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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.