Hurricane '11 and no eggs...

It is Sunday morning, close to the end of summer.  My brother, his wife and two of his three sons slept over last night because they were evacuated from their home southwest of us.  The winds swirl around my house bending the trees as we hold our breaths praying they stay in the ground.  It’s a tug of war between Mother Nature and her land and sea. 

As each howling gale passes, the sound of the deluge of rain gets louder.  The ground in my yard yields under my feet, soft and spongy.  Sonny, our Cock-a-Poo, protests when we take him out, even though I bought him a little rain slicker, which he protests a little more about as I struggle to put it on him.  He is more content to stay put, which is smart, because as we watch the newscasts, we are literally seeing people blown away by the storm, Irene. 

Irene, an offspring of Mother Nature, is fierce and strong and angry.  We are at her mercy, obeying her whim, succumbing.  We are captive.  We have the news, food, the Internet, and power for now, but no air conditioning, because my central air died yesterday.  So my sister-in-law and I can’t tell if we’re having a hot flash or we’re just hot because it feels the same.  Even my brother is having hot flashes.  The lights flicker intermittently, reminding us of what we stand to lose if the power goes out. 

And yet, they say the storm has not met landfall yet.  That’s what the meteorologists report.  We hear weather terms we never heard before.  Winds are faster than speeding cars, tornado watches; it doesn’t look good, it sounds even worse and the potential damage of the aftermath grows more ominous each minute.

I am restless, feeling trapped and limited and yet I am a lucky one, even without air conditioning.  I’m sure my brother and sister-in-law are wondering about their home.... 

Weather- it is our lord and master now, running the show, ruling us.  Yesterday, the stores were packed as I ran around looking for hurricane supplies- batteries, rope, bottled water, non perishable food, a rain suit for my always-prepared husband, Mark.  I have followed all the suggestions for hurricane preparedness.  My bathtub is full, my car is full, laptops and cell phones charges- and yet I forgot to get eggs.  Actually, we have four eggs and eight people, which translates to Mark, as “We have no eggs.”  So he complains, of course.  He is going to risk his life to go out and get eggs.  I just look at him.  Of course, my sister-in-law, has about two dozen eggs at home that she didn’t bring. 

“I can’t believe you forgot to get eggs,” he says shaking his head at me.

“I was busy looking for rope and D batteries- which have somehow become extinct, and a rain suit for you.  Be happy with your rain suit, you can’t have everything.  There’s cereal.  And bananas.”   

I know Mark is restless, eager to do something to defend our belongings against the storm.  Early this morning, Sonny was barking at a strange banging noise and I couldn’t find Mark.  Following the noise, I locate him in the workroom, in his rain suit.  He is cutting a piece of wood, making it into a stake.  At first, I think, “vampires?”  No. The fence of my neighbor to the left of me, who is not home, is falling down into his yard.  Mark uses his rope to secure the fence to his newly made stake, feeling very proud of himself. 

My mother comes into the kitchen to tell me that the newswoman warned if you’re thin, don’t go out, the wind can lift you.  She said she pictures herself- flying through the sky, all 102 pounds of her.  We said, don’t worry, we’re not sending you out to get the eggs.  Just as we laugh about this, my brother eating his cereal, points to the window and shouts, “The tree just fell on your car!”

It was my next-door neighbor’s willow tree.  Now I have to walk around and under a tree to get out of my house.  Mark always hated that tree, anyway; now it’s an ornament to my front door. 

Mark, going a little stir-crazy, is eager to do something.  He’s able to move the car, luckily.  If any tree falls on your car let it be a willow tree, it is soft and harmless, thankfully.  He stops to take pictures and then hears a big crack; a huge limb from another tree comes crashing down at the corner of our block.  Lucky, he didn’t go out to get the eggs.

For now, we are safe, together, waiting it out, comfy in our pajamas.  We don’t have enough eggs, but we have each other.  


Of course, married daughter, Lindsay, 2 miles away in Levittown is a little envious....
But, I wonder if she has eggs.

Hometown: Mini-Vacation to Scranton, PA

Sylvia Waltzer was born on November 5, 1923 in her parents’ bedroom on Marion Street, the Greenridge section of Scranton, Pennsylvania.  She was the last of eight children and second daughter born to Fannie and Morris Waltzer. Dr. Milkman delivered her.  I am not making that up.  He might have been the milkman, too.  Additionally and ironically, to say the least, Sylvia’s only sister and Fannie and Morris’ first daughter- Dorothy, who was 7 at the time, proclaimed that Sylvia looked just like the doctor upon her first glance of her sister.  These are all verifiable facts, according to my mother’s rendition of her life. 

Yesterday, on a perfectly sunny and warm Saturday in July and 87 years, 7 months and 16 days after her birth my mom, Sylvia, and I took a day trip to my friends, Betsy and Jim’s vacation retreat in the Poconos of Pennsylvania, about a half hour away from Scranton.  You can always meet someone who has some connection to Scranton; our Vice President, for instance, Joe Biden, was born in Scranton.  So, it didn’t surprise me when Jim told me that their next-door neighbor, Rose, was from Scranton.  Mark, my husband, might joke that you can drive through Scranton and it will take only two minutes, but to my mom, and me it’s the center of the universe and after yesterday, I understand why. 

After a delicious lunch of white fish salad on croissants, a Jewish/French-fusion meal that we ate sitting by the serene lake that Jim and Betsy’s backyard overlooks, Jim took us on a tour of Scranton and found the house where Sylvia’s life began- on Marion Street.  Betsy insisted that my mother sit in the front passenger seat so she could guide Jim to the places she remembered; although, Jim is enamored with the town of Scranton himself and showed us some other sights that validated its charming characteristics.  When I saw the railroad tracks, I knew we were close to Marion Street.  Those railroad tracks provided a setting to many of the stories my mom had told me- the stories of my grandmother feeding the hobos who used to travel on the trains and stop off in, of all places, Scranton.  The story of how my Aunt Dorothy and her friend, Gert, were planning to run away to Hollywood, via the train- a short distance from their home.  When we found my mother’s house, I didn’t see the old woman who I have come accustomed to knowing, I saw a giddy, excited young girl.  I forgot how that young girl resides in all of us women, waiting impatiently to emerge as memories of our youth return.  That young girl took over Sylvia’s aging body as she got out of the car and walked quickly down the street to the yellow house. 

That yellow house seemed to be illuminated as my mother walked up to it- maybe because of her awe that it really still existed, not only in her recollections of the happiest times of her life, but as palpable as ever- with its charming wrap-around porch that her descriptions confirmed.  We took photos of my mom in front of the house standing less than 5 feet tall, but looking as if she felt 12 feet tall.  Jim, the ambassador to Sylvia’s curiosity and wonderment, boldly knocked on the door.  At first, it appeared that no one was home, but after a few long minutes, a young man came to the door with a little girl, who must have been the same age as my mother was when she moved from that house to Brooklyn, NY. 

“I came tell you that your flowers need watering and that that lady over there was born in this house,” Jim stated, pointing to my mom.

“Really?  My grandfather bought this house and left it to me,” responded the young man.

He told his daughter to get her grandmother, his mom, who lived two doors away.  She came out and we all stood in front of the house, mesmerized while my mother shared stories of her family while they lived on Marion Street.  That old yellow house meant a lot to that family, as well, based upon its history of being passed down from generation to generation, but on that warm July day, it became more of a shrine to its inhabitants-former and current.

While they talked, I noticed the majestic view to the left of the house just beyond of the Pocono Mountains.  I understood why my mother still talks about how when she left her first home they cried uncontrollably in the car- she, her sister, her brothers, Matty, Fintz, Oscar and her mother.  “If you wouldn’t cry, they wouldn’t cry!” my grandfather, Morris yelled at Fannie. 

Scranton is the epitome of any Small Town, USA- its quaintness as profound and symbolic as a Norman Rockwell painting. Jim took more photos of us on the steps to the wraparound porch.  We found out that the little girl who lived there was indeed four years old, the same age my mother was when she left her first home and birthplace.  She was unaffected by our excitement and much more interested in drawing on the steps with her sidewalk chalk and playing with her next-door neighbor, Joshua.  Perhaps one day, the little girl will return to Marion Street as an old woman and reminisce, or she might pass the house down to her descendents, as her great grandfather did.  She may recall that warm day in July when an old woman returned who was born in that house. 

In all its simplicity, Jim validated Scranton as a touchstone of America; while my mother validated it as a touchstone of her youth as we continued our tour up and down the steep hills, taking in the breathtaking views, hundreds year-old architecture and lovely homes.  My mom had Jim find the old orphanage where she used to stay on her return visits to her family that still lived in Scranton.  Her Aunt Sonia was the cook and resided in the orphanage with her son, my mother’s cousin, Sidney, as well as other cousins, who had lost one of their parents. 

That orphanage too, held many dear memories for my mother.  As we sat in the car looking at the old building, Sylvia told us that’s where she had her first kiss from her first boyfriend, David, one of the orphans.  She was about thirteen at the time and he kissed her and told her that he loved her.  After that visit, back in Brooklyn, one day, when she came home from school, Dorothy and her brother Fintz greeted her at the door, with wide, gloating grins.  “You have a package,” they said, “We didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” they revealed smugly.  David had sent my mother a box of chocolates and not only was her secret boyfriend divulged, but Dorothy and Fintz had also sampled some of the chocolates. 

My mother also told us about the time in the house on Marion Street when my grandmother, Fannie, had lit the Sabbath candles and one of their cats had jumped on the table and knocked over the candles.  Fannie came into the kitchen to find a fire starting and put it out with her bare hands.  When my mother was in the eighth grade she had to write a composition about fire safety and she wrote it using that story of the Sabbath candles.  Her teacher, Mrs. Bush, was so impressed by it that she told my mother that she was taking it home and bringing it back to show the principal, Mrs. Ebling, the next day.  The next day came and the next week but there was no Mrs. Bush, just a substitute teacher.  After that week, Mrs. Ebling came to the classroom to inform the students that Mrs. Bush would not be returning.  It was not said, but surmised that Mrs. Bush had died.  Gone- Mrs. Bush, my mother’s wonderful composition and the opportunity to be noticed by Mrs. Ebling.  To my mother- it was her one shot at eminence extinguished just like the flames in the kitchen on Marion Street.

The memories still remain, though- and I got to see my mother as the little four-year-old child, the coming of age thirteen-year old young woman and an aspiring writer.  Thanks to Jim and Betsy. 

Later on, Jim was sharing a book written by a woman in her eighties about mini-vacations in the Poconos.  My mom said, “I feel like I had a mini-vacation today.”  Jim responded, “I know, I saw it on the smile on your face.”

  

This is on the wraparound porch when Mom (front, center) was a toddler, probably about 1925 or 6, Cousin Sidney is in the back,left, brother Fintz is in the back, right. 

This is Mom in front of the wraparound porch in 2011. 

“The World Has Become a Big Fat Yenta.”

yenta. noun. a woman who is a gossip or busybody.

ORIGIN 1920s: Yiddish, originally a given name.

That’s what Sylvia, my mom, has been saying as we listen to the news these days amidst the latest political scandal, naturally of a sexual nature.  It seems whenever these things happen; their unthinkable, unacceptable and disgraceful attributes send everyone into a tizzy of outrage.  The paradox to this is that whatever it is that is so “unspeakable” causes everyone not to stop speaking about it.  And how can they not- because every time you turn on the TV or turn on your computer, or pick up a newspaper- it’s right there.  As a matter of fact, while Sylvia and I were out having breakfast yesterday morning- we glanced at the TV monitor in the diner- and of course- this latest political sexual scandal was the news item for a good 15 minutes of airtime.  That’s when she said again, the world has become a big fat yenta.

Sylvia does not even fully comprehend what exactly happened this time.  She got that Schwarzenegger was having an affair with his housekeeper and that the other guy from the IMF, whom we never heard of, was attacking a hotel housekeeper.  By the way, both these situations were a bit too coincidental to the illicit fantasy about housekeepers, don’t you think?  But this new impropriety that involves tweeting is a bit confusing to her.  All she understands is that a congressman has exposed his penis for the whole world to see.  And to her dismay, he happens to be a Jew, which, to my mother is just unnecessary bad press for our tribe.  She even tried to refute his being a Jew because after all, what Jewish man is named Anthony?  Whatever his ethnicity, though, the fact remains that he took some pictures of his “weiner” and coincidently, his name is Weiner.  He also had some lewd conversations about using it- but while he did take it out, he never actually put it in; the world of cyberspace is not that sophisticated, yet.  All this is quite perplexing to my mother because even though she understands that he took pictures of his package she was quite surprised that it was with his phone.  She’s a little bit out of touch with the capabilities of technology these days. 

In my opinion, well my opinion is- when did we all become judge and jury?  Are any of us impervious to a lack of foresight and wit at any point of our life?  The last time I considered my character- I scored quite low on the perfection meter.  This doesn’t mean I do not possess integrity and decency- it merely means I’m human.  And thank goodness for that.  So, lighten up, people- and stop being such yentas (even though the definition denotes a woman- men you are just as guilty). 

What I really think is we are so relieved that there are others out there who can or have done stupider or just as stupid things as we have done and thankfully we can focus on their faults to take our mind off our own. 

A Series of Serendipities and Oprah Winfrey

The middle of this week landed the three of us my mom, Kimberly and I together at 4pm watching Oprah saying her final farewell (after a series of farewells in her countdown of shows).  This was totally unexpected on a Wednesday afternoon, especially since, coincidentally; I was supposed to be landed in Chicago, where the Oprah show is aired from, at that time.  Chicago is a place I usually don’t work; however, I was doing a colleague a favor.  But I never got there- who knows really why- the crazy weather or some unexplained force in my own personal cosmic energy. 

I arrived at the airport just in time to board my plane but there was no indication that was happening.  There were too many people sitting around looking that way most people look when they’re inconvenienced by delayed flights.  I got my cup of coffee and found a seat next to a gray-haired, Midwestern-looking woman with friendly eyes. 

“Are you going to Chicago?” I asked her. 

“Well I’m hoping to, but the flight is delayed at least an hour,” she replied.

“I’m doing a presentation for about 75 people at 1pm today.  I hope I make it.” I said, thinking out loud but glad I had someone to talk to. 

“That’s what happened to me yesterday,” the Midwestern, gray-haired woman told me.  “I had a job interview and my flight was delayed coming in; I made it just in time.  Now I’m even wondering whether I want to live in New York at all.” 

I think she was “thinking out loud”, too. 

We talked for about an hour while we waited.  She was from the Midwest, as I predicted- Missouri, although, originally from Illinois.  We got to know some things about one another, except never exchanged names.  At one point I asked her what her interview was for.

“College administration,” she answered. 

“Wow, that’s funny.  My daughter is going to grad school for that now.  Is it a good field?  I asked.

“Yes, it’s great, I love it.  I used to be a professor, then I decided to go into this.” 

“What did you teach?”

“I taught TESOL- Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages.”

“Oh wow, that’s so funny- my daughter did her undergrad in that and even was an ESL teacher for a year.  What a funny coincidence.”

We talked for a while, she pondering about a life change- accepting this job and moving to New York, me talking about whether there was a point to even wait for a flight that looked less likely to take me to my destination in time as the minutes ticked away.  Finally I got a call from my colleague, who told me to go home; he would do my presentation. 

I said goodbye to the Midwestern, gray-haired, former college professor, and current college administrator woman and told her to consider moving to New York.  I quoted a line from a speech that was written by, coincidentally, a columnist from the Chicago Tribune.  Wear Sunscreen was the name of the speech and it’s a series of suggestions on living your life.  The line was Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard.  She wrote down the name of the speech and said.  “Who knows, maybe we’ll meet again.” 

And that’s how I got home in time to watch Oprah’s last show with my mom and Kim.  Three generations of women.  One who watched Oprah for the later part of her life, one who watched in the middle and one who watched at the beginning, or really her whole life, so far. 

I began watching Oprah when I was pregnant with Kim.  I was lucky enough to be a stay at home mom at the time; I would watch while my older daughter, three-year old Lindsay and I waited for my husband Mark to return home before I would put up dinner.  Actually, Mark was the one who told me about Oprah Winfrey and how great she was supposed to be.  I used to watch and love Phil Donahue’s show, although I forgot his name and had to google him through his wife, Marlo Thomas. 

Oprah affected me like countless others.  I even started a gratitude journal as she instructed, on July 17, 1997.  It ended on July 19, 1997.  I didn’t write for a month after that, and then on August 18, 1997 I began again, writing-that is- first with pejoratives directed towards Oprah because the “Attitude of Gratitude” journal did not work for me.  However I did continue to write, and it has always been a hobby of mine, sometimes, neglected, though always something I am passionate about. 

Oprah has been a constant in most of my adult life.  I read books recommended by the Oprah Book Club.  I even participated in her Webcast with Eckhart Tolle, while reading A New Earth.  I also joined her website.  Obviously, she has influenced my life.  Although I’m just a little bit pissed at her for ending her show before I got my book published and have the opportunity to be a guest on the show.  Now I have to dream up a brand new fantasy of fame.

I have watched Oprah this year, more than I had in the recent past.  This is because while I was working in Providence, I returned to my hotel in time for the 4pm show.  Normally at that hour, I’m either still working or sitting on some expressway with a million other cars.  As they reminded us of the countdown to the finale I have to admit, I got a twinge of sadness deep in my soul, the part that Oprah has touched in most of us.  I got to see Monday’s show with my mom, and then my mom excitedly told me about Tuesday’s show, which I missed.  These shows were extravaganzas.  The last show was anything but.

So here we were, the three of us together, mother-daughter, daughter-mother, and grandmother-granddaughter as we watched Oprah say her final farewell.  It was serendipitous, yet meant to be.  It was simple, yet profound.  It was just Oprah, guiding, inspiring, encouraging each and every one of us one more time, reminding us to always find something to do that we have passion for, providing us with quotes to live by, such as Please be responsible for the energy you bring into this space.

The week continued and I took Oprah’s motivation to get me through it, a little bit more aware and responsible for my energy.  On Thursday I took a train that was not delayed, thank goodness, to Providence.  I sat across from another college administrator- I overheard his wife say he was the former chancellor of Brown University.  He stepped right on my foot and could not stop apologizing to me.  I texted Kim about my latest happenstance with yet another college administrator.

On Friday Kimberly called me with the news.  She had gone on a job interview on Tuesday for a position in Hunter College in the Career Services department.  This would pay part of her tuition, count as her internship and offer her a salary as well.  It was a very competitive job and there were many applicants.  She told me how much she wanted this because this was something she felt passionate about, just like Oprah Winfrey had advised.  She was supposed to hear from them next week but they called before the holiday weekend to let her know that she had the best qualifications and they were offering her the job.  Woohoo!!

Was it just serendipitous or a sign that I came so close to two people who worked in the career that Kim is entering, one to have a conversation with and one who literally tripped on my feet?  Was it serendipitous or a sign that the three of us watched Oprah as she told us to always find something to do that we have passion for?  I will not ever know; all I do know is that it was a good week and right now, I’m using my energy to feed my passion and write about it. 

We pass through each other’s life sometimes just for an hour, sometimes an hour each day, other times just a split second.  In that time, some of us are affected with a lifetime change or a moment of epiphany.  I wonder if my brief encounter with the gray-haired Midwestern, college administrator made her consider taking the job she was offered and move to New York.  I might never know, but then again, I just might.  Maybe Kim might be working alongside her one day.  Now that would be serendipitous.

And thank you, Oprah, for the energy you bring into my space. 

The Ups and Downs of Motherhood

Happy Mother's Day.

I have been a mother now for exactly 28 years, 8 months and 19 days.  I remember that moment when they placed that tiny little being, all five pounds of her, into my arms and the feeling of absolute responsibility I had never felt before.  Actually, it was more a chasm of inexplicable joy mixed with a bit of terror and the clear knowledge that life would never be the same again.   In reality, that is what motherhood is all about- a conglomeration of sensations. 

My mother was the youngest of eight children.  Her mother, my Grandma Fannie, once told her that when the doctor informed her that she was pregnant, she told him, emphatically “I don’t want this baby!”  The doctor just replied, “You have seven children already; one is not going to make much of a difference.”  Ironically, Fannie told my mom this while she was living with her.  My mother was giving Fannie a shower at the time when she recounted this story and then in the next breath, said, “And you’re the only one of my children who took me in.” 

Needless to say, my mother has always had a sense of being unimportant.  She was the second daughter to six sons.  When my Aunt Dorothy was born- the first daughter to five sons at the time, they celebrated for two weeks.  But when my mother was born, there was no celebration.  Hence, the beginning of my mother’s life really explains my mother’s low self-esteem and constant self-deprecation.  

In spite of my mother’s feelings of inadequacy, she made each of her four children feel special.  I attribute my finishing college at the time when it wasn’t so important for girls to finish college to my mother.  She made me stick it out.  And I am grateful to her for that, amongst so many countless other things. 

My mother was the one who begged me to have a baby. I was married four years already.  However, Mark and I were not financially ready at the time; although, when is one ever financially ready to have a baby?  She promised I could go back to work and she would take care of the baby.  I had a second bedroom already, so I thought, why not?  And on the second try, I got pregnant. 

Happy and scared- an emotional roller coaster- my first reactions to being a mother.  And then I got up one night in my first trimester and was bleeding- not spotting, bleeding.  I was sure that it was a miscarriage.  I called the doctor and he said to come in the next morning.

At the doctor’s office, it was my obstetrician’s partner who examined me.  He told me, nonchalantly, that either I miscarried or the baby died inside me, because I didn’t appear pregnant anymore. I needed to take a sonogram to verify this.  In those days, obstetricians did not have sonograms in their offices and I had to wait three very long days to get an appointment for one in the hospital.  I was devastated.  I was sure I lost my baby, although, my pants wouldn’t close and the night before the sonogram, I could swear I felt fluttering in my stomach.  But I dismissed these two things because I didn’t want to get my hopes up. 

In the 1980’s, you had to drink gallons of water before taking a sonogram.  The technician at the hospital told me in order for them to get a clear picture, I need to feel that I have to pee so bad that I can’t hold it in anymore.  When I felt that way, I remember, going in thinking, let me just get through this so I could go to the bathroom.  I laid on the cold flat table and the technician globbed cold slimy liquid on my belly and began sliding the probe on it. “There’s the baby’s heartbeat,” she said in less than a minute.  I was stunned.  “What baby?”  “Your baby,” she said laughing, “You’re about thirteen weeks.”  Elation.  Pure elation.  That was what I felt and of course, still having to pee worse than ever in my whole life.  I think I flew off that examining table and as I headed for the bathroom, I spotted Mark and gave him a thumbs-up before I raced to relieve myself.  Relief, elation and then that phenomenon of utter fear that I was really going to be a mother. 

That was my first peak into what it really means to be a mother- to always be ready for the unexpected, to have this consciousness of trying to control the uncontrollable.  From the moment you put that infant down in the crib, then check five more times in all of five minutes to make sure she’s breathing- that’s what it really feels like to be a mother. To be jubilant over a burp, a first step, a smile, a laugh.  Then comes the uncertainty of caring for that fussy baby, that curious toddler, that unpredictable child, that insolent adolescent.  It’s the hardest job in the world. 

And yet…

My mother recently told me that when she was talking with a group of women she lived with at assistant living, the topic came up of what part of their life they would live over again if they could.  They all agreed- it would be when their children were children.  That was the best time of their life.  I have to concur.  I would go back and do it all over again. 

Climbing Mountains with Kim

I cannot do everything, but I can do something. I must not fail to do the something that I can do.

Helen Keller

My very favorite story about Kim was when we were in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia on a vacation we took after attending my cousin Laura’s Wedding.  Kim had just turned six years old.  She had the prettiest little face- like a doll’s; huge dark almond-shaped eyes, a tiny pointy nose and heart-shaped full lips, framed by bangs and lovely dark brown straight hair down to her waist that would curl at the very ends. 

After Laura’s wedding, we stayed at a lovely bed and breakfast in Staunton, Virginia.  My parents came with us, so it was a true family vacation in our mini-van, with grandma and grandpa “in tow”.  We decided to explore the beautiful Shenandoah Valley and do all the things that Daddy and Lindsay loved to do- including canoeing and mountain hiking.  Thanks to our video recorder, I have much of this converted onto a DVD, so I can revisit the past and see my kids when they were kids, my mom when she was so much younger and my dad the way I want to remember him.  Of course I have photographs, too- of Kimberly crying and holding onto the sides of the canoe she was in with her dad; I remember her wailing, “I hate you Daddy. I want to go home.”  And then there’s my favorite photo of my two beautiful girls, clinging to each other, sitting atop the highest point of the mountain on a cluster of rocks, with the endless pale blue sky behind them.  This is my very favorite photo…because it tells the story of Kim and climbing mountains. 

One of Mark’s favorite outdoor activities is hiking and he researched this area well and planned a hiking trip up the Blue Ridge Mountains.  My parents stayed back in the town, walking through the shops and Mark, the girls and I started hiking up the trail to the top of the mountain.  As we walked farther along, the trail became steeper, with jagged, uneven rocks.  I was never a fan of hiking and certainly less of a fan of mountain hiking.  So I decided to let Mark and Lindsay continue and that Kimberly was much too young to handle such a vertiginous trail.  I was exhausted anyway.  So, Kim and I sat down on a slab of stone, while Mark and Lindsay trekked deeper to reach the summit.  

At six years old, Kim was extremely inquisitive and in that “why” stage of childhood.  My Aunt Dorothy even used to call her “the how come girl.”  So while we were sitting on the rock, as other hikers passed us, Kim asked how come we were not moving on.  “You’re so little and it’s getting too dangerous for your little legs to carry you up this trail,” I replied, attempting to justify my prudence.  After about ten minutes, there came a group of hikers that raised some more questions, not only for Kim, but also for my cautious decision and me.  

A girl was traveling in this group with a man beside her.  She seemed to have her eyes shut and he was guiding her, step by step, describing the trail as she walked, carefully, but determinedly.  “How come he’s telling her where the steps are Mommy? Kim asked me.  “Because she’s blind and she needs someone to explain the path to her while she’s walking,” I explained, which prompted another why question, naturally, from her- “Why is she walking up a mountain, if she’s blind.”  It was one of those “aha” moments in my life where the answer to a question is so obvious and simultaneously epiphanic.  I watched the girl and her guide pass us and after a few moments, I responded with a deep sigh, “Because, because…she’s showing us that if she can walk up the mountain, and she’s blind, we can certainly walk up the mountain, too.  So, come on, let’s go.”

Thus, we gave in to my fears and trepidations and conquered the narrow, precipitous path, eventually catching up to the girl and her guide.  The guide chuckled to me as we passed, “So you decided to do it after all.”  It was as if he knew exactly what was going through my head.  Soon after, we caught up to a very pleased daddy and sister.  I really don’t remember the walk up the path after passing the guide; I just remember reaching the top and my girls sitting on the highest rock and posing for that iconic picture.

What’s so ironic about this account is that Kim remembers nothing about it.  Nothing.  And to me, this story defines who she is and represents how I steered her or even quite possibly deterred her on all the paths that followed.  Isn’t that the case, most often, though- our experiences with our children, sometimes the ones most precious- the ones that give us that crystal clear indication of who they are, the ones that are indelible to us are occurrences that have not even made an imprint on their memory.  It’s as if who they are to themselves is so different from who they are to us.

Before I even brought Kimberly into this world, I had some foresight into the kind of person she was going to turn into.  I was in labor with her on three separate occasions.  The first time, she would have been four weeks early.  I recall the midwife, Karen, began knitting something while my contractions slowed and then disappeared.  It was hours into a long night.  I said to Karen, I have a vision of my baby being born and whatever you’re knitting being a large blanket.  

I did not give birth that night, or the next time I went to the hospital with false labor pains.  The actual day that she was born, on the morn of a full moon the previous night, I hesitated going to the hospital because I didn’t want to be sent home a third time.  Karen, the midwife, finally delivered her and she mentioned that what she had begun knitting three weeks before was coincidentally now a sweater.  

What did this whole birthing escapade forewarn me of?  Kimberly’s indecisiveness, of course, not to mention how we’re always waiting for her when we’re going somewhere and how even when we get into the car, she has to run back to get something she forgot.  I keep picturing her last week, even, getting a new pair of glasses after trying on 50 different pairs. 

So, what is the significance of our mountain hike and the blind girl who inspired me to take Kim and climb that steep trail to the top?  Many times in Kim’s life, there has been something that paralyzes her from doing something or causes her to change her course of action.  She is afraid to drive.  Even after driving for a few months, after delaying getting a license, she panics when she gets behind the wheel.  She went all through college deliberating and changing her mind many times about what to major in; then finally graduated with a degree and license to teach English as a Second Language.  Nevertheless, after one year of trying it, she decided she hated it, mostly because she lacked the confidence to believe she was truly helping her students and not screwing them up. 

Now she works at Planet Fitness and is in grad school majoring in an entirely different field.  It has been an uphill battle (excuse the pun).   Oftentimes, I think it’s her pervasive, perpetual perfectionism.  If she cannot do something flawlessly, she deems it unsuccessful and abandons it.  Did I do that to her, I wonder, by being afraid, at times, to let go and encourage her to take risks?  That was why I didn’t want to go up that steep trail; until I realized what a wuss I was being when we encountered the blind girl. 

For Kim’s 20^th birthday, I took her to a psychic-astrologer in the village.  She did an astrological reading and read her tarot cards.  She told Kim that she would become some kind of counselor, which surprised us, because at the time, she was majoring in Speech Pathology.  She also told her that it would take from four to nine years for her to emerge into this amazing person she is meant to be.  Before that time, she would struggle a great deal. So far, the psychic has been correct in her predictions and surprisingly accurate when considering this new profession Kim is studying for.  And then one wonders, do people take certain paths after these so-called psychics plant seeds? 

In reality, my Kim is not much different from most young adults trying to find their niche.  After all, I, myself, have had quite a few careers in my history.  And even though she has no recollection of our climbing up the steep mountain event, except what I’ve told her, I hope she learns that the decisions and journey are just as valuable as reaching the pinnacle.

Starting Over

It is 7:18 AM on Easter Sunday morning.  I have been up since 4:52 AM, thanks to American Airlines, because I promised to pick up my daughter and son-in-law at the airport, as they arrived home from their honeymoon and their flight was delayed 6 hours.  I cannot go back to sleep, maybe because I asked my daughter to bring me a cup of coffee on her way out of the terminal, maybe because a zillion thoughts go through my head the minute it hits my pillow, maybe because even diligently counting down from 100 to 0, I am still wide awake.  So, I drag my 55 year old body with its creaks and aches out of my bed and I arise to be a writer, to feed the passion I too often neglect. 

Why is it the things we love the most we take for granted or seem to not grant enough precious time for?  Last year, my writing fed my soul, it defined me, even made me feel whole and worthy.  This year I am full of excuses to forsake it, shamefully.  Possibly it's due to my tendency to procrastinate; a bad habit I have always had.  Procrastination is a very tricky thing to tame, because of its perpetual nature- I continually procrastinate about ceasing to procrastinate.  Or could it be that my frame for writing was about three generations- my mother, my daughter and I?  I could easily write about myself and my mother, but I hesitated many times writing about the generation of youth to give my daughter the privacy she needed.  Consequently, I felt hindered by my theme. Nevertheless, I have forgiven myself (strange coincidence that it is Easter) and I have decided to begin again.  As Eli Weisel puts it I write to understand as much as to be understood. 

The dawn has broken and the sunlight dares to appear after a dreary rainy Saturday.  Hello Sun, please stay awhile.  Easter is always one holiday I remember well from my childhood, because despite that we were the only Jews in a very Catholic neighborhood, my mother insisted on dressing us up for Easter.  We wore beautiful little suits, topped off with hats or "Easter bonnets".  My favorite suit one year was a yellow one made out of a course, nubby fabric.  We would take pictures in front of the house and then roam around the neighborhood with nothing to do, because after all, it wasn't our holiday.  However, it was a day my father was off and he would take us sometimes for rides in the car.  One Easter I recall my cousin Janie staying with us and she got dressed up as well.  We went for a walk and ended up in front of a church.  We looked at each other, and just to see how it felt, boldly made the sign of the cross on our chests.  Then we took off, running away, giggling at our temerity.  

Is it human nature to pretend to be something that we are not?  Or is it just part of the search to discover who we really are?  Two days ago it was my 55th birthday.  Five has always been my lucky number and I had written in my New Year's blog that this was the year of duality; there were many double numbers to be celebrated, aside from the obvious duplex "ones" of the new year.  I still don't know the significance of this except that I decided to make it significant.  I have a tendency to do that; I create meaning to things that others would find meaningless. 

My birthday came and went just like the 54 that proceeded it.  I  think I got over 100 birthday wishes on my facebook page; although, I gave up counting.  My mother forgot that it was my birthday because she didn't know that Friday was the 22nd and she doesn't have a calendar in her room like she used to.  My 94 year old Aunt Dorothy reminded her, when she called.  We went out to dinner at a new restaurant, which had an acoustic guitar player for entertainment and coincidently when we arrived he began to sing Happy Birthday, only it was for someone named Dean, not Jean.  I started to make this significant, but abandoned that idea almost immediately.  I had a red velvet cake for dessert, which the waitress brought over with one flickering candle and she, Mark and my mother sang Happy Birthday to me, without the acoustic guitar and Lindsay and Scott, who were on their honeymoon and Kim, who was working.  My best friend, Meryl, had called when I had just arrived at the restaurant and sang to me, though.   I made a wish, that I regret making and now I have to wait a whole year to make a new birthday wish.  I should have wished to become an authentic, published  writer, to get up each morning and go to my new office (Lindsay's old room) that I spent all of Wednesday cleaning up and organizing, and write every day.  Instead I made some silly wish for a promotion in my job in a company that has 37,000 other employees in it.  It's not really what I want.  I had forgotten what I wanted.  I had forgotten the thing that comes out of the core of my being- to write.

The night before my birthday, I had a strange dream about becoming a teacher again.  I think it is because in my search for the right career, I think of going back to the classroom.  Then I usually have a dream that confirms this would not be the best move because nothing ever goes smoothly in my "dream classroom".  And then I start to question my real career of coaching teachers, because if my dream reveals that I am struggling back in my own classroom, then maybe I have no business coaching teachers.  My grandma Fanny always said "Never go backwards."  So, maybe my dreams are telling me to move forward, so this is what I will do.  I just wish I had that birthday wish I wasted back. 

I have already over written 1,000 words and it's only two days past my birthday, so phooey to the promotion wish.  (Did you know that phooey is an actual word?)  Well, in any case, I am moving on and up and I'm going to buy a desk for my new office and start over.  That will be my birthday present to me. 

I am done pretending.  I AM a writer.  

Vanity- Generations of Beauty or Reflections from the Lady in Red

Yesterday, at my cousin Matt’s son’s bar mitzvah, my cousin, Bobby, told me I looked like a 1920’s flapper girl. I was wearing a red empire waist, silk-like dress, patterned red stockings, red shoes, gold filigree hanging earrings with red stones and a red and gold knit scarf. Everything matched my red hair, of course. “Thank you, I think,” I replied to Bobby. “He meant it as a compliment,” said Marlene, his wife. “I did,” Bobby added reassuringly.


Upon further investigation, today, with the help of google images, I did understand Bobby comparing me to a flapper girl; my new short hairstyle is very similar to those hairstyles of the 20s and although my dress was not very flapper-ish, the scarf and stockings were. Someone else at the party did tell me I looked very “retro”. Another young girl complimented my whole outfit and finally, as I was leaving, even the coat check lady told me how much she loved my look. This all meant a lot to me as I come from a long line of vain women.


Back in those flapper days of the twenties, my Grandma Fanny was a “looker” herself. My mom told me Fanny would say men would stop their shaves in the barbershop when she walked by just to get a look at her. I don’t know if this really happened, but we would never doubt any of Grandma’s stories, especially those that gave credence to her beauty. After all, she is the root of our generational vanity.


My mother recently told me about when my Uncle Phil was getting married, my grandfather and one of my uncles accompanied Fanny to buy a gown for the wedding. She tried on the gown in the dressing room and the saleslady exclaimed, “Let’s show your sons how beautiful you look.” Fanny, quite taken aback, replied. “Only one is my son, the other is my husband.” The very next day, she went to the beauty parlor and had her graying hair dyed red.


Living with my grandma, as I was growing up, I will always recall how meticulously she would pick out her dress, how she would always weave her long gray-white hair into a tidy bun at the nape of her neck and then come into my room for me to fasten the clasp on a set of beads to accessorize her outfit. She would do this each and every day even if she had nowhere to go. Even her last days in the hospital, I remember how the nurses’ aides took time to primp her hair, putting it in braids. Although she was dying, even they knew it was important for her to look her best.


That vanity carries on in my mother, Sylvia.  Sylvia will tell you that when she got dressed for the day, when grandma lived with us, Fanny would say, “That- you’re wearing?” as if to imply she could do better. And so, mom made sure to get her hair done on Friday this week, rather than her usual Thursday, so it would be fresher for the Saturday event. “Try to sleep only on your back,” Allison, her hairdresser, told her before she left the salon, “then you won’t spoil the sides and you’ll just pick out the back of your hair in the morning.” When my mom woke up Saturday morning, I asked her if she was able to sleep just on her back. “I did,” my mom said, “and I really didn’t sleep at all. As a matter of fact, I felt like I was “laid out.” Her hair did stay in place, though. And she looked gorgeous. It was important to her, even at 87 years old, just like her mother before her.


Just recently my brother found a photograph of my mother, Grandma Fanny and my Aunt Dorothy. My mom must have been in her late twenties, Dorothy in her thirties and Grandma in her sixties. They were all dressed up, my mom in a stunning blue suit that accentuated her thin waistline, Aunt Dorothy in a cream colored dress with her fancy onyx pendant, and Grandma in a black lace frock. My aunt was recovering from a broken wrist, and as a gift, we framed the photo and sent it to her. My cousin, Liz, her granddaughter, was with her when she received it. Liz told me yesterday, she couldn’t help but laugh when Aunt Dorothy, now 94, looked at the photograph and said, “Who the (expletive) is this? I never looked like that. I was never that young and pretty.” Yes, we forget that younger version of ourselves, those beauties we used to be. But who says that beauty and vanity are meant only for youth?  My aunt, like her mother, still remains attractive, even at 94; her smile still lights up a room, her stature still strong and straight and reminiscent of the lovely younger Dorothy, who used to show off her tap-dancing abilities to me.


A few weeks ago at the senior citizen center, my mother had a conversation with a very dumb old man. The dumb old man said, “I don’t know why women spend so much money on the beauty parlor. We don’t even look at their hair and their faces.” My mother asked, “What do you look at?” “Other parts,” he answered. To that, my mother walked away, thinking, “pig” to herself, “what makes him think we want to look good for them, anyway? We do it for ourselves.”


I admired all the female descendants of Fanny, yesterday- my cousin Regina, a young beautiful grandma, her beautiful daughter and granddaughters carrying on the tradition of vanity, while we carry on the tradition of our heritage. My beautiful cousin, Nancy, who complimented my hair and said she might copy my cut.  And my own two daughters--Beautiful!  I think of Grandma Fanny, who used to say that to me even when my hair was in bear-can curlers.


So here’s to all the ladies out there, young and old, tall and short, all shapes and sizes, who take the time to look their very best. And here’s to my 87-year old mom, who still obeys her mother and always takes the time to dress up and “make up” for a special event or just to be inside on a cold wintry day, like today.


And here’s to me, lady in red, who just might be bringing flapper back.

Duality

I began writing this at the end of 2010 and I am finishing it at the emergence of 2011.  I don’t really know why I mention this except maybe to emphasize how one year blends into another.  Each year as I get older the year gets shorter.  This year I will turn 55.  55.  It warrants mentioning twice because of its obvious duality.  Coincidently, in this year of ’11 (double ones), I will turn 55 on April 22 (double twos) and I will be married 33 years (double threes).  My anniversary date has no doubles; however, our first address did--double fours- 744; ergo, my title (Duality) for my first blog entry aptly dated with twin doubles of ones…1-1-11.  If this has any significance, I cannot tell you why right now.  I did play all these numbers on the $242 million Mega Millions Jackpot, yesterday, which has sort of my birth date in it (4/22). I have yet to check to see if I won.  I figure the longer I prolong looking up the numbers, the more hope I will have.  Perhaps duality will be the overarching theme of my year in 2011, who knows?

This morning, while Kim, my mother and I sat at the table; Kim announced a little pitifully, “ I am going to be 25 this year…that’s a quarter of a century!”  We both just looked at her until I replied, “You won’t get any sympathy from us.”  It is official; I am in my mid fifties, past a half a century.  And I still don't really know what I want to be when I grow up.  For all intents and purposes, though, I am grown up and if I would have taken a different route in my career, I would be retiring in June. Hah!  But of course that is not the case and that means I can still use my witty phrase I am retired....I was tired yesterday and I'm tired again today...hardy har har.

So here I am into the next decade of the 21st century and I actually began typing this on my new IPAD.  I have given into the cravings I felt when watching those commercials with the catchy tunes.  These are the things that take my breath away. Of course I did go through the first couple of days paralyzed in fear preventing me from even using this device.  But now, well now, I am having a love affair with it- because in your fifties you have love affairs with electronics. It cools down the hot flashes and forces you to ignore the creaking noises in your stiff body and the newest brown spots and wrinkles. Maybe because it's a new innovation and as old as you are, you can be a part of it and even "get" how to use it once you “get over” your initial paralysis.  And now due to my discovered abilities and newfound confidence, I found the buried digital picture frame that Mark had given to me two Hanukkahs ago and I even uploaded my daughter's wedding pictures. I think I may be becoming a "techy-genius".  I might even fall into the "geek" category soon if I keep this up. 

My new IPAD is what keeps me smiling when other things make me frown. For instance, the snow--10 inches of snow most probably will not wipe the smile off my face while over 20 inches of snow is extremely aggravating.  And that's just what we had this past Sunday; although, this did keep me out of my new office which I really don't have which brings the furrows to my brows again.  After 12 years of working for the same company and being part of the initial three people who started our region, I have been told that I don't need a permanent desk because I am never there.  I do travel a lot, okay. I try to ignore my ego and get over it. I will deal. Hence, I have to share an office space in what's called the "Library" with three other colleagues.  So, I go up to my new office a week ago, and I encounter that the "Library" is a euphemism for closet, a large closet, but still a closet.  And I am not only sharing it with three other colleagues; I am sharing it with another person, who is part of the other office, another division of our company that originally occupied the space.  She has been using the "Library" to pump her breast milk.  I have tried to find a euphemism for this new development, perhaps renaming the “Library”--"La Leche Armario", but I realize that would be sarcastic and mean.  It's a beautiful part of life; I know that.  I am a woman. It's just that it makes my new office space even smaller.  Perhaps I should just get a shopping cart (they seem to be easy to acquire…I see many unfortunate homeless people with them) and put my displaced name plaque on that, along with my former personal stuff from the desk I used to have and buy one of those bean bag lap desks from Bed, Bath and Beyond to do my work on.  Do you sense a note of sarcasm in that former run-on sentence?  Well, don't, because just the thought of the lap desk with my new IPAD sitting upon it brings my spirits up.  Oddly enough, I seem to have acquired two name plaques (there’s the duality thing again) but no real office to place them on.  AHA!  I will use them as front and back license plates for my shopping cart…J!

And now, in summary, to sum up this blog entry, I will summarize some reflections I have about 2010…

Ten Things from 2010 I want to remember that make me happy:

1.    My older daughter got married and had the most amazing wedding and was featured on the TLC wedding show, Four Weddings.

2.    My younger daughter got into grad school and is pursuing a new career.

3.    I have a wonderful son-in-law. 

4.    My mother moved in and she fits in, very nicely, thank you very much, who is going to be 88 this year...double eights...duality!

5.    I dyed my hair red and I get compliments about it not only from my friends and family but also from random strangers like that lady on the subway and the man who was staring at me in the elevator.

6.    My stock investment in my company quadrupled when we were acquired. 

7.    I got the most adorable little puppy. 

8.    I got a brand new front-loading washer and dryer and two flat screen HDTVs, finally. 

9.    I am a writer because I completed my first blog and people actually read it and like it and I started a new blog. 

10. I got an IPAD and I’m learning how to use it.  

Ten Things from 2010 that make me sad, I just simply don’t understand, or need further explanation:

1.    My older daughter was hospitalized six times- and had to have major liver surgery.

2.    My beloved dog, Coco, passed away from a brain tumor.

3.    I spent most of the money I earned from my stock investment.

4.    I still have to pay capital gains on the money I earned from my stock investment.

5.    I don’t understand why Snooki Polizzi is famous and has a book published. 

6.    I don’t understand why Mike “The Situation” from the same dumb show as Snooki Polizzi was picked for Dancing With the Stars when he obviously is extremely pigeon-toed and can barely walk correctly, let alone dance correctly. 

7.    I don’t understand why the economy is still in really bad shape and if the out of work people do ever get jobs, how are they going to have enough money to get to them when gas and public transportation prices keep rising?

8.    Explain to me why Oprah has to end her show before I get my book published and before I get a chance to be on her show. 

9.    Explain to me why, exactly, my daughter’s wedding did not win on Four Weddings, when everyone says she should have won and she really had the best wedding.

10. Explain to me why, exactly, I can’t have my own desk in the new office space.

I am ready for 2011, for it’s duality, to be 55!  I am ready.  I am not going to make any pointless New Year’s resolutions because they’re pointless.  I will just set goals…like- I am going to continue to live into the second half of my century!  I am going to rejoin Planet Fitness and go three times a week!  I am going to continue writing my new blog!  I am going to find a way to publish my first blog and make it a book!  I am going to be an expert IPAD-der!  I am going to get my own desk …somewhere!

And if, I ever find out the winning numbers to that $242 Mega Millions jackpot and I won, I’m still going to do everything I just mentioned above, except, maybe I’ll have two desks…. in the name of duality.

Happy New Year.  Here’s to reaching goals in 2011.