A Visit with Family                                                      August 3, 2014

 

     I took a trip on a plane.  I was nervous before I left, went through all the usual questions: what have I forgotten, did I count out my meds properly and take extra? Did we consider the traffic in the morning?  I do not want to miss the plane!  By the time I was settled in a wheelchair next to my gate, an hour before boarding time, I relaxed and picked up my book.

     My niece Amy had sent me a lovely invitation.  It was special because the invite included a ticket and hotel reservation with all the comforts I could wish for. The occasion was the summer visit of Rachel, Amy’s daughter who lives in Israel. Rachel brought her three young children with her: Ari 9; Micah 7 and Tamar 2+.  Amy’s grandchildren are my great grandniece and great grandnephews.  They are a delicious crew.

     I have one grandson who is 26 years old.  I love him dearly. It has been awhile since I have had small ones with whom to play.   Ari and Micah were polite, patient and helpful.  They told me stories of what they were doing in Lego Camp; their manners were fine-tuned.  They are delightful.  Two-year old Tamar has so much on her mind: her primary concern is keeping up with her big brothers.  She eats them under the table, she “borrows” their snacks and when she is told not to finish Micah’s chocolate milk, she does of course drain it.  The boys are remarkably patient with little sister. She will howl when one of them finishes her abandoned muffin.  But all she gets when she grabs their food is a dirty look.  I saw none of the arm-twisting that I experienced when I annoyed my big brother.

     My grandniece, Rachel is a dear.  She and her brother Aaron spent many Chanukahs with Erv and me.  Over the years Rachel has been especially caring.  When they moved to Israel four years ago, I was sad.  Though I have visited the State of Israel many times, long trips are no longer possible.  I have to be satisfied with their summer visits and many emails.  At this time, during the present problems between Israel and Gaza, I asked Rachel if they were indeed going to return home.  She answered as a true Israeli, “Of course we are going home, we live in a safe area and the boys will be going back to school.”  I did not argue, the subject had no place to go.  Amy and I will pray and worry, maybe even share concerns. My visit was short but thoroughly satisfying.  How nice it was to see that the boys are big and bright like my brother.  The little girl is independent and somewhat of a mischief as was I. Guess it’s in the genes.

      My trip on the plane was delightful, not a moment of discomfort.  Why was I nervous?  My friend and neighbor who transported me to and fro, was waiting for me; before I had time to worry I heard my name.  Yes it was a good trip!

    

    

 Judaism, A Choice?                                                            July 14, 2014

   This story is hard for me to write.  Nevertheless, it is in my head, keeping me up at night, it is a subject that needs to be confronted and I have been chosen.  Many years ago, my husband and I faced the fact that we were unable to have children biologically.  It was before the days of artificial insemination and surrogate moms.  Together we decided to adopt, neither of us could imagine life without kids. Today, almost 65 years later, I am alone yet I can see my Erv nodding his head vociferously, as I say, “I am happy that we adopted Judi and Jeff. They made us a family, totally different from one another, they contributed to the fulfillment of our dreams.”

   Of course infertility is a blow, it is handled more intimately today and for many, more satisfactorily.  I had always been an advocate of adoption.  That is not why I sat down, driven to write.  We must rewind back years, to the month before our grandson was born.  Over dinner with Judi and her husband John, who is not Jewish, we began to discuss the blessed event.  Erv and I were excited to welcome our grandson.  To our astonishment and John’s as well, Judi stated that there would be no Bris.  That meant a circumcision in the hospital without blessings and celebration, without Judaism.  But that is also not why I sat down at my computer.

   We did the best we could do to teach our grandson about Judaism.  We encouraged festive Fridays, Erev (pre) Shabbat visits, his parents frequently joined us for Shabbat, Chanukah and Passover; we were requested to do no more.  He learned much about Judaism by osmosis. His grandfather was a rabbi, how could he not learn?  Once, as a teen, he stated that by the time he was 20 he would become a Jew.  His parents did not encourage a religious belief.  Our daughter, who was consecrated and confirmed in Judaism, does not believe in “organized” religion.  That is certainly her right.

   Now to my point: many children without a religious identity often embark on the search for their truth, a faith, they seem eager to fill in the spaces.  Not every child raised in a non-religious family, goes through a search, each child is different.   As far as I know, my grandson reached age 25 before he seriously considered who he was.  Perhaps one has to stumble on an obstacle, a glitch in the road, disappointment, before realizing that something is missing.  When he raised the question with me, he said, “How would you feel if I chose Christianity”, I gulped for air.  I quickly decided to be direct, honest.  I said, “If the choice were mine, I would choose Judaism for you.  But I understand the choice is not mine.  If Christianity gives you the support, the encouragement, the strength that you are looking for: God Bless you!”  It was not easy; it is not easy.  I believe however, that our adult children and grandchildren need to make their own life decisions. If they make mistakes, they are responsible; they will have to rectify errors.  We cannot take these young and not so young adults by the hand any longer and lead them.  I do believe that we did the best we could do. By the time they are adults, they know what we hope for and what we expect.

     The change my grandson is considering, is painful for me.  He knew that, he had the sensitivity to ask how I “felt” about it, he added “I will go to synagogue with you.”  All this proves that he loves me as much as I love him.  That does not take the pain of the now away.  If, on the other hand, he makes a choice that will motivate, lift him up and help him find himself, I must be grateful.

     Certainly I wondered if we failed, could Erv and I have made my grandson Jewish?   Could we have made our daughter more dedicated to Judaism?  That is the tortuous game of self-blame we Jews indulge in frequently. It accomplishes nothing except to bring enormous guilt front and center.  I will not play that game.  My best advice to myself, and to others in a similar situation is to continue to love that child and let him know it.

July 7, 2014    LOVINGKINDNESS….

   Mindfulness, we know, helps us concentrate on the present, its roots are in Buddhism. My new favorite magazine “The Sun”, discusses “lovingkindness”, it also has roots in Buddhism.  Lovingkindness enables us to move on to be warm hearted, generous, accepting, giving, caring. I cannot imagine anything better than to focus on the moment with a warm hearted caring spirit.  Only then do we dare relate to the other in the room, to become involved without barriers of suspicion, anger or guilt.

   Warm-hearted brings love. Love is a healing force that not only opens us to the good and the bad, it teaches us to focus on the positive so we can handle the bad things that happen to good people! “Love you” has become a spontaneous attachment to our conversations. It is important to understand there is more to “love” than romantic, physical, sexual love. This younger generation seems to understand that more than we did, it uses the word “love” with far greater comfort and spontaneity than we ever did.  Sure we loved our parents, love was on automatic in most families so much so that many forgot to say, “I love you.” 

   Verbalizing was difficult, we seldom spoke of “loving” someone unless it was a new crush or our best girlfriend..  Today we get off the telephone after having spoken to a friend and frequently say, “ I feel so much better, she is so good to talk to.  I love her”?  It should not be an issue that we really love those friends who listen with understanding.  I recently startled a close friend when I rang off with  “I love you!”  We had had a wonderful visit on the phone. My generation is still “touchy” about using “love” in general conversation.  Have you ever been stiff-armed when trying to give one of us a hug?

   Today we understand it is appropriate to have strong feelings defined as love for other than a spouse.  The feelings we share with a spouse are special, exciting, sexual, and yes, frequently monogamous.  In my marriage those feelings were unique, they were ours alone to share with each other.  That did not exclude the love we felt for our parents, our siblings, our children, our friends, doctors, teachers. It also did not exclude the work we love, the reading we adore, the sunset and the special places we love.  Love is a many faceted emotion. Every day provides an opportunity to share positive moments, moments of love with other people and with things that please us. When we offer lovingkindness we are offering the very essence of love, the unselfish giving part of us.  Love can banish fear, anger and guilt; without those negatives we become healthier and happier. Try a little lovingkindness, it’s good for you!  They knew this back in Buddha’s time, when did we become so ignorant and puritan about love?  

Locked Out!!!                                                                         June 27, 2014 

 

We have lots of things on our minds most of the time: anxiety about a distant child, concerns about the economy, our own health and well-being, our kids welfare in general, how far will the dollar stretch before we ask for help.  I never worried that my child would lock herself out of her house, that her spare key was beyond reach (at my house), that she would need my help even as she knocked on a neighbor’s door to use the phone.

When I received the call on a late Thursday afternoon, I was momentarily lost.  If I drove, no problem; if my twice a week aide were on duty, no problem, if I had a visitor with time on her hands, no problem.  “Mom, can you help me I do not feel close enough to my neighbors to ask for help, but you have friends who are always eager to help you….?”  So, of course I made calls: the first one had an appointment, the second one was not at home, but bingo, a kind, non-judgmental, giving friend was at my door in ten minutes and we reached Judi with the key in fifteen.  She was grateful!  So was I!

There is a lesson in this episode that applies to all of us.  Anyone of us can press that lock button inadvertently and find we are outside without keys when we only meant to empty the trash.  A spare key has to be someplace closer than six miles away.  In my neighborhood, we have extra security and the security has my extra key, a quick call to them would bring immediate help.  In Judi’s case, there is a manager who most likely would keep her spare key.  I am sure her neighbor who once in an emergency fed her animals, would keep her key.

Being friendly and close to neighbors comes more easily to some of us than to others.  Tucking a neighbor’s key in a safe place does not make us bosom buddies, it does  require that we are trusting friends who care about each other’s welfare.

We can always hide the key in a remote place that thieves would never consider.  At the time of need what assurance do we have that we  (seniors) will remember that special place?  Better to trust a friend or, I guess, Mom!

    

 

Double Peak

Double Peak………June 19, 2014

     We were headed to a party, I had managed to mix up the time.  My friend and I found we had an extra hour “to kill”.  We had choices: we could return to my house and fiddle around with the beeping smoke alarms.  Or we could go our separate ways and meet for the party later.  We decided to take a ride, climbed the hill to the end of Double Peak.  It is a spot I love; it displays a 360-degree view of our town, mountain peaks from a variety of our California ranges, the Pacific Ocean in a quiet pacific moment!

     Frequently I have gone to the top to view a magnificent sunset.  No sunset this evening, we were too early.  But the sunsets are not the only feelings one experiences at Double Peak.   The end of day quiet was at once spiritual, relaxing, comforting.  I had had a hard day with doctors and their X-rays, EKGs and lunch breaks.  The low, misty clouds were almost ethereal in their formations.  Together my friend and I enjoyed the moment as an unwinding of the day that wrapped us in nature’s beauty and our own quiet introspection.

     Our end of day timing turned out to be perfect.

    

Mindfulness, a column, written more than a year ago, a subject worthy of repetition.
Mindfulness was originally conceived as a way to ease suffering and cultivate compassion. The February 3rd issue of Time had a comprehensive article by Kate Pickert on the subject last year. She notes that “we are in the midst of a popular obsession with mindfulness as the secret to health and happiness…a growing body of evidence suggests it has clear benefits.” What does that mean?

Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) includes techniques that are intended to help practitioners quiet a busy mind, heighten awareness of the present moment resulting in less concentration on what happened earlier or what’s to come. According to the Internet “…research has found therapy based on mindfulness to be effective, particularly for reducing anxiety, depression and stress”. Our daily stress appears to get more complicated and burdensome each day, especially so for us who are growing older.

Despite the fact that mindfulness has roots in Buddhism, it is relevant to all religions. The concept is to focus one’s whole attention and awareness on the present. Easing suffering and motivating compassion are ideas relevant for us all. We Jews are dedicated to tikkun olam: mending the world. Along with many other religions we believe it is humanity’s responsibility to heal, to repair the world. None of us can do that until we heal (help) ourselves.

In prospect it is difficult to achieve mindfulness, to set aside worries, expectations and concentrate on the now, on the moment. As we age it becomes harder to live with daily anxiety. Our minds are have grown accustomed to worrying about the children, their future and the financing of that future. As they grow, that future leaps to confront us. Our culture has taught us to strive to better ourselves, there is a constant longing for better, bigger, more beautiful. Mindfulness helps us to slow all that down, to be content. If we do indeed concentrate on the now and stop yearning for more we reduce anxiety, feel optimistic and even benefit our physical health.

I asked a friend who has a grandson in prison, “Do you think about him all the time?” “No”, she answered, “ I have learned to concentrate on today!” In the morning she plans her day, focusing on that, not allowing the negative to even enter her thoughts, she makes sure she sees friends and gets out and about, thus she battles her stress. It does not matter if angst is related to a chronic illness or a family crisis it impacts mind and body. Mindfulness challenges us to take responsibility for how we react to unpleasant circumstances. It helps us to understand what is happening mentally and physically.

Most of us realize we have to concentrate on today: we know we cannot change yesterday and tomorrow will happen no matter what. We have been practicing mindfulness without any awareness that it is a practice that had its beginnings in ancient times. It is a new concept for Western medicine despite the fact that some doctors and scientists have been “exploring the use of mindfulness to help people achieve better health and cope with major illnesses for several decades.”
We do not necessarily have to go through formal training to begin, Mayo Clinic suggests do-able guidelines: paying attention, remove judgment, concentrate on breathing. Paying attention to the present moment, eliminate those things that are history or prophesy. Remove judgment suggests, look at the world, other people and self with appreciation rather than criticism. Breathing is a reliable way to bring us back to the moment. Pay attention to nostrils and tummy notice the changes in breathing with one’s change in feeling. Learn to meditate it helps our efforts to concentrate on now.
Find “Mindfulness” on the Internet. Mindfulness can result in more patience, acceptance, a non-judgmental attitude compassion for others and for self, reduce stress, an attitude adjustment. The experience of Time’s writer Kate Pickert when she took a class in “MBSR” had her less connected to her electronics and more eager to enjoy the world around her. Her writing includes steps to achieve mindfulness meditation and why wearing a watch unties one from reliance on the phone in our pockets, why taking a hike enables us to really enjoy the “now”. Mindfulness is the “science of finding focus” in the midst of our stress.

My Memory of Dad                                                       June 7, 2014

 

     It takes all kinds of Dads to make the world go around and keep kids happy.  There are stern Dads, thoughtless Dads, lenient ones and above all there are mostly loving Dads. I had a loving Dad, a lenient one who was always ready to help me with art homework, spelling lists or math.  He left the rest to Mom.  He was lenient to a point.

     Shortly before I married, I had the temerity to climb into his lap one day; I needed a favor.  He was a big man and I was a small person.  Physically sitting on Dad’s lap posed no problem and he loved it.  That is he loved it until I verbalized the favor. As soon as he heard what I wanted his lap disappeared and I hit the floor, astonished.  My astonishment did not match his hurt.  How dare I ask him for something that way: I was buttering him up, he knew it and was offended.  It took months before he gave in and provided me with a railroad pass to visit my Beloved!

     He and I had an Easter Sunday routine, a date we looked forward to.  Every year on Easter Sunday, as our neighbors and friends dressed up for church or for parading on the avenue, he and I would don our oldest clothes. ( Easter is not a Jewish holiday.)  Then, looking like a homeless pair, we went down to the boardwalk at the beach and took a long walk.  We did lots of talking.  Subjects in my early years were about taking care of myself. “Take care of your hands, a lady should have nice hands, always wear gloves!”   Then as I grew and was making college plans, “Be sure you take a worthwhile course of study so that if you need to, you can have a job and earn your way.” He did not worry about me; I don’t think he did. Frequently he gave me his own point of view, I listened, sometimes, I heeded his advice.

     When Dad died in 1957, I remember sadly seeing him lying in peaceful sleep, I looked at his hands.  He had beautiful strong hands.  I pictured then and do now what those hands did for me: they taught me to hold a tennis racquet, they held me close when I needed a hug.  His hands taught me to draw a straight line, to hang on to him when we crossed the street.  His hands held many doors and showed me how to go first.  Those hands never hurt me; they caught me when I first jumped from the side of the pool,  taught me to swim.  They always helped me on with my coat and took it from my shoulders when we returned home.  In the early years, his hands pushed me in my carriage and straightened the covers; later they were not too big to push my doll carriage and help me cross the street.  Dad’s hands protected and reached out to me always; the memory of them lingers and continues to protect me.   Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

 

 

    

 

    

An Addendum to my Yanov Torah Story           June 5, 2014

There is no need for an "addendum".  The issue has been clarified and does not need to be aired any longer.  I thank my readers for their patience with me.  Let us together look forward to the continuing story of the Yanov Torah.  It is alive and well.  When I last spoke to the doctor's wife (one of the couple who brought the Torah to my husband), she burst into tears, for thirty years, when we lost touch, she worried about the Torah.  Had we shown it the proper respect?  She knows now that its journey continues...Thank you all for patience.

    

 

Yanov Torah                                              May 27, 2014

     You all know the story of the Yanov Torah, the survivor of the Nazi work camp in the East European town of Yanov.  Pieces of hidden Torahtot were smuggled into the camp for prayer; at war’s end, the survivors pieced it back to together, cared for it and cherished it, eventually sent it to America.

     Over the years Erv and I have been around the world with it.  More recently, since the death of my Beloved, students from the Hebrew Union College at Los Angeles have enjoyed the responsibility and privilege of carrying the Torah to their congregations to tell and demonstrate this unusual story of survival.

     Recently, Brad Yanover came into the story.  “Yes”, he said, his family, “way back, came from that town of Yanov.”  Whether the town was named for his family or visa versa, he is not sure.  H e wished to reprint a limited amount of copies of the book that Erv and I had written in 1985, they were to be favors for the guests at his daughter’s Bat Mitzvah last April.  In addition, he said he wished to make a documentary of the story and needed to have my permission and willingness to be interviewed. I was interviewed for two hours, I love to tell the story.

     I was excited and eager to participate as best I could.  The Bat Mitzvah was a huge success.  Brad’s daughter Jaden read from the Yanov Torah and there was much excitement in the synagogue in Arizona.  Brad was kind enough to tell me about the day.  Though he seemed to be dragging his feet regarding a documentary, he was not. It is not always easy to fund and implement one's dreams.  In the long run it will be satisfying to know that the Yanov Torah will become an historical treasure for the world; the message of survival of Torah, of Judaism will be set on film for all  to see and appreciate.

     Brad is a successful Producer this is not just a pipe dream.  I was charmed by him and believe him. I have discovered that he is not only charming but also sincere.  I think he cherishes the Yanov Torah with the same fervor that I do.

Burgundy Not Red

  

 

 

Burgundy Not Red!

    

   Judi, my daughter and I went car shopping.  Her eleven-year old car had given up.  It was time for a change.  Buying a car has always seemed harder than finding the right bathing suit.  I remember sitting through lengthy time consuming sessions with salesmen, in Ohio, North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New York, it was always the same.  Erv and I wandered around a showroom or a lot and picked the car we loved at first sight, took the car for a test drive. Then I believe the salesman rubbed his hands together (behind our backs) and invited us into his office.  The show began! The last car my beloved and I bought was the Camry in 2005.  It was a lengthy ordeal then, things have not changed a bit.

     This used car salesman plied Judi and I with cold drinks, or hot, bits of chocolate, dark chocolate I could not resist, and finally the itinerary to the rest room.  I remembered my husband’s tried and true technique.  “I do not have that kind of money”, I smiled sweetly, “consider this figure please”.   He retorted, “We would lose money, this is how much the car cost us, impossible! You can finance the car”.  I replied,  “I don’t want to…isn’t there a person you can discuss this with, over there?”  I pointed to the front of the showroom.  “Oh, oh yes, pardon me a moment, would you like another piece of chocolate?”  We were happy to nibble, it was past dinnertime.

     He came back and with a wide smile, “He will split the difference with you!”  A small victory, I was prepared to walk out, Judi was with me, then I felt her sense of disappointment, I told myself not to quibble anymore.  I recalled the feeling when Erv and I shopped cars. I hated the ordeal and wanted that car now!  I made the deal.

     But we were not finished; the paper work was long and tedious, another hour. It would have been easier if we had financed the car. The dealer preferred it that way.  When we were sent to the bookkeeper-closer we ran into more trouble.  He offered a warranty below what the salesman had promised.  We could not let our defenses down for a moment.  The sales force and we had different agendas, to put it politely.  We insisted that he check out our differences, he came back with apologies and a long story about having worked for a different company with different guidelines. My patience disappeared,  “I am not interested in that company let’s wind this up.”  He behaved.  Judi has her beautiful burgundy car. Please do not call it red. The process had taken three hours; I did not ride in the car until we took it home.  Judi had driven it earlier.   The joy on her face when she settled into the driver’s seat was worth the extra dollars.                                   

    

 

 

THE FIRES (May 18, 2014)

(this is a copy of an article I wrote for our local newsletter, I believe others will be interested)

They really took us by storm!

Many of our friends and neighbors sat out that fire storm.

I commend their courage and optimism.

Others of us took the “easy” way out,

With some reluctance we turned our backs on precious mementos

And headed South,

away from the fires. I was gone for two days.

Now I am grateful to be home to snore in my own bed tonight.

My gratitude extends further to the many people and things I cherish.

To the specific good neighbor and friend who said on Wednesday:

“there is a seat for you  in my car!”

When the time came he picked me up with my bag and

four of us headed South, away from Lions Gate.

I am so very appreciative for the care we show one another.

I am grateful for all the people in my life, so many have expressed their concern to me.

So many of you called, I will never, ever again wonder

            if anyone cares!  Thank you all!!!

MOTHERS’ DAY

An edited version, of the first article I sold to the Los Angeles Times, it was published on May 12, 1985, my son’s 36^th birthday..

 

     I am a Jewish Mother who does not take Mothers’ Day lightly’ Oh, I can do without the ribbons, roses and sweets.  For me, the day is a tribute to my mother, a celebration of my own motherhood and an acknowledgement of my daughter, the mom.  A kaleidoscope of memories brightens the occasion, blending laughter and tears into bittersweet recall.  Today, I am a child again searching for the right words to express the love and gratitude I feel.

     But I am also an adult who remembers the sweet smell of an infant daughter and the dazzling excitement of child number one, our son. Once again I search for words of gratitude and love. On Mothers’ Day, more than at any other time, my inner child and my adult reality are in harmony.

     Mother is forever!  My mother died many years ago in 1957. Hardly a day goes by without a thought of her, a remembered conversation, a confidential chat, a shared chore.  She is never far from me.  Mother’s years of surveillance gave birth to a patience that was never ending.  While we children acted out our stages of impatience, short tempers and ugliness, Mother patiently awaited the fulfillment of her expectations.  Hopes stained by disappointments, health blemished by illness, plenty diminished by Depression’s deprivations never discouraged, disheartened or defeated her.

     She understood the special-ness of children.  To her, no child was ugly, dirty or unmanageable.  Tears had to be dried carefully, tenderly; she understood that the sun was waiting to shine through.  Her joy was complete when she coaxed a smile from an unhappy child.

     Mother was extraordinarily flexible about certain things and adamantly stubborn about others.  Truth was an absolute.  Truth forgave our misdemeanors; lies were always discovered and severely punished.  “Silent treatment” was her weapon of choice.  The pain I suffered when communication halted, was intense.  Mother’s flexibility allowed us to learn and enabled her to change her mind.  I learned early that she was vulnerable to the word “fair”.  Her advice and wisdom were usually on target; she always assumed she was correct, she usually was!

     As I look ahead and remember Mother, I also recall my mothering.  The day becomes, for me, a celebration of the tough, indestructible, infinite love I share with my children.  I hope that some of the patience, understanding and flexibility flowed from my Mother through me to them.

     I disagree with the cynics who denigrate Mothers’ Day.  It is a celebration.  I am a proud mother who has experienced disappointment, discouragement and deprivation. But there always is hope that health, dreams, patience and understanding will prevail and prevent an erosion of love; that calls for a celebration!

     Hugs and kisses we exchange are the receipts for that love.  The cards, gifts and endearing words are, perhaps, the thank-you notes.  Every mother should have a time when she feels special.  We contribute richly to our offspring, responding from our individualized qualities to theirs.  Some of us specialize in cookies, others in athletics, music, storytelling or math.  All of us have sidelines in soothing scraped knees, healing hurt feelings, listening to lovelorn stories.  We major in granting permission or with holding it, raising objections and demanding obedience.  For some of us there is another legacy.  Remember I said I was a Jewish Mother.

     The adjective and noun, part of the American vernacular, join to describe all the mothering qualities I have discussed and more.  A Jewish mother worries more, protects more, aspires (pushes) more, expects more and in her own mind is more culpable.  “Don’t be a Jewish Mother!” means stop worrying, stop pushing, stop coddling, slow down.  Jewish mothers wear guilt like a second skin, blaming themselves for the child’s shortcomings and at the same time shout: “How could you do this to me?”   Jewish mothers assume an awesome responsibility for the totality of their children’s deeds and misdeeds.  One would think there are no other influences upon a child.  That’s nonsense!

     Not all Jewish mothers fit the stereotype.  Today’s woman no longer depends on her mothering and culinary skills for status and identity.  Jewish mothers and their counterparts understand today that nurturing, loving and letting go is what mothering is all about.  In the final analyses, we open doors to allow the child’s aspirations, fulfillment and efforts to go through.  No, I do not take Mothers’ Day lightly.  I delight to remember my mother, I relish the opportunity to celebrate the love I share with my kids and rejoice in the continuity, privileges and rewards of motherhood.

Happy Mothers’ Day!

 

    

 

Mission to Seattle

                                                                                                            April 29, 2014
   Seattle was beautiful last Thursday when I flew in during the afternoon.  We landed in sunshine and despite the city's reputation for rain, the sun was shining during my entire visit.  Many thanked me for sharing the California sunshine with them.  I did not argue or demur.
   I had invited myself to the home of the daughter of a close friend.  Linda was two when I first met her, she has just passed her fiftieth birthday.  Her identical twin Lisa, lives on the East Coast.  Both women are successful marketers and consultants. Linda treated me like visiting royalty or a fragile aunt.  Whichever, I enjoyed every moment.
   My mission to Seattle was to participate in two readings.  Last February, Kent State University Press published The Widows' Handbook, a book of poetry and prose written by widows. There were 500 submissions from across the country, 87 made it into print.  I was one of the "lucky" ones.  My tribute to my husband is called Erv's Gift, I went to Seattle to read it to two groups of interested people.  I also read some wonderful poetry written by other "lucky" ones who found their way into the anthology.
   We read to a large group of mostly women at a retirement facility in Seattle.  Some slept, most listened intently as Jacqueline Lapidus, co-editor of our book and Kristine Forbes, native Seattle person who organized our read, joined me.  We took turns and read from our book the poetry and prose written by us and by others. On Saturday we read at the East-West Bookstore, no one slept, it was also a responsive group.  Tears from the woman who lost her husband six years ago; searching questions from the young man who lost his wife 10 months ago, he faces questions from three children.
   In both places folks responded, some with questions and others with tears.  A woman said "Thank you for putting my story into words."  I had a moment during my reading, when I wondered if I could continue, a split second of grief, I took that moment and then continued.  Our audience was appreciative and grateful.  Yes we sold some books.  Sales has never been my strength.
   Linda, so proud of Seattle took me hither and yon to admire the gorgeous flowers, the water, the hills, the neighborhood, the local coffee shop where everybody knows everybody. We went for a ride in a water taxi.  Have not been on the water since my last cruise close to ten years ago! I loved every moment of my time in Seattle, Linda and her partner Susan showed me a wonderful time.  I met a judge who was scrubbing the floor in a Buddhist sanctuary, she and I talked, she treated us to dinner.  I discovered the warmth and friendliness that exists in Seattle.  Each house is different, the streets are lined with a variety of shade trees and blossoms.  I ended my time in Seattle with my nephew and his wife. They came on Sunday morning to take me to breakfast and the airport, no complaints about getting up early on Sunday.
   I took a trip on a plane and I had a wonderful time.
    

        

My Audiologist                                         4/17/14

    

     Yesterday I had a “check-up” with my audiologist.  Greg Hall is a man I have known and trusted for many years, our relationship goes back to the Erv Herman days.  Those were the days when Erv was insisting that the trouble with his ears was my soft speaking voice.  I shall always be grateful to Greg for proving that though I may speak softly that was not Erv’s problem. His ears were showing signs of wear and years.

     After Erv died and my own hearing began to fail, Greg was able to re-program Erv’s hearing aids to help me.  As happens over and over again, in death as in life, my beloved continues to support me.  When time and use (or misuse) began to make those hearing aids obsolete, we talked about new ones for me.

     Then I learned a few hard lessons: nothing is perfect specifically no hearing aid will master all of one’s hearing problems.  Testing a hearing aid is like choosing a bathing suit in the age of flab, or picking out eye-glass frames without the aid of prescription lens.  Hearing aids are not a replacement for the acute hearing of our youth. 

     I needed to pick, choose and prioritize.  I wanted to be sure that I could have comfortable and clear conversations on a one-to-one level with my friends? Was it more important to hear them in a crowd? No!  Frequently I sacrificed the speech of the waiter rattling off the specials in a crowded restaurant and depended upon someone sitting with me to repeat his words. I give up large, noisy meetings when the background sounds are distracting and unnerving.  It is difficult to adjust to the noise and concentrate on friends’ words at the same time.  At the end of the day when I am tired, I give up the meeting entirely and stay home.  Nothing works well when we are tired.

     Yes, hearing aids can be a pain, even when we can adjust them.  Without mine, I would be disconnected from my world, some days that is okay.  Most of the time I need my world and my friends so I dutifully care for the aids and use them (almost) every day!  Occasionally when I remove them, a wonderful quiet surrounds me, I sit back, relax and grin.

SLEEPLESS IN SAN MARCOS

Sleepless in San Marcos 
      Doctors tell us it is not true that the elderly need less sleep than their younger friends and family members. Need it or not, we get less sleep. I can attest to that. It is somehow harder in the later years to sleep long because our heads are spilling over with concerns, excitement, the checkbook, and the latest family catastrophe. For me it is hard to put it all aside, I cannot and I do not. I have no idea “why”.

      If I get less than seven hours sleep at night, I look like the old woman I am. After a couple of days of lost sleep, I am haggard and far less acute than normal. I pride myself on being sharp, conversational, “with it”. Lost sleep is the thief that steals from me. I do all the “right” things. I do not watch TV in the bedroom, I read for at least a half hour before turning off the light; there is fresh air in the room, my bed is comfortable. I do not agonize over the empty half of the bed; I made peace with that along time ago. I have a little warm milk with my nighttime pills. I have been taking the same meds for years. I am afraid to let them go because they do enable me to fall off to sleep rapidly. Though they do not keep me asleep.

     Right now I am proving to myself that I am sharp and with it. I have had five and a half hours sleep and I have already written a very sensible note to my niece in Israel and have started this new entry. But now I quit to have breakfast, six o’clock is reasonable, don’t you think?

     Here I am ten hours later, I am awake and have had a rather full day, so maybe I do not need as much sleep as recommended. Of course I took a good nap, right after breakfast!

 

Aging is Daunting

     Aging is indeed daunting; it is not for sissies.  Aging makes the hands tremble, aging makes us sleepless or sleepy all the time. It makes us forgetful, sometimes, to a frightening degree.  We do tend to blame “aging” for each thing that provides an obstacle to our comfort. Last week I made terrible errors; it took all the energy and lies that my friends could muster to stop my anguishing. 

     Imagine my embarrassment when the man from AT&T looked at my TV that he was supposed to fix and said, “you should not have called us, you are under contract to Time Warner!”  Omigosh, there are some very understanding people on the job, that man helped me save face, pride and confidence: “Do not apologize, it’s okay.”

     Why do I write so much about aging?  The answer is simple, that is what I do right now, what I have been doing for 92 years.  Yes we start to age at the moment of birth, as young ones we glory in the addition of each year, cannot wait to grow bigger, older, bolder, more independent.  When does that change?  I look around me and decide that there is no specific time that we stop wishing to be older, more mature.  That seems to be part of the “aging” process that is highly individualized.  I love each birthday, some of my friends will not even celebrate theirs.

     My Mother was an old lady at 67, the year she died.  I have been trying to think what was I, where was I at 67?  That is 25 years ago. A huge contrast between Mom and me.  I was living in this house, cruising around the world with my husband who played chaplain on cruise ships.  In those days the economy allowed the cruise line to “treat” the chaplain and his wife to the cruise and all its goodies.  We danced each night afloat and had a very good time.

     Once when we got tired of the incessant water on a world cruise, we dropped out wrote and read and walked the decks while everyone else was in the dining room.  Room Service and those fast walks saved our sanity.  It was the deep breath we needed.  There are times when we all need to stop and take a deep breath.  Even today as I contemplate the errors I make, the wrong numbers I call, the appointments I forget, the promises I have to write down, I tell myself: “Stop, think, take a deep breath and you will remember!”  And I do!

     The other day I thought I was on the fast track to nowhere when the TV went out, my computer misbehaved and most of my friends who help were unavailable.  After I corrected my errors in judgment and action, my biggies were on the road to recovery.  Why do I share such everyday nonsense with you?  We all go through this process one way or another.  Together we are chagrined, embarrassed and self-condemning.  I think it is important to share so that not one of us thinks he/she is alone and a bumbling idiot.

     Gail Sheehy said, “Life must be understood backward and lived forward!”  Life lived backward means that we squeeze the most out of experience to allow us to move forward, to do a good job at the art of living.  A good job means we do our very best to continue to live, contribute, try to remain healthy and enjoy.  Aging must not be seen as a stumbling block though it provides limitations, our job is to continue to live and be the very best we can be.  I want my young friends also to know that aging can be long on wisdom and fun!

Jeff, My Son

Jeff, My Son…. 

     Had he lived, Jeff would be 65 this year, on the day after Mother’s Day.  We always celebrated

together.  I smile in remembrance of the special dinners we enjoyed as a family, birthday cake and Mom’s special chicken.  As he grew dinner was moved from one favorite place to another, cooking became passe’, soon, pizza was in!    Jeff  had been a very special baby, he was a great young man, a wonderful son.

     Before we met at the adoption agency, the social worker Janet Jenkins informed us that there was a flaw: Jeff was fat! “We can handle that!” I said without thinking.  In the days of waiting to meet this fat baby, nightmares of an infant elephant with a baby face escalated to the outlandish.  This “fat” infant was indeed chubby, also healthy and happy.

He never suffered with a weight problem.

     The foster mother must have loved him dearly.  When we met, he gurgled and laughed, enjoyed being held and cuddled by his new eager parents.  Janet spoke at length of his special-ness, so special that the Executive Director of the agency wanted to adopt him, agency rules would not allow that; he was so special that his pediatrician said he was the only infant she knew who cooperated during an examination!

     The first night home we played with Jeff until 8:30, hours past his bedtime.  He dutifully slept through the night until 8:30 am. Yes, we checked all through the night to make sure he was alive and well.  Years later, but years before he came out of his dreadful closet, my mother said that Jeff was too good.  He obeyed the rules so accurately that frequently he was seen with his feet clinging to the curb, watching other kids play in the alley. Rule number one was “do not go into the street or alley”.

     He would have been better off if he had learned to break a rule occasionally.  When it came to reading, he started off well in first grade.  After about six weeks the teacher began to explain the “exceptions to the rules of English”.  Jeff turned off his reading button he could not break any rules.  It took two years of counseling to clear that up so he could read.  He had his ups and downs during early school years like most kids. After trying college, he chose business school, thrived there and came out to us, short of his 20^th birthday.  With love and tenacity, his Dad and I supported him and anguished with him…but that is another story for another time…right now Happy Birthday son! Miss you!

STILL IN JAIL

Still in Jail, March 9, 2014…

 

     I cannot imagine what it is like to sit in jail for almost a year, doing nothing.  I must qualify nothing: no occupation, no responsibility, except for oneself, for showers, shaves and good behavior!   Nothing includes three meals a day, bars on the small room where he spends 22 hours each day, two hours of “freedom” every day.  Freedom also must be qualified: two hours in which to shower, phone a friend or relative, shop at the commissary, walk around, watch TV.  How do you stay so calm, I asked, “found the holy spirit” was the answer, accompanied by a shrug.

     I did not ask for a definition, did not wonder about the use of capitals or lower case.  We Jews do not talk much about a specific “holy spirit” and yet there is a special spirit to our worship and our beliefs. My answer to his answer was, “whatever works for you, I’m satisfied.”  “Oh don’t worry, I plan to go to synagogue with you!”  If I was non-plussed,  I did not show it, we went on to talk of other things.

     I cannot imagine what it must be like to wait and wonder what will happen next, have no one to talk it over with.  The attorney has no time. His mom and I visit for a half hour each every other week.  How much real talking can you do in that kind of time, especially when someone else is always listening?  Not much!

     I too worry and anguish over what’s next; I wonder what is going on in his head?   It does not matter that I have almost run out of reassurances.  I never run out of “I love you!”  I hope it and my hopeful spirit are enough.  He was sentenced today and his spirit did not flag.  The attorney said, “He has learned so much in jail!”  Would you believe that, but it is true!

   

Age is a number...a poem

Age Is A Number….

Age is a number Not a stop sign!
   I said I will swim she was flustered, nervous. I’ll get in with you
     You don’t have to yes I do she insisted.
        I resisted I wanted to swim. I did not know if she could
           I knew that I could, I would.
              The aide watched from the side of the pool
                  You can do it she said astonished
                       Impressed but you’re 90 I thought you’d puddle
                            And falter I turned her around
                                    To look at the old men
                                          Playing tennis next to the pool…
Age is a number Not a stop sign!

 9/06/12

February Like Fog

Post  Feb 20,

     February is a sad month for me.  Like Carl Sandburg’s “fog”, sadness creeps up on “little cat feet”, though I recognize the feeling each year I wonder why, then remember.  My Beloved Erv died (it’s time to capitalize Beloved) on the 27th of February six years ago, my brother had died the year before on the 28^th of February; yesterday I was informed that my friend, Erv’s sister died this week, at age 92 in Baltimore.  I will manage to get through this month, but next year I will find something special to keep me busy, at the end of January and maybe take the sharp sad edge off of February.

     My brother and my Beloved aged with grace. They did not worry just focused on each day as it came. There is a lot of talk today about our escalating aging population, almost every social service agency, synagogue and church are seeking ways to make the process less threatening, more secure and even fun.  The perks that come with age go beyond a cheaper movie ticket, there are even perks to being alone…believe it or not!  Some folks who need help in finding those perks, choose the couch and “woe is me” instead. The perks encompass many concepts.  From being responsible for self to eating/sleeping/napping/nibbling on our own schedule we are face-to-face with a new kind of freedom that frequently balances the pain of loss.

     In my area of Southern California Jewish Family Service (JFS) has just launched a program known as “Home Not Alone”.  The program will train volunteers to enable elderly folks to stay at home.  That means giving supportive help in most aspects of daily living: light housework, shopping, meal preparation, laundry and paper work.  At 92 I can attest to the fact that each category has problems I confront almost daily.  From time to time my bed only gets changed every other week because I need help in exchanging my well-slept-in queen size sheets and blankets for clean ones.  Just washing them in my smart washing machine takes my breath away.  This JFS program to reach out to the elderly is a double whammy.  It is also an opportunity for retired healthy “aging” folks to volunteer, to make a contribution, meet new people and engage the community.    

     Palomar Medical Center in Escondido, has a SOCS Box program sponsored by its San Marcos Community Action Council. Volunteers are trained to Save Our Seniors.  A training is held to give volunteers knowledge of the community resources that are specifically oriented to seniors. They are trained in listening and observing so they are able to make referrals.  They are not counselors, but observer-visitors.  They are trained to understand the signs of depression or illness, recognize suicidal thoughts that can mean  the volunteers are possibly the first ones to detect a problem.  That is why knowledge of the resources is called a tool box.  It extends more than a helping hand..

     It is interesting to note that many “Meals-on-Wheels” volunteers take this training.  They see some folks every day and are often the only people from the outside to come in, even for a quick visit.  Their powers of observation can be vital to the health and survival of an aging individual.

     My Mom and my mother-in-law died at the age of 67, my sister-in-law and I reached 92 (I am still here).  This is a different age and I am delighted that there are professionals out there looking out for our welfare and volunteers eager to help.

Transition

Transition – The transition from weekly columnist to occasional, “write when I please” person is not as easy as I assumed.  I love the freedom from dead lines, I enjoy the freedom of writing what I wish to write, when I wish to write it.  Somehow my head and my body are struggling to keep up with this new freedom. I have to catch a real grip on this blogging thing.  I am not selling anything, I only wish to keep on expressing myself through my writing.  The first blog shared a story that I believed had a message for all of us who are “getting on” and for those who worry about us.  The second one was a confession that I needed  (for some reason I do not understand) to share.  The business of sibling rivalry and equality is interesting to me.  When my family reads that blog, please understand I loved my brother dearly as an adult, as kids his footprints were too big for me.

   Without a column dead line I am finding so many things to do, that here it is almost 5:30 and I have not exercised today yet!!!  Omigosh time has never caught me like that before.  Before I post these little comments I want you-all to know that I was published on the www.jewishsacredaging.com website. Thank you Rabbi Richard Address for allowing me to express my thoughts concerning Mindfulness, a subject I feel strongly about: concentrating on today and putting yesterday aside and tomorrow on hold.

   We will chat again, soon, Ag Herman,

Equality and Me

Equality and Me (revised)

     Four years ago I wrote what became a prizewinning letter to the North County Times.  I was, and still am,  concerned about the inequities in American life.  It was considered the best of its kind for the year!  I was pleased because I was colorblind.  I choose my friends for who they are not what they look like, live like or for the dollars in their bank account. 

      The letter I wrote to the paper focused on the lack of equality that existed for LGBT folks, differences do not determine justice, equality does.  The list of inequities is long, it includes equal opportunity on every level, equal pay in every field, equal rights for all people, empathetic, understanding support and privacy for everyone.  We all need the opportunity to be the best we can be.  Success and fulfillment should be open doors for you and for me, for everyone. 

     How did this happen to me? It appears that I grew up without prejudice, almost.  It annoyed my Father that people brought their kids to our street to teach them to drive.  But he never called them nasty names.  That is how it was.  My parents’ friends came from all over.  The only time I felt any kind of discrimination or anger was when we moved into a new neighborhood, a boy my age threw stones at the new girl in school, I had to run.  My mother talked to me, explained the problem, suggested that I say hello as I passed by or simply ignore him, before long he and I were talking, became friends, though never close.

     Without intent, my mother taught me to yearn for and understand equality, especially its absence. According to pictures and anecdotes, my brother, four years older than I, was always dressed in white, sitting tall in a white baby buggy he was a prince.  Our mother let everyone know he was her prince. When I came along, ignorant of this, the buggy was painted black, my status was set, never changed.  I was never a princess, always the prince’s kid sister.  He watched over me, took me to school, often forgot to pick me up.  He was the prince.

     I resented it, but enjoyed the perks.  I got to walk to school without him; I was my Dad’s favorite.   Both of us were loved without qualification.  Inequality frequently drifted into sibling arguments that I started “you let him do it”.  My discontent flared one day to suggest to my mother that she “make me over”.  That brought some attitude adjustments I enjoyed.

     My brother made my parents very proud by staying at the top of his class consistently.  When he made Phi Beta Kappa I said, “do not expect anything like that from me.”  I did well in school however, inadvertently hit the top occasionally, broke through some barriers.  I was Valedictorian in 8th grade pleased to beat out my male rival! I decided to head for medical school.  Unfortunately I was one of few girls in chemistry 101 in college, the boys kept pushing the barriers and taking the class up another notch.  Chemistry defeated my dreams of becoming a pediatrician.

     I chose my career to fulfill my interests; I liked helping people.  My trial during the first summer's social work experience permitted me to demonstrate the reality of equality: dirty children, sick ones, mean and difficult ones, along with the bright and special kids, all roused my concern and interest.  I had a good career as a social worker, when I retired into writing, my chance to be the best I can be came full circle.  I am grateful that my brother was a prince and I was not a princess. QED.