Where have all those Nigerian school girls gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all those young girls gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all those young girls gone?
Gone to death and slavery, ev’ry one.
When we will ever learn?
When we will ever learn?
I envy snakes. They shed their skins every year (or so).
Sidebar: I have no idea about timing, but I know that some snakes molt at some point in their life spans because I took enough science courses to meet the prerequisites to graduate from college.
Sider-bar: I will confess to taking “Holes and Poles” (Human Sexuality) and “Oceans” (Oceanography) and, for the latter, doing a project called, “Songs, Jokes and Catch of the Sea,” where I played sea shanties, served the professor a gourmet lobster meal (purchased from a fancy restaurant) and, while he was dining (linen napkin and all), I told him jokes related to water.
Sidest-bar: As disgraceful as it is, it would be more disgraceful if I hadn’t been graduated from college and then my parents’ hard-earned money would have seemed like even more of a waste.
SIDEBAR uber alles: Are you rethinking the importance of an Ivy League education?
[Oh, dear, I even digressed from sidebars!!!! It will get worse, still, I promise.]
Snakes don’t get younger. Their skins just lose the scars and damage of the year’s mistakes, fights and punishments.
And the snakes begin again.
Older, and
maybe wiser, and
surely as venomous or constrictive as the year before, but
certainly, EXFOLIATED.
And, when my skin is exfoliated (and, ok, throw in a collagen treatment, just for grins), well, there is NOTHING that this 50 year-old can’t do. (Except afford the next facial.) And I can dust myself off and try again to be all I could be.
Ok, some boys and girls won’t understand this. But, those who do, and YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, know that I am right on this.
Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined the immense joy in seeing my nephews happy and proud. Never did I think I would have a child, much less adore him, warts and all.
Never did I imagine that I had warts. (Ok, we ALL grow up.)
Never did I imagine that my brother-in-law would be my brother, too. Or that my sister-in-law, 7 years my junior, would evoke such respect, love and awe for her “male management” in the Shap Shack. [I wish we were closer in geography, time and heart.]
Or that my brother and I, sometimes so diametrically opposed yet so alike in manner, in humor and in comic timing, would sit companionably at a table where he and my son were feasting on pork in a Jewish home.
Or that my brother’s son would come north and share sleep away camp with my son, his cousin.
These are the gifts of family. Gifts of age. And, with age, the gift of perspective.
But most important, these are, yes, the gifts that make life beautiful and bountiful and safe.
The gifts that wait for us to grow, change, reject what was, and then, coming full circle, accept what was and, as a consequence, what is.
And the gifts for which, even in the moments of sorting out the affairs of the living and the dead (and those hovering in between), I am grateful. Because it means that SOB, BOB and I will have each other. And, that, in bad times, in desperate times, in unfair times, we can rely on each other.
Because no matter how far off any of us travels, or how bad things get, there is, at long last, the ties that bind. The door that is wide open. Even more important, the loving arms that beckon us into a secure embrace.
And that makes life, indeed, beautiful and full.
[P.S.: I rented a Texas-size car for visiting day at camp. Just in case SOB and HOSOB want to join the road trip.]
I have been pretty overwhelmed by life and responsibility.
Then, as if from on high (ok, via cell phone), comes a booming voice:
“I read your blogs. I have a few comments: Schmuck, you are 50. Count them, I will wait. [No waiting time] Ok, I will bottom-line it for you. 50 years old. Are you going to spend the next decade in the dumps? Because your father will live that long. You know he will —”
“But,” trying to get in a word, “there was AROB and ULOB and —-“
“Done. They are gone. It is hard to clean up after people who are dead. But you are not hurting them by selling their stuff and doing whatever you have to do. It is a job.”
Pause. I am trying hard not to shriek, “You don’t f&^*ing understand! It has been toooooo much these past two years!!!” But I didn’t.
I did seethe, however. And think about my martyrdom. I felt sooooo self-righteous. And then I remembered I was Jewish and there is no sainthood.
And, then, I thought: Really, [Blogger]? Are you kidding me?
Martyrdom?
MARTYRDOM?
MARTYRDOM?
Do ya read the newspapers? [NOW, I am calling myself, schmuck.]
I stopped. Mostly because I exhausted myself, even without uttering a word. And, I was letting stuff get me down which, if I stopped for a little perspective, is hard but so life-affirming. I was getting stuck in a quagmire of details and legal issues and I forgot to be grateful for the lives my elders lived and my part in making those lives happy and secure at the most vulnerable times.
But, perspective can be tiresome and short-lived, especially if one is a self-indulgent, overly-consumptive New Yorker. (Oops, that would be I.)
Still, even I couldn’t shake the idea that I need to think differently about a situation that isn’t going to change (until the BIG change). Saturday was such a sunny beautiful day that it was hard to feel sad.
I decided walking to Dad’s house for lunch (at the you-know-where) was just the thing to put me in a good mood.
I walked the three or so miles there, through the city streets and Central Park.
It didn’t start out so well.
I heard a woman ranting at her boyfriend (possibly fiancé) about how much money he gives to his dead-beat dad. The man didn’t even utter a word. She just kept on responding to his unspoken answers.
I wanted to scream. Oh, please, shut up. Did you ask what he gets out of it and what pain he avoids by doing this, even though you say he doesn’t want to give his dad money?
I heard two joggers disagree about whether helmets save lives.
Ok, thought for the day: it may or it may not, but what the hell, wear it. I couldn’t hurt.
OK, this walk in the Park thing is — how shall I say it — no walk in the park.
Then, I heard one biker, who apparently had been cut off by another biker, yell, “Youw mothah is a man!!!” [English translation: your mother is quite unattractive.]
So unexpected in a City where, in fact, his mother could have transitioned from, or to, a man. Such a throwback comment, ripped right from the urban playground where we born-and-bred New Yorkers cut our teeth in the 1960s and 70s.
I don’t know why, but I laughed so hard. Maybe because it was a different kind of nostalgia — ludicrous one and so out-dated. And the laughter made the sun felt brighter and warmer. And I hummed all the way to Dad’s house, even skipping a little.
I think I will try to walk to Dad’s as many times as I can.
I am a pop-culture idiot.
Early on in college, when the Soviet Union existed and the Cold War was the only threat we knew, my friends assumed that I was a Soviet spy.
Not because I spoke Russian when drunk, or could take down a lascivious frat boy with one hand as I drank beer with the other. No, no James Bond movie scenario.
The reason was rather simple: the lapses in my pop-culture knowledge could be attributable only to the lack of social osmosis that occurs naturally with kids growing up in the United States.
Ergo, I grew up in an opposite environment. Ahhhh, the Soviet Union. Somewhere between the truth and the propaganda lies the truth. And painful disparities on so many levels between how we grew up here and how our peers grew up in many countries within CCCP.
So, the facts that I even know about Throw Back Thursday and know that there is even a hashtag #tbt ARE SO BIG.
And it gives me a chance to show off my beautiful mom and handsome dad and adorable siblings when life was more simple.
And my pop-culture prowess. Because I know hashtags (thank you Janet2).
Dear Mom:
So I have moved 50 times ’round the seasons.
And my dreams have lost some grandeur coming true.
There were new dreams along the way. Some of them still matter; some were fantasies of youthful exuberance and abject cluelessness.
I am not scared of growing older. (Ok, I am not happy with droopy eyelids you gave me.)
And now I drag my feet to slow down time (or the circles, to keep the Joni Mitchell motif). Really, to hold onto to the stories and memories of you, Dad and the older generation. I look at the old pictures to remind me of the people who made me (for better or worse) the person I am today. Those fallible, lovable and wildly eccentric (ok, our family once was poor, so I think we only qualify as “crazy”) people.
I am starting to forget some of the stories. Dad has forgotten almost everything. I can’t lose you any more than I already have. And I need room to experience and remember the joys of your grandchildren, all three wonderful boys, and especially my little guy, SOS.
Years ago, when I imagined turning 50, I thought I would have security, maturity and direction in life. And I fully expected that you would be telling me the story about my birth, as you always did. Life doesn’t conform to expectations; they are really hopes and desires locked into a time and place.
Even though life at 50 is nothing as I expected, I feel lucky looking in my rear-view mirror and I am (cautiously) hopeful about the road ahead.
Ok, maybe I am scared a little about the road ahead. I have to remember that I am strong and the road these past years hasn’t been a cake walk and I am still standing. And I have to draw on the memories of those who made me strong without wallowing in the past.
But it is hard when you, my biggest cheerleader, are gone. And sometimes, late at night, when the world is too much with me, I need a guiding hand, a loving voice, and my Mom who had lived through so much, quieting my fears. I try to imagine you. It doesn’t always work.
Tonight, we had a pre-birthday dinner. SOB and I fought over the check. (Could you tell her to let me win just a few times?) SOB and I told the stories you would have told about SOB’s birth, BOB’s birth and my birth on our birthdays. The same stories, over and over again. And they get better with each telling.
One of the best stories concerns SOB’s birth. Aunt Gertie, who had three sons, waited until you opened your eyes to storm into your hospital room and screeched at Uncle Leon [Dad’s brother], “See, Natie could give Elsie a girl!!” Mom, you always said that was the most painful part of childbirth.
Have I mentioned recently how much you would have loved and adored HOSOB? Such a pity you never met. And I know you would be so happy that Cousin Gentle rounds out the crew. I know, I know, why can’t Dallas be closer to New York? You tell me, Mom. You are as close as they get to the Big Guy. Ask Him to work on plate tectonics or something. See what you can do.
Mom, you are the missing person at every gathering, every simcha and every sad time. And I miss your warm hand always reaching out to hold SOB’s or BOB’s or mine. Even at the end, you always reached for us.
And we still reach back, hoping you feel us across the great divide.
I love you forever, Mom.
~ Blogger
I have news for you, Forrest Gump and your mama, life is only a box of chocolates for so long, and then it becomes a mine field.
A mine field. And, still, you never know what you are going to get.
Which is scarier than when the box was really filled with chocolates.
With age, comes crazy issues. Some older people have an aversion to the sensation of water on their bodies. They must be reminded to shower. Others, who were meticulously responsible accumulators of wealth fall prey to scams promising easy money. And, sometimes, even choices on a menu are too daunting.
There is an art — which I have not learned — to coaxing an older person to the right decisions. And there are right decisions — yes to shower, no to scams.
There is also a way to guide the choice for lunch while still letting them be in control. SOB is great at it. I am — um — impatient.
“So, you will have the turkey club for a change of pace. And fries, because they taste good.”
“Are you sure about the fries?”
“Absolutely, Dad. Besides, look around at the rest us hungry people. We will be happy to snarf your fries. You brought antacids, right?”
BOB, SOB and I often discussed various ways of dealing with these issues without making Dad feel that he isn’t as “independent” or in charge as we try make him feel.
It is a tough brew. The main ingredient is love, cut by family meshugas, simmered to sheer impatience, then mixed with wanting-to-fix-everything, followed by a dash of why-can’t-things-be-the-same-as-20-years-ago, drizzled with a fine reduction of resolution and understanding. Served at room temperature.
A complicated stew, indeed. When served, it looks way better than I cut a brisket.
But careful of the exploding ordnances along the way.
I bought an external something-or-other drive for my computer. It was about time that I backed up iPhoto and iTunes, having crashed my computer a few times.
There is, of course, an app for this. Time Machine. And my external whatever drive has 2 TBs of memory. That means gigabytes on steroids. Or so I think that that is what it means.
And I have lots of photographs and days of music.
I had been meaning to get one for a long time, but kept forgetting. That other memory thing.
Pictures are more important to me now that my generation is the keeper of all the memories of the prior generations. But pictures are not the memories. They evoke the stories that keep the memories of people, and their insane characters, alive. And the pictures won’t matter when I don’t recognize the people or remember the stories behind them.
And the eleven days of music in my iTunes library won’t matter unless they evoke the emotions and memories that make the music meaningful to me.
If I stick the USB connector in my ear, will this amp’ed up drive store my memories? Will it remember the stories behind the pictures or the identities of the faces for which I was too lazy to run the face recognition software? Will it remind me to cry when I hear Jim Croce’s Photographs and Memories?
So, while I finally remembered to buy the drive, it isn’t all I need. I need to store my memories. And, that is what computers cannot do.
Yet.
I am willing to believe that there will, in fact, be an app for this, some time in the future. As long as the hook-in site is any orifice above the waist, I am good.
Hurry, please.
For those missing my episode of rare charity and kindness, see http://40andoverblog.com/?p=5836
I am so better at being smug.
Well, Niki, the man whose wallet I returned, sent me the Book of Mormon, with a passage of scripture marked for me.
SIDEBAR: Not show tickets, all you incredibly parochial urbane people, but the Mormon Testament.
Niki seemed a little too clueless for New York. Did he know I was a New York Jewish lesbian? I don’t think he was proselytizing to me. I think he sent the Book and the quotation as a genuine thank-you, in his belief system. And I welcomed the gift that way.
And I remember a time when I was easy to trash other religions, belief systems, etc. And I hurt people. Because I was parochial and naive and egocentric. In fact, I remember the precise moment at College when I offended someone from Utah, through my ass-hole-ish intolerance and regurgitation of stupid judgments I had heard in my young life.
This was my moment. I can’t undo what I was. But I can be better. And, somewhere this religious conscientious observer found grace through Niki’s rather powerful expression of the kind and charitable person he thought I was. But I am not that person, as the following will show. I sent the following message to Niki:
“Niki:
Thank you for your incredibly thoughtful gift and kind words. I don’t ever need to be thanked for doing the right thing. Simply because it is the right thing. We are all accountable for what we do, whether to G-d or each other. There is a Hebrew prayer that, in modern translation, means “let me live my days so that fear or guilt does not haunt my sleep at night.” I found that meditation quite powerful, although I must admit I do not always live up to it.
Although I am Jewish, I have often meditated on the passage in Corinthians, which is akin to your passage:
4Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, 5Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; 6Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; 7Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
8Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. 9For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. 10But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. 11When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. 12For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. 13And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.
But, really, “do justice, love mercy and walk humbly”, is a common ground for all of our faiths.
So, I did what I did because I could not do otherwise. No thanks. Just humanity.
I hope all good things for you and your family. [Blogger]”
Now that I read it over now, I think, did I have to mention so many times that I am Jewish? Or did I need that passage from the Hebrew Bible about humbly walking with G-d? Did I have to mention (in a smirk-y way) how close the Mormon passage is to the other Christian Bible?
In the guise of “common ground,” I pointed out the differences, and missed the basic message. And missed an opportunity to reach across a divide. Instead I demarcated ever more profoundly the De-Militarized Zone that separates us.
Ok, simply? I am a schmuck (in the figurative sense of the word).
When will I ever learn? And worse, yet, am I passing it on to SOS??
At the Passover Seder, brisket is served, because:
Dad likes a thinly sliced and lean brisket. I like thick slices of the marbled cut, so it is moist but not fatty.
SIDEBAR: Also? I cannot cut brisket in thin slices. I suck at it.
Dad is quite forgetful nowadays; yet, he is capable of moments of startling clarity. Especially concerning the cut and the slicing of the brisket.
In the run up to the Seder, Dad instructed me any number of times about how my slicing is too thick (dare he say, in-elegant? (yes, yes, he dared)) and that the meat was not lean enough.
SIDEBAR: Tell it to the poor grass fed cow who guest-starred at dinner.
When it came to the stressful moment when I had to cut the brisket, my hands were shaking. And, as the meat crumbled under my slicing, I was almost in tears that Dad would notice the disastrous cutting of the brisket more than anything else about Seder.
Seder seemed to go well. Dad ate his fill and was in a good, if disconnected, mood.
I spoke to him this afternoon. As he complimented me on my leading of the discussion about the Exodus from Egypt, he also mentioned the “crazy style of food” at Seder.
My heart sank. I couldn’t hold it in.
“Daddy, I am so sorry about the crumbly brisket and the thick slices. I just can’t cut it the way you do!”
“Well, darling, why didn’t you ask me to cut the brisket? I would have been happy to.”
UH OH. It is a delicate balance: elegant brisket AND a deranged old man with a knife or safety and not so pretty brisket. I know, it is a toss up.
“Dad, let’s discuss this next year, ok?”
“Ok, darling, but it will look and taste a lot better . . . .”
And so we add another prayer to our Seder:
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu melech ha’alom, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav vitsivanu al slicing of the brisket.
Blessed is G-d, Sovereign of the Universe, Who hallows our lives through commandments and Who has commanded us regarding the slicing of the brisket.
Happy holidays.