burn right away, and I don't forget that I am cooking something. I always set the timer if I am baking. Besides, I make most of our dinners in the crock pot, where they can simmer all day without disturbing me.
Somehow, in my universe, I still know more than little children. I can make them a simple meal, give them a bath, and tuck them into bed with a bedtime story. I can even turn on the TV or put on a DVD. The children seem to to appreciate these skills. I know enough to make sure my husband is around for any overnight babysitting, I don't want to press my luck. The only risk I run is that while focusing on the children I may misplace something of my own. Last time it was my diamond engagement ring and wedding ring. I had put them in my pocket and then forgotten, and the rings fell out of the pockets when I threw the pants in the hamper. After sifting through the garbage to make sure I hadn't thrown the rings out entirely, they finally tumbled out after I shook out each item of clothes in the hamper. Mental note: leave rings in the jewelry box when babysitting.
Flashforward:
It is June 19, 2013. I suppose I could have told you my story in a different way. I could have said that after several years, I have resigned myself to being disabled. I could have said that I am good at keeping track of my medications, my doctors appointments, and even my grandkids, when I do watch them from time to time. I could have said that I take care of myself - doing my laundry, cooking meals for me and my husband, making social engagements. I could have mentioned too that I have learned to deal with fatigue by amusing myself with quiet activities such as books and movies, scheduling naps and days when I stay home to rest up, and limiting my travel.
I could have said that, and it would have been true. But what does that mean anyway? I prefer to believe that I have the privilege of living in a pleasant place, a place where no one worries about trivial things, where the simple things of life bring pleasure, and where the beauty of life is appreciated, each and every day. That's my alternate universe, and it's a pretty nice place after all.
It is almost any year in our marriage, and my husband is encouraging me to join him in watching a science fiction show. Numerous versions of Star Trek, along with Dr. Who, Quantum Leap and Sliders have graced our television set. While I don't like shows with monsters who speak like humans, I have to admit that I do enjoy a good time travel show. Quantum Leap, for example, was always one of my favorites, leaping into another world, another life. I also enjoy the concept of an alternate universe. After all, the universe is so vast, who knows what could be out there.
Flashforward:
It is 2013, and while I never expected it, my world has changed. Oh, I'm at the same address I've been at for over 25 years, with the same husband I've had for 42 years, and often talking on the phone to the same sister I've had for 59 years. I speak with my own voice, I probably say the same old things, and appear to others to be nothing more than an older version of myself. The effects of over a decade of living with degenerative neurological and pulmonary disease, however, have altered my world. When I talk with friends and relatives who are near my age or even older, I often have the feeling that the world I encounter differs from their world. My world is slower, with more naps, less activity, and a kind of distracted inattention which sometimes requires me to focus to remember the time and the season, or the fact that I am cooking something on the range. I feel that I am living in my own alternate universe.
My universe is timeless. The ordinary sense of time does not exist. I float in and out of the day, judging time only by disciplining myself to look at a calendar or a clock. But I don't feel time passing. Day and night feel the same, and sleep makes sense whenever I feel dozy. In my universe each moment feels like forever. Each pleasure, therefore, is endless. Whatever is absorbing me is my world right then. Of course this means that each sadness is endless too. To avoid that consequence, in my world the focus is on pleasurable experiences. If I feel a little blue, there is no rule that makes me catch up on the news in the morning, I can watch an old movie instead. I can feel the pleasurable sensation of escape, and that becomes my world too, forever. If the phone rings, a cheerful conversation will fill my heart and mind, and when it ends, I can feel lost in the memory of it for as long as I please.
My universe doesn't have the rules that bind other people, I can float through my day however I want. There is no job, there are no committees, just a few pleasurable clubs, which I can manage as I wish. Book club books can be polished off in the 24 hours before the meeting. That can be my reading day, and I can immerse myself in the book so that it becomes my world. Laundry day can wait until I have nothing decent left to wear. I have lots of clothes, so no reason to rush. A T shirt and sweat pants can make me decent enough to open the blinds, or I can stay in my pajamas and keep the blinds shut. In the darkened room, I can linger before the images of the movies floating across the screen, dozing on and off, restarting and rewinding the recorded films. By the end of a five hour afternoon I will have watched a two hour movie. In my universe, that's good timing.
In my universe, I am constantly surprised by what I have to do in the coming week. There are doctors appointments I have made, lunches with friends, study groups I regularly attend. In my world, though, it's hard to remember, so when I check my calendar on Sunday evening, I can be pleasantly surprised by the activities I have planned. In my world, even my doctors seem like old friends. With appointments every 4 or six months, I see each of them more than I see many of my real friends anyway. They are all pleasant, and have soothing manners. They have given up on complaining about my weight, and seem to be enormously happy if I lose even a few pounds. I guess I can give them that pleasure.
In my universe, my preferred modes of travel differ from those of my friends and relatives. I don't care to travel on inexpensive airlines, I want an airline that actually assists passengers that need assistance. I prefer long layovers to short, and pay a premium to spend a pleasant hour or two relaxing in the airline's club. I happily check my luggage, no matter what the fee, rather than face the unpleasant aches and pains of lugging something heavy around. I am thrilled if the trip is short, so much less stiffness and fatigue that way. I love familiar places and things too. When I arrive, I want plenty of time to rest and sleep before I have to go site seeing or out to eat. Fancy restaurants are best at lunch, and evenings are best spent in a comfortable lounge chair with a high back that supports my neck. Itineraries should be planned with long lazy afternoons for napping.
In my universe, I am puzzled by people my age who rush, or do things quickly. I am puzzled that they do more than one of two things outside the house each day, or enjoy having plans each and every day. I don't understand how they manage it or why they care to live that way. I vaguely remember a woman with my name who lived that way, but she seems like a stranger now. I don't care any longer to talk to my peers about their numerous activities - but I remember that I have to listen to be polite. To be honest, I sometimes tune out when they start talking about their jobs and committees, their docenting and volunteering, their trips to foreign lands, and their projects around the house. What does that have to do with me, anyway, it's not a part of my universe. I like to hear about young people's activities, however, the younger generation of adults and the children. I am glad for them that they have this chance to be in a lively universe, it is good for their age.
In my universe, it is not a compliment to be told I am not old. I am old, at least I am old enough to get senior citizens rates, have plenty of aches and pains, and often use a cane. I want to experience old age, and I need to do it now, while there is time. You see, in my universe, it's a privilege to wake up each day and take a breath, and feel that drowsy few minutes before anything hurts, or any body part decides to move of its own volition.
My universe is filled with accomplishments and accolades too. I pat myself on the back for remembering an event or meeting, and another for remembering what time to leave in order to arrive on time. If I remember to leave enough time to blow dry my hair and put on make up, more applause. There's no real penalty, however, for letting my hair air dry and going make up -less, or even for forgetting my earrings or watch. If I can follow a conversations, and make it through a social event with no major spills, another award. I congratulate myself for being gracious when I receive embarrassing help. Like the stranger in the airport, who told me my sweater was on inside out. Or the people at my table who point out that there is food on my face, maybe on my cheek, often on my nose. Do they think I am a two year old? People I hardly know tuck in my tags and those annoying strings they put on clothing to make them easier to hang, and tell me when my shirt is half in and half out of my pants. Does it really matter anyway?
Perhaps I praise myself the most when I manage to make a meal without leaving out an ingredient. But who really cares if I forgot the pepper? I follow the rule not to leave the room when anything is on the range top. That way, I notice if it starts to burn right away, and I don't forget that I am cooking something. I always set the timer if I am baking. Besides, I make most of our dinners in the crock pot, where they can simmer all day without disturbing me.
Somehow, in my universe, I still know more than little children. I can make them a simple meal, give them a bath, and tuck them into bed with a bedtime story. I can even turn on the TV or put on a DVD. The children seem to to appreciate these skills. I know enough to make sure my husband is around for any overnight babysitting, I don't want to press my luck. The only risk I run is that while focusing on the children I may misplace something of my own. Last time it was my diamond engagement ring and wedding ring. I had put them in my pocket and then forgotten, and the rings fell out of the pockets when I threw the pants in the hamper. After sifting through the garbage to make sure I hadn't thrown the rings out entirely, they finally tumbled out after I shook out each item of clothes in the hamper. Mental note: leave rings in the jewelry box when babysitting.
Flashforward:
It is June 19, 2013. I suppose I could have told you my story in a different way. I could have said that after several years, I have resigned myself to being disabled. I could have said that I am good at keeping track of my medications, my doctors appointments, and even my grandkids, when I do watch them from time to time. I could have said that I take care of myself - doing my laundry, cooking meals for me and my husband, making social engagements. I could have mentioned too that I have learned to deal with fatigue by amusing myself with quiet activities such as books and movies, scheduling naps and days when I stay home to rest up, and limiting my travel.
I could have said that, and it would have been true. But what does that mean anyway? I prefer to believe that I have the privilege of living in a pleasant place, a place where no one worries about trivial things, where the simple things of life bring pleasure, and where the beauty of life is appreciated, each and every day. That's my alternate universe, and it's a pretty nice place after all.
Monday, November 12, 2012
The Picture on my Grandmother's Wall - A Veterans Day Reflection
Flashback:
It is any year between 1950 and 1990, and I am visiting my Grandmother's apartment. These apartments grew increasingly small as I grew older, but there was one constant. In a prominent position on the living room wall, there always hung a large, framed, sepia colored picture of a smiling, handsome soldier, in dress uniform. The photograph was surrounded by a matting decorating with stars, within a large frame.
It was a picture of my Uncle Oscar, the only one of my Grandmother's four sons to have been killed in World War II, and my father's younger brother. Uncle Oscar was a pilot in the air force, and died overseas when his plane was shot down. He was 23 years old. At the time he died, the family had recently lost the boys' father to an early death from cancer. When my Grandmother received the telegraph announcing Uncle Oscar's death, she fainted, and had to be revived with smelling salts. My mother told me that on the day Uncle Oscar died, his picture, sitting on my parents', bureau fell over. It had never fallen over before.
Without anyone specifically telling us, my generation grew up knowing that life was precious, and not necessarily long. Besides losing Uncle Oscar, each of my parents had lost a parent while they were still in their teens. I believe my family honored the lives of these loved ones, by being a little more caring and loving to my generation. Both my parents and my Grandmother seemed to delight in showing the children a good time.
My Grandmother invited me for sleepovers without my siblings, gave me her undivided attention, and made me feel special. She passed on the family stories, and shared the books on her shelf. I moved within walking distance of her apartment when I was a young mother, and she delighted in my children as she had delighted in her grandchildren. We visited often, and she passed on family treasures to us, such as her father's kiddush cup, and her beloved sewing machine.
My parents made living a happy experience. When I was small, my father sang his children funny songs from the Vaudeville era or from Gilbert and Sullivan. He sang these songs almost every night, as he washed the dishes after supper, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, and his tie loosened around his collar. On weekends, my father taught us to play catch and to ride our bicycles. He even gave me extra help learning to jump rope. My parents, Grandmother, and aunts and uncles, always made sure that holidays were celebrated with ceremony, delicious food and family visits.
Family outings were a regular event. My parents always looked happy when we had a day at the beach. They would stake out a spot at the beach, smiling at the sun and the water, offering us an extra hard boiled egg or a piece of fruit from the picnic basket. Every summer we had rides in the country, picnics at a state park in the woods on warm nights, and weekend afternoons at a local pond. We always stopped for my father's favorite treat, "frozen custard", as it was called then, at the local Dairy Queen.
My parents were happy to be able to give us privileges that they could never dream of, growing up in the depression years. We had annual family vacations, weeks at summer camp, and new clothes each school year. We had trips to local museums and to the great museums in New York City, and lots of books on the shelves at home. We had religious school on Sundays, and birthday parties, and presents.
My parents were especially proud that they were able to send all four of their children to college, and that they never needed to ask the children to help support the family. Earnings from summer jobs were for college books and clothes. When my parents offered to send me on a junior year abroad, and I worried about paying them back for the extra cost, my father graciously said, "My parents did the best they could for me, we're doing the best we can for you, and you'll do the best you can for your children. That's how you'll pay me back."
Through all the happy times, Uncle Oscar was never forgotten. In part, this was accomplished by the ever present picture. The anniversary of his death was marked by the lighting of the traditional yahrzeit candle, and his name was listed each year in the Yom Kippur remembrance book.
There were also the yearly trips to the cemetery. Every Memorial day my family all piled into the car, and after a quick stop for a pot of red geraniums, went to the cemetery. Uncle Oscar was buried in a military cemetery, with rows of uniform markers. My father, however, knew the exact location of Uncle Oscar's grave. The pot of red geraniums was respectfully placed by the grave, and we all remained quiet and solemn as we passed a few moments, each with our own thoughts. Just once, in all those years, my father began to cry. "I never realized how young he was" my father said.
Beyond this, my Uncle Oscar's legacy lived on in a very special way. As my generation of the family grew and began to marry, religious intermarriage became the norm. Although in some families this was a problem, my family, including my Grandmother, was particularly tolerant. "Your Uncle Oscar was dating a non-Jewish girl, " she said, "and if he had only lived, I wouldn't have cared who he married."
Flashforward:
It is 2012, and, at the end of the PBS news hour, pictures of recently deceased military personnel are shown in a moment of silence, with their names, ranks and ages. To me, these pictures look like the picture of my Uncle Oscar, with the smiling handsome or beautiful proud faces. What bravery these sons and daughters of our nation must have had, what grief must their families be suffering. Each one of these brave souls will be mourned by a family, and will leave a legacy for future generations. How will their memories be honored by their families? How can we, their fellow citizens, honor their lives? Perhaps by flowers, perhaps by love, perhaps by courage. Perhaps by the way we raise the next generation. Perhaps by tolerance and understanding among all Americans. Our heros deserve no less.
It is any year between 1950 and 1990, and I am visiting my Grandmother's apartment. These apartments grew increasingly small as I grew older, but there was one constant. In a prominent position on the living room wall, there always hung a large, framed, sepia colored picture of a smiling, handsome soldier, in dress uniform. The photograph was surrounded by a matting decorating with stars, within a large frame.
It was a picture of my Uncle Oscar, the only one of my Grandmother's four sons to have been killed in World War II, and my father's younger brother. Uncle Oscar was a pilot in the air force, and died overseas when his plane was shot down. He was 23 years old. At the time he died, the family had recently lost the boys' father to an early death from cancer. When my Grandmother received the telegraph announcing Uncle Oscar's death, she fainted, and had to be revived with smelling salts. My mother told me that on the day Uncle Oscar died, his picture, sitting on my parents', bureau fell over. It had never fallen over before.
Without anyone specifically telling us, my generation grew up knowing that life was precious, and not necessarily long. Besides losing Uncle Oscar, each of my parents had lost a parent while they were still in their teens. I believe my family honored the lives of these loved ones, by being a little more caring and loving to my generation. Both my parents and my Grandmother seemed to delight in showing the children a good time.
My Grandmother invited me for sleepovers without my siblings, gave me her undivided attention, and made me feel special. She passed on the family stories, and shared the books on her shelf. I moved within walking distance of her apartment when I was a young mother, and she delighted in my children as she had delighted in her grandchildren. We visited often, and she passed on family treasures to us, such as her father's kiddush cup, and her beloved sewing machine.
My parents made living a happy experience. When I was small, my father sang his children funny songs from the Vaudeville era or from Gilbert and Sullivan. He sang these songs almost every night, as he washed the dishes after supper, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, and his tie loosened around his collar. On weekends, my father taught us to play catch and to ride our bicycles. He even gave me extra help learning to jump rope. My parents, Grandmother, and aunts and uncles, always made sure that holidays were celebrated with ceremony, delicious food and family visits.
Family outings were a regular event. My parents always looked happy when we had a day at the beach. They would stake out a spot at the beach, smiling at the sun and the water, offering us an extra hard boiled egg or a piece of fruit from the picnic basket. Every summer we had rides in the country, picnics at a state park in the woods on warm nights, and weekend afternoons at a local pond. We always stopped for my father's favorite treat, "frozen custard", as it was called then, at the local Dairy Queen.
My parents were happy to be able to give us privileges that they could never dream of, growing up in the depression years. We had annual family vacations, weeks at summer camp, and new clothes each school year. We had trips to local museums and to the great museums in New York City, and lots of books on the shelves at home. We had religious school on Sundays, and birthday parties, and presents.
My parents were especially proud that they were able to send all four of their children to college, and that they never needed to ask the children to help support the family. Earnings from summer jobs were for college books and clothes. When my parents offered to send me on a junior year abroad, and I worried about paying them back for the extra cost, my father graciously said, "My parents did the best they could for me, we're doing the best we can for you, and you'll do the best you can for your children. That's how you'll pay me back."
Through all the happy times, Uncle Oscar was never forgotten. In part, this was accomplished by the ever present picture. The anniversary of his death was marked by the lighting of the traditional yahrzeit candle, and his name was listed each year in the Yom Kippur remembrance book.
There were also the yearly trips to the cemetery. Every Memorial day my family all piled into the car, and after a quick stop for a pot of red geraniums, went to the cemetery. Uncle Oscar was buried in a military cemetery, with rows of uniform markers. My father, however, knew the exact location of Uncle Oscar's grave. The pot of red geraniums was respectfully placed by the grave, and we all remained quiet and solemn as we passed a few moments, each with our own thoughts. Just once, in all those years, my father began to cry. "I never realized how young he was" my father said.
The tradition which most made Uncle Oscar live on for us, was that my parents, when speaking to their children, always spoke of my father's younger brother as "Uncle Oscar". It did not matter that he had died before any of the children were born, Uncle Oscar remained an important part of the family. The very use of the term "Uncle", connoting both respect and a close familial tie, helped us to feel the loss to the family caused by his death.
More than this, my parents always always spoke of Uncle Oscar with love and respect. There was never bitterness, never regret. For example, my father told us that Uncle Oscar had almost died of lead poisoning from a pencil when he was a boy. We could still hear the worry in my father's voice as he related the story. My father also told us also that everyone had worried about Uncle Oscar because, after he had his tonsils removed, he couldn't walk. Finally, someone realized that Uncle Oscar had put his shoes on the wrong feet. My father would laugh with amusement and relief as if that cute child was right in front of him.
One time, my Grandmother showed me a picture of Uncle Oscar winding up a crank on an old fashioned car, with his trademark smile on his face. She smiled back at the picture. My mother always said that Oscar was the most handsome, and the most personable of all the brothers.
They always take the best of us, she mused.Beyond this, my Uncle Oscar's legacy lived on in a very special way. As my generation of the family grew and began to marry, religious intermarriage became the norm. Although in some families this was a problem, my family, including my Grandmother, was particularly tolerant. "Your Uncle Oscar was dating a non-Jewish girl, " she said, "and if he had only lived, I wouldn't have cared who he married."
Flashforward:
It is 2012, and, at the end of the PBS news hour, pictures of recently deceased military personnel are shown in a moment of silence, with their names, ranks and ages. To me, these pictures look like the picture of my Uncle Oscar, with the smiling handsome or beautiful proud faces. What bravery these sons and daughters of our nation must have had, what grief must their families be suffering. Each one of these brave souls will be mourned by a family, and will leave a legacy for future generations. How will their memories be honored by their families? How can we, their fellow citizens, honor their lives? Perhaps by flowers, perhaps by love, perhaps by courage. Perhaps by the way we raise the next generation. Perhaps by tolerance and understanding among all Americans. Our heros deserve no less.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Telling Stories
Flashback:
It is March, 1958, and my father is taking my picture outside. I am wearing my blue dress coat and my Purim costume. As always, I am dressed as Queen Esther, the beautiful heroine of the Purim story. Queen Esther saved the Jewish people of Shushan, Persia, when she foiled the plot of the evil Haman, adivsor to King Ahasuerus. She did so by becoming the wife of the King and then revealing to him that she was Jewish. When the King realized that Haman's plans to kill all the Jews would result in the death of his beloved Esther, he put a stop to the plans, and executed Haman instead.
Purim is a joyous holiday. It is celebrated with costumes, a carnival, and hamentaschen, a triangular filled cookie, said to be shaped like Haman's hat. Best of all, when the Purim story is read in the synagogue, the children are encouraged to make as much noise as possible, booing and shaking groggers (noisemakers) to drown out the name of the evil Haman, whenever it is mentioned.
The Purim story is captivating, but it is a fairy tale. There are other stories that captivate me more. These stories transport me to another time and place.
There are the stories my grandmother tells, of life in the Ukraine in the early 1900's, gathering berries in her pinafore in the Spring, and staying inside for months through the long cold winter. She tells of the relatives she left behind, of how they were never heard from again after one pogrom or another. She tells of her life as a teenager on the lower East Side of New York. She talks with pride of her work as a seamstress, and laughs that her parents thought she was an old maid because she didn't marry until she was 23.
There are the stories my Mother tells about growing up in Depression Era Hartford. She talks of their tiny apartment, where she lacked privacy because she slept in the living room. She talks about owning two outfits, when one was being washed she wore the other, and about walking to girl scouts in shoes that were too tight. But she also talks of playing with the other kids in the apartment building when it rained, and that she was chosen to play Goldilocks in the school play because of her beautiful strawberry blond hair.
I love these stories because they are larger than the facts they convey. They tell of finding the strength to go on, of finding happiness in unexpected places, of the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living. I know that one day my story will be a part of these stories, part of our family history, and I feel proud.
Flashforward:
It is March 7, 2012, and once again, it is Purim. I consider going to the synagogue to hear the Purim story. Although it is a holiday with large appeal to children, I have often gone to hear the story since my children have been fully grown. At times, I had been motivated to go because I gave a ride to a disabled adult in our community, who had become a friend, but she passed on several years ago. At times, my husband and I drove up to Newton, Mass, to attend the service with our grandchildren, but John's work schedule does not allow that this year. I consider going just to enjoy the joyous atmosphere, and to hear the story once again. This year however, I have an opportunity to hear other stories, stories that will captivate me more. I choose to take advantage of that opportunity, and get ready to attend our monthly writer's group meeting at the Town and County Club.
The Town and County Club provides a unique opportunity for cultural enrichment for women in the Hartford area. It's activities include luncheon and dinner speakers, musical presentations, discussion groups on books and current events, foreign language conversation groups, and trips to museums and historical sites. It's members come from many backgrounds, and articulately express a wide range of views on any subject.
Of all of these activities, I especially look forward to the writer's group, and to the stories that the women will tell. These stories transport me to other times and places.
On this night, I hear the story of a young couple in Depression Era Nebraska, gamely trying to start a new business. I hear the story of a widow in Virginia during the Civil War, and her struggle to keep her farm going and to keep her children alive. I am transported to a town in England, where a young American boy tries to fit into a new culture, and to the home of an aging couple, trying to adjust to retirement. On this night I am given a window into personal stories: the story of a woman who reaches out to help others by bringing her dog on visits to a nursing home, and the story of a mature woman recalling family gatherings of her childhood. I tell the story of one Passover, when many of the guests made an effort to attend, despite suffering from assorted maladies at the time.
The stories are endless, stories of lives well lived, of struggles to get by, and struggles to understand, of triumphs large and small. The stories reflect the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living. I know that my stories are now a part of these stories, part of the history of these diverse American women, and I feel proud.
It is March, 1958, and my father is taking my picture outside. I am wearing my blue dress coat and my Purim costume. As always, I am dressed as Queen Esther, the beautiful heroine of the Purim story. Queen Esther saved the Jewish people of Shushan, Persia, when she foiled the plot of the evil Haman, adivsor to King Ahasuerus. She did so by becoming the wife of the King and then revealing to him that she was Jewish. When the King realized that Haman's plans to kill all the Jews would result in the death of his beloved Esther, he put a stop to the plans, and executed Haman instead.
Purim is a joyous holiday. It is celebrated with costumes, a carnival, and hamentaschen, a triangular filled cookie, said to be shaped like Haman's hat. Best of all, when the Purim story is read in the synagogue, the children are encouraged to make as much noise as possible, booing and shaking groggers (noisemakers) to drown out the name of the evil Haman, whenever it is mentioned.
The Purim story is captivating, but it is a fairy tale. There are other stories that captivate me more. These stories transport me to another time and place.
There are the stories my grandmother tells, of life in the Ukraine in the early 1900's, gathering berries in her pinafore in the Spring, and staying inside for months through the long cold winter. She tells of the relatives she left behind, of how they were never heard from again after one pogrom or another. She tells of her life as a teenager on the lower East Side of New York. She talks with pride of her work as a seamstress, and laughs that her parents thought she was an old maid because she didn't marry until she was 23.
There are the stories my Mother tells about growing up in Depression Era Hartford. She talks of their tiny apartment, where she lacked privacy because she slept in the living room. She talks about owning two outfits, when one was being washed she wore the other, and about walking to girl scouts in shoes that were too tight. But she also talks of playing with the other kids in the apartment building when it rained, and that she was chosen to play Goldilocks in the school play because of her beautiful strawberry blond hair.
I love these stories because they are larger than the facts they convey. They tell of finding the strength to go on, of finding happiness in unexpected places, of the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living. I know that one day my story will be a part of these stories, part of our family history, and I feel proud.
Flashforward:
It is March 7, 2012, and once again, it is Purim. I consider going to the synagogue to hear the Purim story. Although it is a holiday with large appeal to children, I have often gone to hear the story since my children have been fully grown. At times, I had been motivated to go because I gave a ride to a disabled adult in our community, who had become a friend, but she passed on several years ago. At times, my husband and I drove up to Newton, Mass, to attend the service with our grandchildren, but John's work schedule does not allow that this year. I consider going just to enjoy the joyous atmosphere, and to hear the story once again. This year however, I have an opportunity to hear other stories, stories that will captivate me more. I choose to take advantage of that opportunity, and get ready to attend our monthly writer's group meeting at the Town and County Club.
The Town and County Club provides a unique opportunity for cultural enrichment for women in the Hartford area. It's activities include luncheon and dinner speakers, musical presentations, discussion groups on books and current events, foreign language conversation groups, and trips to museums and historical sites. It's members come from many backgrounds, and articulately express a wide range of views on any subject.
Of all of these activities, I especially look forward to the writer's group, and to the stories that the women will tell. These stories transport me to other times and places.
On this night, I hear the story of a young couple in Depression Era Nebraska, gamely trying to start a new business. I hear the story of a widow in Virginia during the Civil War, and her struggle to keep her farm going and to keep her children alive. I am transported to a town in England, where a young American boy tries to fit into a new culture, and to the home of an aging couple, trying to adjust to retirement. On this night I am given a window into personal stories: the story of a woman who reaches out to help others by bringing her dog on visits to a nursing home, and the story of a mature woman recalling family gatherings of her childhood. I tell the story of one Passover, when many of the guests made an effort to attend, despite suffering from assorted maladies at the time.
The stories are endless, stories of lives well lived, of struggles to get by, and struggles to understand, of triumphs large and small. The stories reflect the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living. I know that my stories are now a part of these stories, part of the history of these diverse American women, and I feel proud.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Bittersweet - Looking at life through the Chanukah lights
There are about three months between Yom Kippur, the last day of the Jewish High Holy Days, and Chanukah. we are celebrating Chanukah as I write this Yom Kippur is an intensely introspective day, in which we pledge to do our best in the coming year, and pray for a good year. It is followed in quick succession by two holidays in which we turn our attention outward. The first is Sukkot, a harvest festival, in which we thank God for the physical bounty of the earth. The second is Simchat Torah, in which we thank God for the Torah, which is our spiritual bounty. After that, the New Year is truly underway, and with it, our struggle to maintain the spiritual strength we have felt during the holidays begins. Then comes Chanukah, a celebration of a military victory over oppression, a celebration of joy and light.
During this past high holy days season, I had thought a lot about how I could behave in a way that would make me a better person. I congratulated myself on writing an interesting, and some have told me, inspiring blog post on this subject. But, in a way, my musings were selfish. I had looked for a way to use the teachings of the Torah to not only make me a better person, but also to provide a quick fix to make me a happier person. But neither being a good person, or a happy person, is all that easy.
I realized after a while, that I was trying to fix my life with a kind of "mind over matter" magic. I thought I could simply think happy, and I would be happy. I would find life's blessings, make them the focus of my attention, and feel the blessings so intensely that I would simply forget all of life's difficulties.
This effort became so difficult, that for a while I contemplated avoiding any contact with people or places that reminded me of anything unpleasant. I thought that perhaps I could retreat into my own world, where my life would be the standard for normal life, for the best life. I tried to make myself believe that people with excess energy, who worked every day, who walked fast, and thought fast, and thought they were happy, were really missing out on the peace and patience of a slower life. I worked at this with such intensity that, for a while, I believed that I did feel happier than I had in a long time. I thought I was pushing all of my unhappiness away, and that it was leaving me entirely.
In reality, my unhappiness had only gone as far as the back of my mind. I began to be disturbed by a new demon -- nightmares. When night fell, the unhappiness would find its way out of the back of my mind and into my thoughts. It taunted me in my sleep. I began having nightmares, one after another, every night. I started to dread bed time. I started to awaken startled and afraid, staying up during the hours after midnight, watching television, afraid to go back to sleep. I grew tired and resentful, but I tried not to show it, and above all, not to feel it.
One Saturday morning, a few weeks ago, I felt that the little happy world I was trying to make for myself was cracking around me. It started when my husband, my energetic husband, was home, rather than at work as he was during the week. Nor had he gone off to the Temple, as he usually did on Saturday mornings. Instead, he was bustling about the house. The sound of it, of his energy, his footsteps, the light and dark of the room as his shadow bounded in and out, intruded on my tired and strained little world. I started to want what he had: the energy, and, even more, the choices. I wanted the choice of whether to work or retire, where to drive off to on a weekend day, whether to go out in the evening, whether or not to go on a hike or a bike ride or stay out all day. The choices I used to have. Then suddenly, I screamed out loud the very thought I had been working so hard to keep from myself. "I hate having Parkinson's Disease!" I screamed. And I meant it.
I felt a little ashamed. I had not stayed with the program. I had failed in my appreciation of life. I knew I should be grateful, and in most ways, I still was. Plenty of people were a lot worse off than me, struggling through life in one way or another. Of course, many were sicker. Even many healthy people, however, had problems much more serious than mine: loss, loneliness, poverty, war, persecution, repression. What right did I have to complain? And yet, and yet...even though I knew, and in fact I truly felt, that my life was wonderful in so many ways, even though, ... I could not conquer my distress.
Although I felt ashamed, I slept peacefully that night, and every night after that. As the days went on, I felt less tired, more energetic, and even, to my surprise, happier. I needed to think about this. How had I inadvertently stumbled on a secret that had made me happier by feeling sorry for myself. How had allowing myself to give in to my lowest feelings actually improved my mood? I had to contemplate this for a while, before the answer, as so often happens, became so obvious that I felt foolish for missing it.
I knew, finally, that what had been missing from my formula for successful living, was acceptance. I had not accepted my actual life. Life, the real life that we live, intrudes upon our dreams, both figuratively and literally. Life, the real life that is around us, is not completely within our control. We can be lucky in a lot of ways, we can be grateful about a lot of things, but we may feel deeply sad sometimes. I had forgotten what my wise father had told me many years ago when I was a teenager: that is is a natural part of life to feel sad from time to time. Even the luckiest among us cannot escape that ultimate truth.
I had to look at my life more realistically. People are, after all, made up of a body and a mind. As human beings, it is our nature to cherish and to try to protect those elements of ourselves. The slow, but perpetual, loss of the ability to control one's body, and to use one's mind, with no hope of recovery, is bound to make a person feel sad, on some fundamental human level. On some fundamental human level that can't be wished away, or thought away, no matter how great the intellectual effort.
The lights of Chanukah remind us of the importance of the freedom to practice our own religion, to be able to live as our true selves in peace. This year, the lights also reminded the that spiritually, we are most free and most at peace when we are true to ourselves. Now, during these darkest days of winter, as I enjoy the sweet small glow of the Chanukah lights, I feel the glow of peace and acceptance. Now, as I continue my efforts for good acts and appreciation of life's blessings, I am a little humbled. I am savoring, however, maybe for the first time in a long time, the bittersweet, but truly rich, flavor of life.
During this past high holy days season, I had thought a lot about how I could behave in a way that would make me a better person. I congratulated myself on writing an interesting, and some have told me, inspiring blog post on this subject. But, in a way, my musings were selfish. I had looked for a way to use the teachings of the Torah to not only make me a better person, but also to provide a quick fix to make me a happier person. But neither being a good person, or a happy person, is all that easy.
I realized after a while, that I was trying to fix my life with a kind of "mind over matter" magic. I thought I could simply think happy, and I would be happy. I would find life's blessings, make them the focus of my attention, and feel the blessings so intensely that I would simply forget all of life's difficulties.
This effort became so difficult, that for a while I contemplated avoiding any contact with people or places that reminded me of anything unpleasant. I thought that perhaps I could retreat into my own world, where my life would be the standard for normal life, for the best life. I tried to make myself believe that people with excess energy, who worked every day, who walked fast, and thought fast, and thought they were happy, were really missing out on the peace and patience of a slower life. I worked at this with such intensity that, for a while, I believed that I did feel happier than I had in a long time. I thought I was pushing all of my unhappiness away, and that it was leaving me entirely.
In reality, my unhappiness had only gone as far as the back of my mind. I began to be disturbed by a new demon -- nightmares. When night fell, the unhappiness would find its way out of the back of my mind and into my thoughts. It taunted me in my sleep. I began having nightmares, one after another, every night. I started to dread bed time. I started to awaken startled and afraid, staying up during the hours after midnight, watching television, afraid to go back to sleep. I grew tired and resentful, but I tried not to show it, and above all, not to feel it.
One Saturday morning, a few weeks ago, I felt that the little happy world I was trying to make for myself was cracking around me. It started when my husband, my energetic husband, was home, rather than at work as he was during the week. Nor had he gone off to the Temple, as he usually did on Saturday mornings. Instead, he was bustling about the house. The sound of it, of his energy, his footsteps, the light and dark of the room as his shadow bounded in and out, intruded on my tired and strained little world. I started to want what he had: the energy, and, even more, the choices. I wanted the choice of whether to work or retire, where to drive off to on a weekend day, whether to go out in the evening, whether or not to go on a hike or a bike ride or stay out all day. The choices I used to have. Then suddenly, I screamed out loud the very thought I had been working so hard to keep from myself. "I hate having Parkinson's Disease!" I screamed. And I meant it.
I felt a little ashamed. I had not stayed with the program. I had failed in my appreciation of life. I knew I should be grateful, and in most ways, I still was. Plenty of people were a lot worse off than me, struggling through life in one way or another. Of course, many were sicker. Even many healthy people, however, had problems much more serious than mine: loss, loneliness, poverty, war, persecution, repression. What right did I have to complain? And yet, and yet...even though I knew, and in fact I truly felt, that my life was wonderful in so many ways, even though, ... I could not conquer my distress.
Although I felt ashamed, I slept peacefully that night, and every night after that. As the days went on, I felt less tired, more energetic, and even, to my surprise, happier. I needed to think about this. How had I inadvertently stumbled on a secret that had made me happier by feeling sorry for myself. How had allowing myself to give in to my lowest feelings actually improved my mood? I had to contemplate this for a while, before the answer, as so often happens, became so obvious that I felt foolish for missing it.
I knew, finally, that what had been missing from my formula for successful living, was acceptance. I had not accepted my actual life. Life, the real life that we live, intrudes upon our dreams, both figuratively and literally. Life, the real life that is around us, is not completely within our control. We can be lucky in a lot of ways, we can be grateful about a lot of things, but we may feel deeply sad sometimes. I had forgotten what my wise father had told me many years ago when I was a teenager: that is is a natural part of life to feel sad from time to time. Even the luckiest among us cannot escape that ultimate truth.
I had to look at my life more realistically. People are, after all, made up of a body and a mind. As human beings, it is our nature to cherish and to try to protect those elements of ourselves. The slow, but perpetual, loss of the ability to control one's body, and to use one's mind, with no hope of recovery, is bound to make a person feel sad, on some fundamental human level. On some fundamental human level that can't be wished away, or thought away, no matter how great the intellectual effort.
The lights of Chanukah remind us of the importance of the freedom to practice our own religion, to be able to live as our true selves in peace. This year, the lights also reminded the that spiritually, we are most free and most at peace when we are true to ourselves. Now, during these darkest days of winter, as I enjoy the sweet small glow of the Chanukah lights, I feel the glow of peace and acceptance. Now, as I continue my efforts for good acts and appreciation of life's blessings, I am a little humbled. I am savoring, however, maybe for the first time in a long time, the bittersweet, but truly rich, flavor of life.
Friday, November 25, 2011
The People I Never Thanked - The Red Headed Girl
Flashback: It is April of 1957, and I am in second grade in East Hartford Connecticut, seated at the lunch table in the school cafeteria. Each lunch table is long enough for the whole class, with benches on each side, like a long picnic table. We are free to arrange ourselves along the table in any order we choose, and we are usually able to sit near a friend. On this particular day, I am sitting next to my new friend. She is fair skinned, with freckles, and bright red hair. She wears bangs, but her hair looks untended, shoulder length, and a little scraggly. To my eye, her clothes seem a little shabby. She, however, doesn't seem to notice. She is always smiling, she is confident, she is fun to be with, and I am glad she is my friend.
Although I sometimes buy my lunch, on this particular day, I have brought lunch. In fact, I am bringing my lunch for the entire week, because it is Passover. As usual, my lunch consists of a sandwich, but during this week, my sandwich is made of Matzah. Matzah, or unleavened bread, is like a large cracker. It is eaten during Passover to represent the unleavened bread that the Israelites ate when they hastily fled Egypt to gain their freedom, without having time for their bread to rise. During this week, the eating of bread, or any product made directly from flour, is forbidden, although the Matzah itself may be crushed into a meal and used for baking.
For lunches, my Mother makes a sort of roll from Matzah Meal and eggs, but I find it indigestible. I prefer to have my sandwiches on Matzah. This is a little problematic for my mother, because a Matzah sandwich needs to be made from something that will stick to the Matzah, not the bologna or tuna fish that my mother usually used for my sandwiches. Although peanut butter and jelly would be the perfect combination, I am allergic to peanut butter. Thus, on this particular day, I am happily eating a Matzah and jelly sandwich for my lunch. I am happy because it is Passover (a joyous holiday which I love), because I am sitting with my friend, and because my friend has taken an interest in my special sandwich.
This happiness, however, is abruptly interrupted, as the principal walks by, stops at our table, and harshly says to me, "Why are you eating your dessert before your lunch?" I am stricken with fear and embarrassment. What can I say? He clearly does not know about Matzah, Passover, or the 5,000 years of Jewish history that have led me, a seven year old, to be eating a Matzah sandwich in an East Hartford school in 1957.
In an instant, I picture myself in trouble, in the principal's office, waiting for my parents to come and give the explanation. In an instant, I know that I am in the right, that he is wrong and ignorant, but I am tongue-tied, afraid of this large and powerful man. I am aware that he is tall, with olive skin and dark hair, and I am small and pale. My very blondness makes me feel more frail. I feel no hatred for this man. Having grown up in East Hartford, where the Jewish population is small, I have no expectation that the people around me will be familiar with Judaism. In an instant, however, I feel frustration at a system that would allow a foolish and ignorant man to become the principal. Too much is going through my mind for me to speak, but, in an instant, my friend speaks for me. With her confident smile, she looks at the principal and says, simply, "It's not dessert, it's Matzah." "Oh", he replies, and walks away.
How amazing! My friend is truly an amazing person! She is my champion, and the champion of Jews everywhere, even though she isn't Jewish! She was not even trying to be brave, she simply was brave. I marvel that despite her scraggly hair and shabby clothes, she is so confident with grown-ups. I vow at that instant never again to cower in fear and embarrassment at being Jewish, or at engaging in any Jewish practice. I vow that from that day forward, if anyone questions me on Jewish practice I will simply smile and explain it. I will do this for my entire life, and I will do it in honor of my brave friend.
Flashforward:
It is 2004, and for the last 15 years I have been working in a law firm with roots going back to the mid 1800's. The firm is sometimes referred to as a "white shoe" firm, meaning it has existed since the days, perhaps in the early 1900's, when men wore white shoes. By 2004, I am a partner in the firm. Before preparing the annual calendar for partner's meetings, the managing partner calls me to ask about the dates of Jewish holidays. I give him the information he requires, and any other explanations he may want. I am seen as the firm's resident expert in Judaism. Because of my red headed friend, I have never shied away from explaining what the holidays are about or when they take place. Thank you, my red headed friend, who, by example, gave me a voice that allowed me to be myself in all aspects of American life.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Parkinson's, Proud and Powerful - A Rosh Hashanah Reflection
The other day an old friend, with whom I was having dinner, told me approvingly that I didn't look like I had Parkinson's disease. She meant well, trying to give me a compliment, I guess, as many others have in the past. But the truth is, it struck me the wrong way. After all, what's wrong with having Parkinson's Disease? Often, if I'm having tremors, or difficulty moving, spilling my soup, or using my cane, I do look like I have Parkinson's disease, but who cares? Not me! And neither, I don't think, does God.
Which brings me to my Rosh Hashanah reflection. Rosh Hashanah is a communal holiday in that the community prays and celebrates together, but it is also a very personal holiday. It's personal in that it's incumbent on us all to reflect on the past year, on what we did wrong, on what we did right, on our blessings, on our sorrows, on how we can begin again, and do our best. In short, we all get a fresh start, a new beginning, a chance to do better. In Hebrew the word "t'shuvah" is used to mean that we can turn around, turn towards a better path. We also pray, metaphorically, for God to inscribe us for a good and a sweet year in the book of life. We recognize that it is up to God to decide who will live and who will die, who will prosper, and who will be poor, who will lie in a bed of pain, and who will get well from an illness. But however harsh God's decree, we acknowledge that it can be tempered by repentance, prayer and charity.
I needed to do a little research to apply these concepts to my current situation. After all, I wanted to know, how can I promise to do better, when I'm often too tired to do much of anything? How can I expect a good year, when my medical prognosis is that I'll get worse. How can I expect a sweet year, when I know I'll often be in pain. How can I repent, when I have an excuse for spending most of my energy on myself. What can I pray for, when the state of my health is a forgone conclusion. How can charity make a difference for me?
The Torah teaches us that God's law is within the reach of us all, not far away up in the heavens where we cannot reach. Sure enough, once I started looking, I found my answers right at my finger tips, on my I-phone. With the help of Google, the wisdom of many Rabbis and thinkers, the wisdom of the ages, was available to me in a few moments. There I found the answers to my questions.
First, as the prayer book says, God does not expect us all to be Moses, only to be the best person we are capable of being. I can do that. Even when I'm feeling stiff and out of sorts, I can try to be a better listener. I can be more loving to my family and friends who have been so wonderful in supporting me. I can try to be less judgmental, and more compassionate to
others. In short, there are lots of ways that I can try to do better that don't require me to move much, or be active, or to give up my afternoon naps.
Second, I can have a good and sweet year by opening my heart to the beauty and joy that surrounds us. Judaism teaches us to recite a blessing for every occurrence, even difficult ones. There are blessings for various times of day, for various types of food, for beholding natural beauty, and just for waking up in the morning. In fact, there is even a blessing to recite upon seeing a deformed or handicapped person, "Blessed art thou, Oh Lord our God, who creates diversity." So I guess its okay to see myself as just another of God's wonders, cane, tremors and all. (Or, as my husband says "Parkinson's, Proud and Powerful"). More importantly, it's important for me to open up my eyes and my heart to see the wonders all around me: our beautiful earth, the delicious and plentiful food we enjoy, the care and affection I receive from my beloved family and friends. That's an awful lot of goodness, and even sweetness, for me to enjoy, despite a few aches and pains and inconveniences.
Third, to the extent that I may be subject in the upcoming year to a little bit of harshness, I can make it better by repentance prayer and charity. I can make my life better by repenting in the true sense of "t'shuvah", by changing course, by being thankful for my many blessings instead of focusing on my problems. Prayer can remind me to do this. The Jewish prayer book is full of praise and blessings for God's many wonders. By praying, I can remind myself of the splendor of the universe and the joy one can get from a lovely day or a pretty flower, or the sweetness of a child's kiss. Charity can help me get my mind off myself, by reaching out to those with bigger problems than I have. Even with the problems I have reaching, I can still reach as far as my checkbook, and that can help a lot of people in need.
So I guess I've got my work cut out for me this High Holiday Season, as always, but with the same opportunities as everyone else to make this a meaningful time of reflection, and to make the next year better than the last.
Wishing all of you and your families a Good and Sweet Year, and may you all be be inscribed for blessing in the Book of Life.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Reflections on 40 Years of Marriage
I hated to let our fortieth anniversary pass without writing about it -- but I've had writer's block. Finally, I read through years of old journal entries, and I realized why.
The reason that I find it hard to write about forty years of marriage is that I don't have a lot to say. Our story is amazingly simple. We fell in love, we stayed in love. In short, we were lucky.
I have no secrets about how to have a happy marriage. If you asked the experts, we probably did everything wrong. Sometimes we yelled, got mad about stupid little things, took out our frustrations on each other.
We never stayed mad for an entire 24 hours, but that was not by design. It was just that neither of us could stand it when the other was angry. If we left the house angry in the morning, we would each go into our office, close the door, call the other and make up.
In fact, most of our fights centered around one of us acting angry or inattentive, taking the other for granted, or, God forbid, seeming not to need or want the other around. Maybe we were always a little immature, but we somehow believed that if we fought about it enough, we could make our love perfect. I could never accept being together just because we fell in love once a long time ago. I wanted us to fall in love again, and again, and again...and we did.
For no particular reason, John always made me happy. Don't get me wrong, John is a wonderful person, and many people have told me so. But there are a lot of other wonderful people in the world. There is no explanation for why John's particular voice, particular smile, particular touch, make me so happy. I have stopped looking for the reason.
Now that we're older, we actually get along better. We have enough money, no young children to raise, and we've finally each learned to trust our judgment that marrying each other was a good idea. We've gotten past the idea that just because we married young, it would never work out. That was our parents' idea -- I sometimes feel that they went to their graves still waiting for our marriage to fail.
We haven't actually ever accepted the fact that we aren't still young, and, as long as we are together, we never need to. We adore being grandparents, but have simply adjusted our perspective, believing that we are young, our children are barely grown, and our grandchildren are babies.
We fell in love in what was then a faraway place, Rouen, France, when we were studying abroad. We never had a chance to show anyone in the family where our budding romance occurred... until this year. We had hoped to return with our whole family, but our daughter Rachel, her husband Jon, and their twenty month old twins had just relocated to Arkansas and were happily settling in. Our son Marc, his wife Cheryl and their two children, Hannah (7) and Max (3), were, however, able to accompany us to Paris, with a day planned for a trip to Rouen.
When we got to Rouen, it was gray and rainy. The streets looked smaller than I remembered, the pedestrian mall was deserted. I was telling myself to accept the fact we could never really share the magic, when, walking down the street holding Hannah's hand, she asked me how Grandpa and I knew were were in love.
It was, in fact, the street John and I were walking on, discussing an F.Scott Fitzgerald book, when he first proposed. At the time, I was so excited, I considered myself a veritable Zelda while she was still full of life and excitement.
When precious little Hannah asked me that question, I knew at once that she was the right person for the job of eldest grandchild. She was naturally intuitive, and would be a wonderful keeper of the flame. Suddenly the rain was beautiful, perfect really, and I felt as happy as I had on the day John had proposed. Maybe happier. The dreams we had dreamed so long ago and so far away had come true. In fact, life had exceeded our dreams, for we had made our way back to this place not only with a child, as we had dreamed, but with grandchildren too.
It took me a moment to answer Hannah's question. Then, I knew the answer was clear. "I just wanted to be with him all the time, " I said. And you know what? I still do.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Top 10 Reasons its lucky to have a Chronic Degenerative Disease
10. You learn to be a good actor, telling people you "love retirement", and "never really wanted to go on that trip anyway"...
9. You improve your math and organizational skills sorting medications and keeping track of doctors' appointments.
8. You get to use a stylish cane (walker, wheelchair...).
7. You get a lot of nice views of the backs of your friends and relatives as they walk ahead of you, leave you resting on a bench...
6. You finally have a good excuse not to try out for the Olympics.
5. You have an opportunity to actually understand Medicare, so at least you know why your prescriptions aren't covered.
4. You have a chance to be on a first name basis with your pharmacist.
3. You have time to see all the reruns of "Golden Girls", "Gunsmoke", and "Leave it to Beaver".
2. You have hours every day to sing out loud, with no one around to complain.
1. You have plenty of time to sit around composing stupid top ten lists!
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Finding Myself --- Again
Flashback: The year is 1981, it is evening, and I am walking on the streets of New York alone, on my was to see the movie, "The French Lieutenant's Woman". I have been sent by my new employer, the State of Connecticut Banking Department, to New York to attend a conference. In the evening between the two days of the conference I go to the movie. I am so excited. My new legal career has been launched, and I am managing as a working Mom. I love the movie beyond all proportion to how good it is.
Flashforward: It is December 8, 2010, the last night of Chanukah. I am sitting in my favorite lounge chair, surrounded by diet ginger ale, used kleenex, and empty pill containers. I have taken all my medications for the day, including my pre-bedtime dose of medication for my bronchitis and my middle of the night dose of Parkinson's Disease medicine. I've had a nice day, out with friends to a museum trip and luncheon, out with John for one last night of latkes, and a nice long chat with my sister. All this topped off with a phone call from my daughter Rachel saying that she and her husband Jon will accept my offer to accompany them on their move to Arkansas, and to stay for a week or so to help watch the kids while they settle in. John has said that maybe he can come on the weekend.
John went to bed a couple of hours ago, but I needed to unwind. Just for fun, I have just watched an old romantic movie from 1989 called "Chances Are". It's hard to watch without feeling a little sad about how good Robert Downey, Jr. used to be. During the movie, I am feeling excited, thinking about the trip to Arkansas, and our upcoming trip to Paris with Marc and Cheryl and their children. I am wondering if I can pull it all off, or will be felled by more bronchitis. But, reminding myself that both Paris and Arkansas are warmer in the winter than Connecticut, I feel optimistic. Besides, antibiotics are available both in Arkansas and Paris, just in case.
As I am about to go to bed, the television announcer states that the next movie is "The French Lieutenant's Woman". I make the motions of staying up to watch it, but knowing that I will fall asleep, I hit the DVR button so I can see the rest in the morning. I settle back in my lounge chair, and happily begin to watch the movie. I love the movie beyond all proportion to how good it is. It is a sign: my new career, as traveling Grandma, is being launched.
As life goes on, and things change, moving forward for me has not been so much a process of reinventing myself, but of finding myself again in the new surroundings. I realize now that it wasn't being a lawyer that defined me, it was being enthusiastic, and excited about what I was doing that defined me. In "The French Lieutenant's Woman" the characters are movie stars who glide back and forth between the roles they play as 19th century Londoners, and their real lives, but the story is eerily similar in both settings, and the ending uncertain. Perhaps that is why I have always loved that movie, it is a story of self transcending setting. It is also a reminder to me that there are times in life when joy happens, when difficulties only appear to be challenges, and when new doors open when we least expect it.
Do I love "The French Lieutenant's Woman" beyond proportion to how good it is? Do I love life beyond proportion to how good it is? Maybe -- or maybe sometimes, a movie, or a day, is really just that good.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Joy and Solemnity
Flashback: It is 1959, and I have been awarded a menorah as a prize for the best essay in our Sunday school class on my favorite holiday. Of course, I have written about Passover. I not only loved Passover, but was so proud of my parents for the wonderful seders they made. My father led the seder, and my mother cooked, but they both did their jobs perfectly. Every year, my father introduced a new fact about Passover, which he personally researched. He would lead us through the seder with a mix of joy and solemnity that captured the essence of the holiday.
Flashforward: It is 2010, and 18 people are around our seder table. Well, not entirely around the table. My daughter-in-law Cheryl, who is awaiting back surgery, in lying on the couch. She has made the journey from Newton to Newington, almost two hours of agony in the car, just so she and my son and grandchildren could be with us. My sister Melinda is sitting on the other couch, afraid to move. She was taken to the emergency room in an ambulance from our home the night before due to an extreme attack of vertigo, one of many she has had recently. My 10 month old grandchildren Nathaniel and Evelyn are sitting in high chairs for most of the ceremony, although my daughter Rachel and Evelyn join the group in the living room when Evelyn gets restless. My grandson Max, almost 2 and one half, is making himself at home wandering from one end of the table to the next, his own version of being around the table. Fortunately, in our home we have had to extend the tables into the living room to fit everyone in, so the ceremony is fully visible to those not exactly around the table. I have tried to find comfortable chairs for my Aunt Beryl and my friend Maxanne, both of whom are also experiencing back pain. I myself have been banned from helping to serve the Matzah Ball soup, because the tremors from my Parkinson's Disease have become sufficiently frequent that I am considered by one and all to be a danger around hot liquids. Besides that, I have not successfully fought off my cold, despite three days of bed rest, and I know that the with all of this activity I am risking another round of bronchitis.
Despite this, we are all here. As the time for the seder approaches, everyone is dressed up, and chatting gaily, watching the babies' antics, and listening to our 6 year old granddaughter Hannah report that she is prepared to do the first of the four questions in Hebrew as a solo this year. I call everyone to the table and we begin.
As the matriarch of the family, we ask our Aunt Beryl, now 81, to kindle the holiday lights. She does the English reading, and we all join in on the Hebrew prayer. My husband John leads the seder. Each year he uses the large reader's volume of the Haggadah, which was part of a gift to my parents along with the original set of eight Haggadot that my brothers and sister and I gave to my parents many years ago (as childen, we used the Maxwell House haggadot). At first, maybe we felt like John was channeling my father through that big book, with my father's penciled annotations, which John refuses to erase. Now, however, John has developed his own style, which moves me. He goes through each ritual, reads loudly enough for all to hear, but gently, and pauses enough to let me jump in with a suggestion of where to continue or what to chant in Hebrew. He smiles graciously throughout the service. As an adult convert to Judaism, John leads the basic Hebrew blessings, but where we opt to add more Hebrew chanting, John graciously turns it over to others. Thus we ask Marc, our son who had majored in Jewish and Near Eastern studies in college, to chant the kiddush, and to lead us in the Birkat Hamazon after the service. I sometimes kick of the singing of the other songs, as does our son-in-law Jon, who is good at keeping on the right page and keeping us moving along.
Soon, we are all participating in the ceremonies. It doesn't matter that some of us are not Jewish, (my sister-in-law Kathy, wife of my brother Andy, and my nephew Matt are Catholic), we all join in. My Uncle Yale, who takes pride in considering himself not to be religious, participates fully. Hannah chants the introduction to the four questions and the first of the four questions beautifully in her clear, sweet 6 year old voice. When John discusses the Matzah, the poor man's bread, Max exhibits the toy Matzah with a gleeful cry "Matzah", and we know he is paying attention. He joins in the loud and joyful choruses of Dayenu, and Nate smiles gaily and bangs his hand on the high chair tray in tune to the music. Nate is so excited that he sits in his high chair through the whole pre-meal part of the service, and, his father reports to us later, tries every dish (cut up in small pieces on the high chair tray). Evie spends some of the time reclining on her Mother's lap, but drinks it all in and stays awake for the whole pre-meal portion of the service. Hannah masterfully steals and hides the Afikomen, to be ransomed back later.
I know that my nephew Dan, who has come from New York, and makes a point of joining us whenever he can, will remember the many Seders shared with us, as part of his own history, as will my own children. Will the grandchildren? Will this be a vague memory, spoken of when cousins reunite at weddings and Bar Mitzvahs (remember when we were little and we had the Seder at Grandma and Grandpa's house), or will it only be the type of vague memory that lets them know that not a year when by without a seder?
I realize that this doesn't matter. We have fulfilled the Mitzvah, we have celebrated the Passover. All of the adults present, whether with their own children or children born to others yet raised by us all, have participated in the Mitzvah of passing on the tradition from one generation to the next. We have had our seder, lead with a mixture of joy and solemnity, which captures the essence of the holiday.
Postscript: It is now a little more than two weeks after the seder, and Cheryl has had successful back surgery, Melinda is in treatment for her vertigo, which seems to have been triggered by a virus, and appears to be slowly recovering, and my bout of bronchitis has come and gone.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The Picture
Flashback: It is the spring of 1999, and 21 year old Rachel is graduating from American University, the last class of the century. She is about to take off to Israel, for a year of volunteer work and study. We have traveled to Washington, D.C. for the occasion with our 24 year old son Marc, and our two mothers. Marc is working in New York and going to graduate school. John and I are fully engrossed in our careers in Connecticut. There is a lot of promise on the horizon.
Flashforward:
It is January 28, 2010 and I am looking at the happy family picture that we just had taken last month. The picture includes Marc and his wife Cheryl with their two children, Max and Hannah; Rachel and her husband Jon with their two children, Nathaniel and Evelyn; and me and John. I wanted to have the picture taken to capture a moment in time when everyone in the family was happy. As I looked over the picture, I realized that while the last decade had brought us to this happy period, it was filled with the multitude of difficulties that life inevitably involves. Still, we had made it through, and grown as a family in numbers and in strength.
I guess that's why the picture was so important to me, to celebrate our collective happiness.
As Rachel put it, the picture represents a moment in time when our dreams, as a family, had come true. Whatever was in the past, whatever is in the future, I will always remember this moment in time with gratitude, and all of the wonderful people in the picture, who shared this moment with me, with love.
Monday, January 4, 2010
New Year 2010
Flashback:
It is December 31, 1968, and I am a sophomore in college. I have nothing particular to do on New Year's eve. My parents are going out, and need a babysitter for my 10 year old brother. My roommate Vickie comes over, and she and I and my kid brother Jeff have an impromptu party. Jeff plays the cello for us, he has been taking cello lessons. It turns out to be a surprisingly fun way to see in the new year.
Flashforward:
It is almost any New Year's even in the 1980's, and we are celebrating with our friends Bonnie and David. Bonnie and I have been friends since we were 14. Some years we see each other more than others, but we almost always get together on New Year's eve. Sometimes she cooks, sometimes I do, sometimes we both spring for babysitters and go out for dinner. But we always come back to one of our homes or the other for "coffee and..." and to have a glass of champagne as we turn on the TV to watch the ball drop at Times Square at midgnight.
Flashforward:
It is December 2009, a few days before New Years, and I get the urge to call Vicky, whom I haven't spoken to for over 10 years. I find her listed in the telephone book, and I call. She is, of course, surprised to hear from me, but states that her brother is there and they are about to go to the festival of trees at the Wadsworth Anthaeneum in Hartford. I tell her I will call her back, but I haven't yet.
I get another call around that time from Bonnie. We had made plans for New Year's Eve dinner at a restaurant. Because David's mother had just died, however, we decided to skip the champagne and dessert part of the evening. Now Bonnie is letting me know that her father is dying. He dies just before New Year's eve, and we spend New Year's eve afternoon and early evening at his funeral.
I had invited a friend for Shabbat dinner on New Year's day, but I was exhausted, and didn't enjoy myself as much as I had hoped to. My exhaustion was due not only to the funeral, but to the busy week we had had. The week started with Christmas Eve at my Sister-in-law's, then hosting my son Marc and his family overnight. We then babysat for his children, so Marc and his wife Cheryl could get away for a night. They returned before lunch on Saturday, so we could all have a family portrait taken along with my daughter Rachel and her husband Jon and their twin babies. This was my idea, because I wanted to record this moment in time when everyone was happy for a 60th birthday present to myself. Before Marc and his family left on Sunday, we went to my sister's for a belated family Chanukah party, because the party originally scheduled during Chanukah had been cancelled due to in impending snow storm.
Marc was back for dinner on Tuesday to drop off Hannah, his almost 6 year old daughter. We had invited Hannah to come to New York to see Mary Poppins on Broadway as her Chanukah present. Seeing the play with Hannah was wonderful, we all enjoyed the day immensely. But Hannah had been so excited that she woke up and got dressed at 4:30 am, and New York was crowded, so we were all tired by the end of the day.
The next day, John drove as we brought Hannah safely back home, stopping for breakfast on the way. Hannah was relieved that after a good night's sleep, John and I had overcome our crankiness and were back to normal. At breakfast, she reviewed the pictures of the actors on the Mary Poppins program, carefully marking them with the initials of the character each played, which she sounded out for herself. She was anxious to share this with her Mom. For a souvenir, she had bought a snow globe music box, her first, also to help her share the experience with her Mom. I was delighted that she had chosen this, and hoped that she would always keep it to remember our special day together. We dropped her off with her souvenirs, all smiles as she usually was. Then John drove us straight to the funeral, with only a brief stop for lunch.
Although I was not well acquainted with Bonnie's father, I felt as if I knew him from hearing her speak of him all of these years, and I cried throughout the funeral service. After the internment, a Shivah service was held at a small synagogue in Wethersfield, followed by the funeral meal. I was glad we attended because, although there had been a good number of Jewish friends at the service, by evening, most of the remaining people in attendance were not Jewish, and we were needed to make a minion. I was also glad I attended because most of those that stayed for the meal were friends of Bonnie's brother, and I wanted to be there for Bonnie.
Bonnie is my oldest "continuous" friend. I say "continuous" because I have reconnected with another friend from high school, but I had been out of touch with that other friend for about 15 years at one point. I feel bad for Bonnie and David, because when our last parent died (John's mother had died about 18 months earlier), we had two grandchildren, and Rachel was married and hoping to be able to have children soon. Neither of Bonnie's two children are married yet, and I thought it must be hard to officially become the older generation when there is not yet a third generation, nor one on the horizon.
After resting thoroughly on Saturday and Sunday, I was feeling pretty cheerful, and I had had an epiphany. I decided to give in to my illness, and to take it easier. If would no longer make the effort to keep up with John, but would send him off to work and to his book club and Torah study, Bar association meetings, and study groups more graciously. I would let him live as a healthy person, and I would live as a sick person. It was a relief to realize that it would be okay to lay down the effort of trying to live more normally. I am still a happy person, and I have realized that there are a lot of quiet activities that I can enjoy. Watching old movies, reflecting on life, finding and cooking new recipes that I can prepare in the morning before I am too tired, reading, babysitting the twins early in the day, visits with friends and family, and attending book and discussion groups that meet in the morning. Among the attendees of these groups are others who are tired, due to age or circumstance, and I can enjoy their company.
That evening, I received a call from yet another old friend with whom I had recently reconnected. She was part of our Junior Year in France group, but had missed our 40th year reunion due to illness. She is extremely ill with cancer that has metasticized to her liver, and has been in a nursing home for over a year. Her children are young (16, 18, and 20), and her marriage is not strong. John and I started visiting occasionally, and had given a luncheon at our home in her honor for local JYA alumni, to cheer her a little. Last night she called with fear in her voice. Today would be the test to see if her tumors were shrinking or at least stable, her youngest child was in the emergency room as we spoke with fever and severe neck pain, and her elderly Mother had fallen the day before. Although the problems of my illness seem small compared to hers, I have been able to bond with sick people since my illness. I felt good that she felt comfortable enough to call me to share her problems. Although we had been out of touch for 40 years, we now relate in a number of ways, such as our shared love of classic movies, and I now genuinely care about what is happening to her.
It has been a bitter sweet New Year, but it has left me feeling calm and happy. I myself am not even sure why. Perhaps it is because this New Year has brought with it the gift of acceptance. I can accept my age and my illness. I can accept that death comes to all, but that only premature death is a tragedy. I can accept laying down the struggle, with the realization that I have had my turn, and I must not interfere with the people in my life who are now living fully to the best of their ability, whether my age or younger. I can accept that for me, life is still beautiful, if a little slower. As I enter 2010, I rejoice in these blessings.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Thanksgiving 2009 - A Sentimental Remembrance
Flashback:
Pick any Thanksgiving in my childhood, and chances are we are on our way to Aunt Beryl and Uncle Yale's house for Thanksgiving dinner. Aunt Beryl is my mother's sister. We shared just about every Thanksgiving and Passover with them. Thanksgiving was usually at her house and Passover was at our house. Thanksgiving was reserved for a day to spend with my mother's side of the family. Beryl and Yale spent the Jewish Hight Holy Days at big family gatherings on Yale's side of the family. We dropped by at my paternal Grandmother's house after services on Rosh Hashonah for Kremslach, and I can still remember seders at her apartment when I was very young. But Thanksgiving will always be associated for me with my mother's family.
My Mother had lost her own mother when she was nineteen and Beryl was 11. After that time, she helped to raise Aunt Beryl, and they were still very close as adults. It didn't occur to me at the time that Thanksgiving might have been a little hard for them as young women. They never had the chance to go to Mom's house for Thanksgiving, showing off their new husbands and the children as they arrived, or to get the favorite family recipes from their mother. If they felt any sadness, they never let us know. For us as children, Thanksgiving was a gala family event.
Thanksgiving at Aunt Beryl's house was more than a meal, it was an all day event. Aunt Beryl and Uncle Yale were and are both great cooks, and the dinner was always delicious. We stayed and visited all afternoon, and at supper time, turkey sandwiches and more pie was always served. I don't remember doing much of anything during those hours, other than watching everyone else. My mother and Aunt Beryl talked all afternoon. My young sister Melinda played with Aunt Beryl's daughter Miriam, who was her age. Shortly after my younger brother Jeff came along, Aunt Beryl had her daughter Lisa, so they were natural playmates. After a while, my older brother Andy started tagging along after Uncle Yale, who probably enjoyed the company. They are still close, and Uncle Yale even introduced my brother Andy to his wife Kathy. As for me, I remember spending the time eavesdropping on the conversations my mother was having with Aunt Beryl, and checking on my father napping in the living room.
When I was young, my maternal grandfather, his sister Great Aunt Nettie, and her husband Uncle Henry, often came to Thanksgiving dinner. Every member of the family had a story. We loved them because of their stories, or in spite of them.
Aunt Nettie's story was that she had been a beautiful young woman who put off marriage so that she could care for her ailing mother until her death. During that time, she worked as a school teacher. By the time her mother died, Aunt Nettie was near 40. She married a curmudgeonly old dentist, Uncle Henry. Uncle Henry said little at family gatherings, until it was time to leave. Then, he would rouse himself and say "Well, Nettie". My siblings and I still sometimes say "Well, Nettie" when we feel like its time to leave a family event. My mother thought that Uncle Henry was a miser, that he and Nettie should have lived in a nicer house and that Nettie should have had a chance to travel. Still, I thought Aunt Nettie loved him. I still remember the look of abject grief that she wore at his funeral.
My grandfather's story was more complex. He had been widowed young. He came by our house often in his big green cadillac. He bought us toys and amused us by balancing grapes in his eyes. We rarely went to his apartment. It was inhabited by the mysterious "French Woman". The "French Woman" never came to our house. It was my grandfather himself who referred to her as the "French Woman", my parents never spoke of her at all. My Grandfather would sometimes mention her, or at least mention that he had to go home because he had something to do with the "French Woman". Occasionally, we ran into them on a hot summer day, at the beach. My grandfather would be in his old fashioned bathing suit, with a top like a man's sleeveless undershirt. He'd come over to our beach umbrella and say hello, but the "French Woman" kept her distance. I only remember going to my Grandfather's apartment once, when my mother and grandfather had some kind of adult appointment. The "French Woman" babysat for me for the afternoon. I was 8 or 9. She found a Shirley Temple movie on TV for me to watch, and brought me snacks. She had dark curly hair, and a slight Canadian French accent. I thought she seemed nice enough. I always thought of her as my Grandfather's cleaning woman with whom he happened to have grown close.
My Grandfather died when I was 10, and I remember how angry my mother was that the "French Woman" thought she was entitled to some of his things. It wasn't until years later that my mother told me that she was his mistress. As a widower, my mother said that there were many respectable Jewish widows whom my Grandfather could have married. Instead he took up with the "French Woman". My mother believed that the "French Woman" was an alcoholic who had insinuated herself into my Grandfather's life, and that he was too weak to make her leave. I had a more romanticized view. My view was that my grandfather loved my grandmother so much, that he could never bring himself to remarry. Still, he had needs, and the "French Woman" was able to accept him on those terms, without the benefit of marriage.
In 1959, my grandfather died just before Thanksgiving. My last few words with him were in a telephone call just before he went into the hospital for surgery. He called for my mother, and when I answered the phone, he told me that he would see me on Thanksgiving, and to be sure to save some turkey for him. This one year, Thanksgiving was going to be at our house, and my Uncle Albert from Pennsylvania was coming up with his family. Instead of being our Thanksgiving dinner, the turkey and fixings sustained us all through the funeral period. I remember wondering what we would have done for food if my mother hadn't had all of the Thanksgiving fixings in the house.
I remember that my Uncle Albert came up first, and then his family flew in. I got to go to the airport to pick them up. When they got off the plane, Aunt Dorothy, Uncle Albert's wife, said that our grandfather had been like a fairy tale grandfather. This stuck in my mind, because I thought it was so untrue. I figured that she must have thought that because they lived so far away and rarely saw him. To me, he was a real man. I remembered how he struggled to learn the Torah blessing for my brother's Bar Mitzvah, and how proud he looked on the Bimah. I remembered how he took us to Chanukah parties at Temple Beth Israel, where they served fried chicken but no latkes, and how he pointed out to me, with admiration, the great Rabbi Feldman, who indeed was an internationally recognized scholar. I remembered that he tended to doze off during services, and that he gave my mother her first clothes drier. I felt bad for my cousins who could only remember him as someone from a fairy tale, and not as a real man, "French Woman" and all.
Flashforward:
It is November 23, 2009, the Monday before Thanksgiving. I am a grandmother of four. Over the weekend my husband John and I had an overnight our daughter's 6 month old twins, and I will see them again today. On Sunday morning, when they woke up, we fed them bottles in our bedroom, then all played together in the bed, all four of us smiling and laughing. I spoke to my son Saturday afternoon, and we began making our plans for a Chanukah visit, followed by a Christmas vacation visit, a visit for his children's January birthdays, and an overnight visit with his children, who are almost 6 and 2. I am sure that visit will involve some early morning tickles and giggling as well. I am fortunate that I see them all often.
This Thanksgiving, however, instead of spending the day with my children and grandchildren, I will again be visiting with "my Mother's side of the family". I am looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner at the home of my brother Andy and my sister-in-law, Kathy. Aunt Beryl and Uncle Yale, now 80, will be joining us for dinner. Thankfully, some things never change.
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