Twas the day before Passover, and all through the house. . .

Posted on April 17, 2011 by 40andover

It is really the day before the eve of the holiday (because we celebrate holidays from sunset to sunset) but every creature was stirring. Heck, 15 people are coming over.

POB (partner of blogger) made a vat of chicken soup. She rendered chicken fat which, if you’ve done it, you know that is a disgusting necessity for light, floating matzo balls. The whole house smells like a barn. And while we are talking about matzo balls, I need to note for the record that the Blogger family tradition is that matzo balls sink, not float. Their intended purpose — so say those in my tribe — is to line your stomach for the coming week of no bread and also give you a reason to complain about intestinal issues, e.g., (in a Yiddish accent) “I ate such a heavy matzo ball that it is cement in my stomach, and boy-oh-boy, have I got troubles getting anything out!!”. However unpleasant, it is my inheritance.

But MOPOB (mother of POB), may she rest in peace, made floating matzo balls. And since Passover is all about MOPOB (my mother’s memory is invoked on Thanksgiving), we “sinkers” just sigh and “boing” the matzo balls with our figures, wondering if, with a little push, they might sink. No such luck these past few years. So part of our Passover narrative (“and you shall tell your children on that day . . . “) also includes the sinker-floater dichotomy, because as surely as there were Israelites on the shore of the Red Sea, they were also arguing about whose matzo was better. So, it is just in keeping with the tradition. So I shall tell my child that “on that day” there were no floaters in the land of Egypt. Ok, that isn’t fair because there weren’t sinkers either. There wasn’t matzo ball soup. But history is written by the conquerors and vanquished loud-mouths. I can live with being in the latter category on the matzo ball issue.

Those of you who aren’t Jewish may not appreciate that importance of this. This is a divide that can splinter families. We are talking about our grandmothers’ and great grandmothers’ recipes. We are talking about the overbearing, tyrannical beings that, upon death, miraculously turned into angels in everyone’s memories. We are talking about tradition. [Start singing from Fiddler on the Roof.] This is big.

But MOPOB’s traditions must prevail. She was terminally ill at our first Seder in our home in 2006. She pronounced herself satisfied with the celebration — a high compliment and tantamount to a blessing on our home and us — and then, within 36 hours was hospitalized and soon died. You can’t mess with that heavy trip.

I needed chairs and an extra table from my Dad. We had lunch and then went down to the storage bins in his apartment building. Dad is looking great these days, although slower since his fall two weeks ago. Still he grabbed the hand truck at the entrance to this scary storage room in the bowels of his apartment building. Only one light worked. He and I were feeling around in the dark for his folding table and chairs. We found them and managed not to fall or otherwise hurt either of us. Every year we go through this ritual and I make a note to self to remind the doorman about the lighting. Every year, Dad and I forget. Every year, we grope in the dark until we find what we need. So far, it has worked for us. Tradition.

Tradition.

Tradition.

Remembrances of things past

Posted on April 14, 2011 by 40andover

TLP (the little prince, my son) checked out a library book on fishing. We had to read about each fish, length, weight, best bait and whether the species would put up a fight. Also we had to go through the various baits (it WAS a how-to book, after all) and the only thing I could add was when we got to fly fishing. I told him we could go on the Orville’s Fly Fishing School website (I silently prayed it had not gone into Chapter 11 or dissolved).

When it came time for me to read about a fish that was a pesky fighter, I recounted my family’s trip to San Francisco, circa 1968. Mom and Dad took us to eat at the Fisherman’s Wharf, which — at that time — was an exotic dining destination. My parents were dressed in evening wear, so I presume that after dinner we were being dropped off at the hotel with a sitter, but I can’t remember. I do remember fishing for our dinner and Dad’s having caught a pesky, fighting fish that flailed in and out of his tuxedo jacket. Mom and Dad must have eaten that fish (I think we kids stayed with hamburgers).

That was the first and last time we went fishing with Dad or anyone. Too traumatic. If TLP wants to go fishing, Uncle HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) or Cousin Gentle will have to take him. Thinking back 43 years ago, I am still traumatized.

Life as seen by blogger

Posted on March 28, 2011 by 40andover

Maybe you will understand a little more about the inner-working of my psyche after you read the following:

SOB (sister of blogger) and I planned to meet at the gym this evening, where we would silently and companionably exercise on adjacent machines, with me perspiring and her, not so much. Per the plan, she would hand off some necessary documents to wind up my mother’s estate, thereby completing a highly-charged emotional task in the middle of sweating, grunting people. Precisely the juxtaposition that would humor Mom z”l.

Then a received a message at the office from my secretary. “[SOB] called. Nothing urgent.”

I called her back, thinking she was calling to bail on the gym part and set up another rendezvous of the document transfer.

She answered, “Hello?”

I gave my usual “Hellooooooooooooooooooooooooo” response.

Pause. “I’m here with Dad.” Pause.

Already, I am having visions of the ER and heart trauma, because SOB doesn’t just drop by Dad’s in the middle of her ICU work day. My heart sank. So this is what she means by nothing urgent?

“He looks ok. He fell on the street and landed on the right side of his face. But he’ll be fine.” In fact, my dad at 90.5 years-old is agile and still has some awesome Fred Astaire moves. But still, he FELL.

She handed the phone to Dad.

“Dad, are you ok? Are you still at the ER? Did you get stitches?”

“No stitches. [SOB] thinks I look ok.”

“Dad, give the phone back to [SOB].”

“You mean a real doctor didn’t look at him?” I asked SOB.

“Oh, you mean like a juris doctor, like you?” Ok ok ok ok ok ok. She had a point.

Dad was checked out and he is fine. He just has one really bad bruised, swollen eye, made worse by his heart medication that thins the blood. He fell but he got back up which is the best part.

SOB has a way of sugar-coating things, so as not to unduly alarm people. But, SOB and I are a team and we need to deal with family issues together.

“Really, don’t come,” SOB continued, “Dad made me take a picture so you would feel like you were here.”

“Wait, Dad wants to tell you something.”

“Yes, Dad?”

“How much do you pay for your eye glasses?”

“why?”

“Because my $35 glasses didn’t break or cut me and I bet your fancy $400 glasses wouldn’t hold up so well. Would you like me to pick up a pair at Costco for you? Just give me your prescription.”

OK, there is nothing wrong with my father. But I didn’t want to tell him that I spend more than $400 on my frames lest THAT give him a heart attack.

Crisis occurred and resolved in 1 hour. Priceless.

Later at the gym, SOB whips out her cellphone and shows me a picture of Dad smiling with a huge bruise and swelling around his eye. “Dad says you’re the family archivist, and this is one ‘for the books,’ so here,” she said.

Dad looked bad — horrible in fact, but he was smiling. I think he was smiling for a lot of reasons, first among them, he is ok. Second, he only had to call and help was immediately dispatched (albeit SOB).

But there is more. He understands that SOB and I have this pact to share the funny, the macabre, the good, and the sad when taking care of our family members. That way, we stay strong. And his insisting on the picture was his way of telling us he understands us. And that he is amused by us, too.

So, bottom line, in two hours, he was fine and glad to be home, resting, with his children nearby. And we get to archive it, laugh and cry about and, best of all, I get to blog a our it.

Dad and me: a living trust

Posted on March 25, 2011 by 40andover

My father is quite extraordinary. He lives by himself at near-91 years-old.

He goes to his sculpture studio, he goes to synagogue, he goes to art classes, and he comes for dinner on Sunday night and sometimes even takes in a museum or movie on a Saturday. (As long as I can remember, Dad lasts about 20 minutes in a museum. Same with movies, unless it is a documentary about death and destruction (financial or otherwise).)

He just needs help with the details sometimes. Wrapping up Mom’s estate is a little too much for him. With everything automated and on the internet, he is a little behind with his paper and pen ledgers. And the paper can pile up.

It is a quirky kind of focus issue. And if his credit card bill is three cents off, he will catch it faster than someone one-quarter his age. And he doesn’t have OMT (old man tipping) Disease. He is a solid 20% man. (I think it goes back to his parents’ having been day laborers. In our house, “never hold a day laborer’s wage until the morning” was as important as any commandment, including the Big Ten.)

So, I think it is more for his comfort and peace of mind that I’m taking a more active role in his affairs. I am honored that my father trusts me, as he does all of his children. I am just the lawyer who lives close by.

I didn’t think about it too much, until yesterday, when we started signing paper work to formalize the arrangement and my eyes started to well up. I excused myself to get composed and as I was walking back in, I heard Dad telling our lawyer, “All my children are fabulous. I am the luckiset guy in the world.” I had to walk out again for another second because those damn tears started coming.

I am good with this new responsibility, just as long as it doesn’t give Dad license to drift away. . . .

Winter

Posted on February 2, 2011 by 40andover

This morning there was a two-inch sheet of ice covering most of Manhattan. I slip and slide on the un-shoveled sidewalks, comfortable in the knowledge that my father, who is over 90 years-old, is too level-headed to go outside. He may be crazy when it comes to other things, and a little “vague” when it comes to yet other things, but about these things, he is a solid guy.

On a regular day, he would have gone to his sculpture studio, all the way down in Chinatown. I call in the afternoon and, as I expected, he was home.

“I am soooo glad that you didn’t go to the studio, Dad.”

“Oh, no, no,” he replied, “not today.”

I think, see, he is a level-headed guy. But he continues:

“I had a check-up at 8:45am near NYU, so I wasn’t planning on going to the studio anyway.”

My voice raised in alarm: “Dad, that was when the ice was the worst!!!”

Dad was reassuring in tone and demeanor, “Sweetheart, the sidewalks were shoveled in front of the doorman buildings. And I only slid about an inch on one of those thick ice patches at a corner.”

THUD. My head crashes to my desk. I lift my head. THUD. My head crashes again. This feels so much better than what I am hearing on the other end of the phone call.

“Do you need me to pick up anything for you for dinner?”

“Oh, no, after I came back from my check-up, I rested, and then I went down to the bagel store and over to the supermarket and bought what I need.”

Ok, my 90+ year-old dad carried groceries over icy streets. He is fine.

He sounded exhilarated, in fact. Maybe because he is 90 years-old and can still take care of himself (on a day-to-day basis, at least).

Me? I have grayer hair. Maybe I am scared because one day he won’t be able to.

Past and Future

Posted on January 17, 2011 by 40andover

So, after someone dies, at some point, you just get on with life. Right? Not so much.

Eight years ago, my mother died. I am less ok with it now than I was, let’s say, two years ago. Time is passing too quickly. Maybe taking care of my Dad’s monthly and business affairs is taking its toll. And he found old slides that I am transferring onto the computer. Some fabulous vintage pictures (and some that so tragically epitomize the 1970s that it is painful to put them in the family album). And I see my mom, at my age, in the 1960s. I look like her. I have some of her traits. Mostly good ones, although the wrinkles are unpleasant.

And then I look to pictures of my family. My young-ish family: my wonderful son and fabulous spouse. A life graced with good fortune and love.

Like most days, I look back with pain, sadness and love, and I look forward with gratitude, hope and love.

But these past days my Mom’s loss has been so present, so palpable, that I wasn’t sure I could breathe. I guess that is the nature of grief: it hits you sometimes lightly, and other times, it lets loose a prizefighter punch. And it makes the highs higher, the lows, lower and the precious moments that Mom missed ever so more poignant.

Love endures. Loss sucks, no matter how many years it has been.

Bringing in the Joni [Mitchell]

Posted on December 13, 2010 by 40andover

It is that time of year again, when the days get darker and the weather colder. And the despair. Same despair as every year since 2002 when Mom started down that slippery slope to the end of her life. The dark days, my sister and I call them.

Dear Mom:

We moved eight times ’round the seasons since you died. We have rode those stupid, stinking, painted ponies eight times ’round the carousel of time. And still, tears well up in both your daughters’ eyes just thinking about the fact that you are gone.

We have a lovely party for Dad’s 90th birthday. We tried to keep the photo montage balanced so it wouldn’t be a shrine to you. Your eldest (SOB, to my blogging friends) was strong and held me back. We had to remember (ok, I had to remember) that we needed to be all about Dad that day, even though somehow being all about Dad means being all about you, too.

SOB tries to think that these past years allowed us to get to know Dad and allowed him to shine. That is true. He is a wonderful, kind and generous man. (Ok, generous in spirit, and in his gifts to his family, but on a day-to-day basis, a person needs a crowbar to open up his wallet.) And don’t let those years of his croaking out notes on the saxophone fool you, he is a maestro when it comes to pushing our buttons in a tour de force — a veritable Liberace, but without the candelabra, crazy outfits or the ookiness. But, he is aging more quickly these days. And he will forever be lost without you. As are we all to some extent.

Your grandchildren are fabulous young men. BOB’s (brother of blogger’s) elder son asked us recently, “what do you remember most about Mamaw?” I could see SOB’s eyes welling up. Mine were, too. I think we were caught off-guard by the question. We were sitting at the dining room table — your table — and we were so awed by our nephew’s desire to know more about his grandmother. Sometimes my son asks, “what would grandma say?” in a given situation. I do my best imitation although I am scared that I can’t summon up your voice as well any more.

We’ve lost a fair amount of family since we lost you — Ricky, Uncle Billy, POB’s (partner of blogger’s) mom, Rudy and Yvette, among others. Rudy and Yvette needed me and I hope I made you proud by my actions. We have had some notable additions. SOB now has HOSOB (husband of SOB) who is fabulous and loves the family (who could have imagined?). He made latkes for Hanukah. I think he thinks that there is a special “conversion by cooking” clause in Judaism. I keep telling him he has to dunk in the dirty water in the mikvah. He is already practicing his aliyah for SOPOBAB’s (son of POB and blogger’s) Bar Mitzvah. You would adore him. He makes SOB laugh and smile in a way that makes me wish you could just come back — for just a moment — and see the smile on her face and the look in her eyes and know that SOB is happy and in love.

Also Cousin Gentle has joined our nuclear family pod. It is so good to have the New York City contingent around our table on a Sunday night, eating, laughing, reminiscing and creating new memories. You should have seen all the boys (and I am including Dad and POB’s father) around the train set that SOPOBAB got as a present. Some moments are priceless and you want to freeze them in time.

Maybe there is a Heaven and you are there and see everything. I know you never believed in it (“when you’re dead, you’re dead” you often said), but I cannot accept that there is a black hole in the world where your heart and soul once were. You cannot have dissipated into the air.

Sometimes, your death gives me strength. If I could get through that, I could get through almost anything that happens in a given day. The economy has been hard these past years and I worry sometimes (ok, most of the time), but your life and death have given me a perspective that keeps me sane (mostly sane).

One last thing I wish you could help me navigate. Matzah balls are supposed to sink; POB’s float (whoever heard of such a thing). I know she cooks the Passover meal and it is her mother’s recipe and Passover is all about her mother (z”l) — as it should be, but when do you think I can start negotiating for the sinkers again?

I love you, Mom.

~ Blogger

Being sick

Posted on December 11, 2010 by 40andover

It is Saturday, and I am really sick and in bed. This time what-ever-ails-me is in my chest, my throat and my ears.

At one point, I thought I was febrile and delusional because I kept thinking there were men on scaffolds outside one window of my bedroom and large pieces of rock being hoisted outside another window. In fact, POB (partner of blogger) confirmed that I may be crazy but I am not delusional (dontcha love her?) because indeed all of this is happening while I need quiet to rest and repair. (I also note that those hoisting the large rocks to our building’s roof don’t seem to care about the damage if any to the sides of the building because those slabs nearly knocked out our air conditioning unit.)

POB and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) have gone to Hebrew School and then a party of one of SOPOBAB’s classmates. I am too sick to join them (and I really don’t want to share my germs). Assuming I feel ok and the antibiotics kick in, we are all supposed to meet at SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB’s (husband of SOB’s) home for the 11 day of Hannukah. (Ok, we could not get it together earlier to have a family Hannukah party during Hannukah.) So, a little Festivus, a little Hannukah, a little food.

What could be bad? Well I am glad you asked.

First, HOSOB is making the latkes. That would be lovely, except that he doesn’t really cook. Also, since he is not Jewish, he wants it to be really authentic, which means all the advances we have made in making latkes less artery-occluding are out the window. This old-style, with schmaltz. My mouth is watering, but my heart valves are scared.

Second, HOSOB is inviting some of his friends. That’s fine, we love other bird nerds. Especially, SOPOBAB, who is a Bird Nerd, Jr. Except one of the guests is Japanese, which will mean my father will talk about his living in Japan during the Korean War (almost 60 years ago) and proceed to say, “Hai!! Muskudeska?!!” He doesn’t know what he is saying and we don’t know what he is saying. And one can mangle a language so it comes out meaning something offensive. Also, highlighting old wars just can’t be good cocktail conversation. Assuming HOSOB’s friend is not offended, and responds, Dad wouldn’t understand.

Third, Cousin Gentle who is single, will be there. HOSOB has invited someone who is single and there may be a shitach (a “match”). The problem for me, as keeper of the family archives, is that there will be pictures taken, additions to the archives and this lovely woman will need more of a footnote than iPhoto allows when things take a southerly direction (we have had this issue come up with other of Cousin Gentle’s girlfriends).

Fourth, I may be too sick to go. And I love my family. SOB and I need each other to brave our dad’s pushing our every button like a maestro at his instrument of choice, as a way of sister-bonding.

I’ll let you know what happens. Now time for a nap.

Carly Simon and music-to-fling-yourself-out-the-window-by

Posted on November 21, 2010 by 40andover

Dear Mom:

These days have been rough with Dad. Your mind was strong and your body was weak; his body is strong but his mind is fraying around the edges. After a day insulating him from predators, I had to listen to Carly Simon, about life being eternal and love being immortal. And then I had to self-torture more with her song about the death of her mother. Not satisfied with this self-flagellation, I had to listen to Joni Mitchell sing the Circle Game. Then, I had to go back to Carly and listen to Anticipation. You get the gist of my emotional day.

Dad is in good hands, I promise. We are protecting him. He is relieved and grateful for us. I said to him, “Remember when you said to me once, when the world was too much with me, ‘take my hand and you will be safe’ as we walked to the all night pharmacy so I could get some sedation and sleep?” He said, “yes,” although I am not sure he did. So I said, “Dad, you take my hand or you run to my office and we will protect you. It is our turn now.”

The circle is complete. Dad has to hang around until 120 because that is how old G-d let Moses live and he has to balance out your dying at 76.

I don’t care how crazy or forgetful he gets. He needs to be in the world. And you know how he pushes ALL my buttons and makes me crazy. And I lose patience. And he knows that I love him and SOB (sister of blogger) loves him and BOB (brother of blogger) and POB (partner of blogger) and WOBOB (wife of BOB) and his grandchildren and his nephews and nieces and friends all love him. And he is not alone. And never will be.

I miss you more than you can know, Mom. It would be great if you could do something about the START treaty and the DREAM Act. Also, whisper in Sarah Palin’s ear that she should stay a reality TV star. Given the day, I know I will see you in my dreams.

~Blogger

A Great Party

Posted on October 10, 2010 by 40andover

Our dad’s 90th birthday party was a wonderful success. It was a beautiful day and the party was in a greenhouse with an outdoor space.

One of my dad’s friends spoke about meeting Dad in 1943 when Dad was a corporal and his friend was a private. They re-met during the Korean War (my father almost ran him over in Tokyo) and then at dental school and have been friends for 67 years. I can’t imagine knowing someone for that long who could still say wonderful things about me. Crazy.

Lots of relatives or people who are relatives just by longevity. Follow me on this one. My aunt, my mother and Blossom (among others) were sorority sisters at college in the 1940s. (My aunt was dating my uncle and introduced my mother to her boyfriend’s brother (my dad) but that is another story for another blog entry). Blossom married my aunt’s cousin whom she divorced. (That cousin was there with his wife, even though they are not technically related either, but longevity is more important than blood anyway.) Blossom then married Aaron. Blossom died and Aaron married Marjorie. The first time POB (partner of blogger) and I met Marjorie was at a cousin’s bar mitzvah. But Marjorie must have been part of the family in another life, because she had no boundaries from the start. POB was pregnant and Marjorie turned to her and said, “Known donor or unknown donor?”. POB, having been raised in a good home and not quite used to direct, personal questions from near-strangers was so shocked that she actually answered. I then turned to POB and said, “well, now that Marjorie knows, don’t you think we ought to tell our parents?” So a person married to someone who married into the family who was married to someone who was no longer married into the family asserted family privilege to ask any question that came to mind, without filter. I love this family.

My cousins — Dad’s nieces and nephews — talked about things they remembered about Dad from when they were kids in the 1940s and 1950s. Cousin Gentle (from prior blogs) talked about how Dad gave tickets to a ball game to his father (my Uncle Dave) so Uncle Dave could take Cousin Gentle to a ball game. It turns out it was Don Larsen’s 1952 World Series perfect game. Still the only ball game that Cousin Gentle has ever attended.

Another cousin talked about Dad’s teaching her to build card houses, and another talked about Dad’s taking him to the Opera. All of them talked about the beautiful things he brought home for each of his nieces and nephews from Japan after the Korean War. They remembered him as someone interested in them and kind and gentle. It was really touching to hear new things about my Dad and hear the love expressed in those memories.

One cousin started talking about the meaning of family and how he is a trust and estates lawyer (I had to stop him from taking the opportunity for self-advertisement) and how he has seen families fight and disinherit each other. He started to go off on a tangent and get a little worked up, without an end in sight. SOB (sister of blogger) gave me a sign that I had to intervene, so I got up, went over to my cousin and took the microphone away and offered it to the next cousin who wanted to speak, in age order. Cousin Gentle and SOB now call me “Hook” because I pulled that act off the stage.

SOB talked about the first night she was an intern and was in the hospital all night and was scared and overwhelmed. At about 3am, she got a page. It was Dad, wanting to make sure she was alive. She never forgot that and it helped her through that rest of that night’s torture.

Then BOB (brother of blogger) talked beautifully about how Dad is a role model for being a good husband and father and how special it was that Dad was his best man at his wedding. BOB is not usually that emotional, introspective or even talkative around us. I was so moved. But the moment was over like a shooting star flaming out, so all returned like a flash to status quo ante. But for the moment, there was kumbaya in the air, as if it were being sung for the first time.

My dad is such a sweet, and humble man. When it came time for the cake, he thanked everyone for coming and said how fortunate he was to be surrounded by friends and family and he was grateful to everyone for being there and for their kind words. The cousin from whom I had to yank the microphone said in a stage whisper (really a stage SHOUT), “what, that is all he is going to say?” Aaaaargh. My dad said it all in a few words and did so with grace and humility. Dear Cousin, a lesson might be learned here.

We had the quintessential Jewish goodbye — we all said goodbye but didn’t leave. In fact, I must have said goodbye three or four times to the same people. The rule is if there is more than a half-hour between goodbye kiss and departure, you have to start over again. I don’t know the provenance of the rule, but it caused the goodbyes to go on for almost 2 hours. Also, it probably didn’t help that we had pictures from 1920 to the present out on a table by the door so people starting reminiscing anew as they were leaving. Some of the older folk sat down in comfy chairs to nap a little while they waited for the rest of their group to finish. I wish I had pictures of that.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: Fathers