Category Archives: family

More tales from the City

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These past days, I have been lost in the old days and vignettes from childhood.

I remember that my parents often threw cocktail parties for my mother’s colleagues in the advertising and cosmetics industries.  My mother knew everyone’s cigarette preferences and she filled silver cases with the preferred brands and laid them on the coffee table.

And women had those tortoise cigarette holders that made smoking look so cool.

People drank Manhattans, Rob Roys and martinis (gin and very dry) and gimlets.  People drank blended scotch whiskey and Gordon’s gin back then.  I guess there weren’t that many other choices.  Twists of lemon, little onions and olives were in dishes, and there was a bottle (?) of bitters, ready to finish off the drinks.  My parents converted a closet in the foyer into a bar with an open front that faced into the living room.

A hired waiter passed hors d’oeuvres to men in slicked back hair and square hankies in the front pockets of their thin-lapeled suits and women (including Mom) who had Jackie Kennedy hairdos and dresses with shoulder wraps. No one dressed like Lady Bird Johnson.

We would come out in our matching pajamas and say good night.  And then Mom or Dad would tuck us in bed.  As soon as they were out of sight, we would creep back to the closed door closest to the “action” and listen and giggle until we were discovered and sent back to bed.

Only in retrospect, can I place the end of those heady days as around 1968.  I am guessing that it all ended as a result of social upheaval from the 1968 assassinations and the Vietnam War.  And because raising three children in the city was expensive.

Everyone tells me I ought to watch Mad Men.  But I prefer the memories.

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PLaza3-9285

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That was my family phone number for 50 years.

Not 212 753 9285. 

PL3-9285.

PL for PLAZA, meaning midtown east.

My dad’s office phone was JU2-1455.  JU meant Judson for midtown west.  There was MU for Murray Hill, etc. GR for Gramercy Park.  POB (partner of blogger)’s home phone was GR3-9119.

And it wasn’t just a series of numbers, but it located you in area of town.  Like old-fashioned GPS.  Your phone number made you less anonymous.  And you couldn’t take your home or business number with you if you moved across town. Wires and technology couldn’t handle that.  So, if you had a GR or MU or JU or PL number, you lived or worked in a geographically defined area.

And our zip code was 22, not 10022.  In the 1960s, you didn’t need five-digit zip codes, let alone the new nine digit ones.

Of course, some people (very few still alive) remember 6-digit phone numbers. They probably think I am late to the game of recognizing the lost nuances of day-to-day life in New York City.

But, today, I came across my birth announcement, among the memorabilia that I, as family archivist, need to preserve.  And it held more information than the fact of my birth (as a result of which my family was forever changed — some say for the better, others say “not so much”).  It captured a time and place in New York in the 1960s, where my family’s PL prefix in our phone number and our home address reflected upward mobility, into places where Jews mostly couldn’t find apartments.  It also suggest certain life that fashioned after JFK’s Camelot (at least until private school tuition kicked in).

The 60s gave way to the 70s and the urban decay.  Then came the late 70s, 80s and 90s and urban renewal and soaring population growth.  The end of the 20th century and first decade of the 21st gave rise to untold fortunes and a sea change in the socio-economic-racial-cultural urban landscape.

The nuances of numbers and two-digit zip codes were irrelevant and unworkable even in the late 70s.  Every now and again, I see a decades-old advertisement on a building that time forgot (until the lot next to it was demolished to build a high-rise) that has a six-digit phone number with a prefix that refers to a neighborhood.

And I think, I was born in a small town.  I was raised in small town.  It just got big and anonymous during my lifetime.  And these strangers don’t know the secrets of my small town.

And that’s good enough for me.

 

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Carpe Diem

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Tonight SOB (sister of blogger) and I had dinner with our uncle.  He is 81 years-old.  He has been in a slow decline in the last two or so years but able to dance (his life-long passion) and go about his life.

Unfortunately, he has aged rather dramatically in the last month.  So, SOB and I needed to convince him to let us help.  Just when we were bracing ourselves for the image we had, when he walked into the restaurant, the even further downward trajectory was so profound that it was hard not to cry.

He has our aunt, his partner of 60+ years, and he has SOB and me.  There is no one else close by.  (And our aunt has her own medical issues.)

He always said he lived every day as he wanted.  He said he hated going to sleep because he never wanted to end a day.

But living life on his terms and according to his muses often meant that he didn’t show up for his family (his parents or my mother — his sister) in their times of need.

I guess carpe diem means different things to different people.

As SOB and I helped him into our aunt’s apartment building (they have always lived separately), he lurched for the elevator and forgot to look back or kiss us goodbye.

Life on his terms.

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The Sandwich Generation

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The Sandwich Generation doesn’t mean just taking care of your parents while you raise your children.  It means taking care of your parents’ siblings and their spouses, if there aren’t children capable of stepping up.

So, after taking care of our mom, tending to our our dad (still on-going), and my taking care of a childless couple who were surely as much family as any aunt or uncle, SOB (sister of blogger) and I need to focus on Mom’s brother and his non-wife of 60+ years.

We have to tread gently.   At my grandfather’s deathbed, he made me promise that I would take care of my aunt and uncle.  I made a promise.  A solemn oath.  SOB and I knew our responsibilities before Grandpa asked.  But a deathbed oath to a 99  year-old man has a depth and complexity and a moral imperative that cannot be expressed in mere words.

We know what our parents wanted/want for the end of their lives.  They made it as clear as possible.

We need to understand our uncle’s and aunt’s wishes, as they age and grow infirm.

But our aunt and uncle lived life on their terms and we have to learn those terms.  We will also have to learn things about their lives and their unfulfilled aspirations that children and nieces needn’t ever know.  Aside from the medical and logistical realities of failing relatives are the truths of their lives — their yearnings, their losses, their unrequited dreams, their failings and, we hope, their senses of triumph.   But we don’t know where this road leads.

Our goals are simple: maximum comfort and independence, and sense of fulfillment for our aging relatives.  We can strive to provide the first prong.

It is a religious, moral and social compact that binds the generations.  It is our sacred duty, even if the day-to-day makes us crazy (ok, crazier).  I will complain about it, I will always be mindful of, and grateful for, this compact.

 

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Life as seen by Blogger, Part 2

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My Dad is healing from his fight with a New York City sidewalk.  Thank G-d, he was able to get up from his fall.

Of course, as the family archivist, I had to take pictures throughout the course of the healing process.  Dad still looks horrible, but at least his right eye is open and there is but a hairline fracture above his eye.

He came to the office on Wednesday and people were aghast (he comes for coffee at least once a week, and the staff has adopted him as a favorite visitor to the firm).  He looked like he had been in the fight of his life.  And to some degree, a fight with a cement sidewalk at his age is the fight of his life.  My father thanked everyone for their concern and, added as he stood up straight with his shoulders back, “you should have seen the other guy!!”

My Dad and TLP (the little prince) have a very special relationship.  So, Dad was very concerned that we prepare TLP for the discoloration and bruising on Dad’s face.  “I don’t want to scare him,” Dad admonished.  And Dad preferred that we have Sunday brunch at his house instead of Sunday night dinner at ours.  He just doesn’t like the attention from strangers that his injuries draw.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I individually explained to TLP that Grandpa had a terrible fall and that he was ok, even though the bruising and swelling were hard to look at.  TLP pronounced himself ready to handle it.  And he understood that Sunday night dinner — which is more important to TLP than he will let on  — needed to be re-scheduled.

TLP hugged Grandpa and said, “it isn’t so bad!”  TLP was totally non-plussed about the bruising and swelling that is unbearable to me as Dad’s daughter.

As we sat down to brunch at Dad’s house today, TLP offered the toast, “to a fast recovery so you don’t miss Sunday night dinner next week!”

TLP loves and needs Dad and Dad loves and needs TLP.  And I thought, in that moment, POB and I have — so far — done the right things to bring together the generations of our family through love.  I don’t think we did anything other than to provide a forum for TLP and Dad to bond.  I am grateful to be the conduit.  It will enrich TLP’s life and extend Dad’s years.

And that is a blessing for all of us.

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Dinner at Eight

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POB (partner of blogger) and I have the same couples over for New Years each year.  A decade-old tradition.  But every now again, we like to gather a sub-set of the group for a “mid-semester” dinner.

POB really enjoys cooking new recipes.  But she needs a sous-chef.  I look to my left, I look to my right and then I realize, “le sous-chef, c’est moi”. I am good with that.  We set up a play-date for TLP (the little prince) and the two of us hang out companionably in the kitchen, each at our own stations, chopping and marinating and chatting.

POB accidentally purchased un-pitted olives.  She needed pitted olives for the fish marinade.  Two cups.  So, of course, I pitted the olives (and smell like Kalamata olives even today — two showers later).  Only when taking out other ingredients for the meal, did POB discover that she, in fact, had pitted olives in the refrigerator.  Hmmm, I thought.  Was there a passive-aggressive undertone?  Nah.  We just have an over-stocked refrigerator and we forget what is in there.

Guests arrive.  Wine and hors-d’oeuvres are warming up the crowd.  The smelling of delectables cooking in the kitchen puts everyone in a happy mood.  Time to be seated.  I help with the plates coming out.  The fish, which has a roasted tomato and olive marinade (along with various spices), looked very red.  As no no olives.  I look in the kitchen and there, on the counter-top next to the stove, was the mountain of olives I had pitted, a task that stained my hands and caused a noxious reaction with the perfume I had put on.  WHaaaaaaaat? Maybe there was something passive-aggressive after all. . . .

I turn to POB, my eyes wide with a sense of betrayal.  “Oh, no, sweetie, people were talking to me and I forgot to roast them . . .  and . . .  I am soooo sorry!!”  “No worries,” I say.  I bring the olives out, pour them over the fish as a garnish and explained to everyone, “I personally pitted these, so everyone is going to eat them — no excuses and no dispensation.”   I overheard someone say to Sabrina, “if I got [her partner] to pit olives for an hour and didn’t use them,  I would be making up for it for — I don’t know — YEARS.”  I caught POB’s eye and she looked at me and I smiled.  POB responded, “I think, it is only a question of months with [Blogger]; she is the forgiving sort.”

POB and I both smiled.  All is good and, as you all know by now, the “bravas” from our guests over my pitting the lives made up for everything.  I even washed the pots and pans.

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Technology Upgrade

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So, POB (partner of blogger) and I have been dancing around the DVR issue.  (To get a DVR or not to get a DVR?  That is the question.)

Why so resistant?  We didn’t want TLP (our son, the little prince) to become too attached to TV shows, etc.  We want him not to grow into a v-idiot who schedules social interactions around an episode of, let’s say, Star Wars: The Clone Wars.

In short, we lost.  “It is only one TV show,” we say to each other as we slide head first down the slippery slope.  And it will make Friday nights around the dinner table with friends and godchildren less stressful if TLP doesn’t have to watch the clock until, as he says, he “must withdraw from society” and watch his program.  (Yes, my son speaks with a dramatic flair that is best left to an adaptation on Masterpiece Theatre.  Nevertheless, his turns of phrase are diverting, if head-scratching.)

I learned that a DVR is not a separate device, but an enhanced computer chip in a cable box.  Who knew?  (Two entire generations knew.)  Our friendly helpdesk person explained that to me and more.  “Sa-ay-yyyy you’ah watching O-O-prah, and you didn’t catch what they said, you can rewind a live broid-cast!!  It’s ama-ayyy-zing.  Not that I watch my programs live, because I am working the night shift here now since I lost my old job 15 months ago, but I’m just say-yin’ it’s possible.”

We chatted some, and I wished her well.  “It was a real pleasuhre talkin’ to you, [POB].”

Did you think I would give my own name?  Besides, the bill comes to POB.

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Life as seen by blogger

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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. 

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Dad and me: a living trust

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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. . . .

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Tuesday, the Rabbi ate nothing — almost

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A rabbi is coming our house for a visit tonight.

I hadn’t focused on the fact that she might be hungry at 7:30pm, until I got home at 7:15pm.

I have Kosher wine on hand as a general rule.  One thing I learned is that if you have kosher liquor, even religious people’s dietary restriction loosen up some.

I scrounge up un-opened Kosher (and Pareve) hummus, kosher tortilla chips, carrots and grapes (what’s not to be kosher about carrots and grapes?).

Ok, now what to put them in?  The RULE: Glass plates and bowls because one doesn’t have to worry about whether they are dairy or meat dishes because glass doesn’t absorb molecules of food.

And grapes are self contained fruits so we don’t have to worry about a kosher knife.  Phew. Bonus (pronounced “bo-NUS” in a high pitched voice).

But we don’t really have glass plates handy (I do think my Dad gave us a set of 12 that he had lying around but we stored them) and I hate paper plates, so the kosher crackers are ruined by being put on a regular plate.  I have bowls for most things, but POB (partner of blogger) already put crackers on an un-kosher (but lovely) plate.  I look at her and she looks at me with a “Really?” expression.  I say, “we can at least try.” I quickly become Zen about this (because what is done can’t be undone) . . . until . . . the rabbi rings the doorbell.

The minute the rabbi arrives, I offer the Kosher wine.  She responds that she looks forward to having cocktails again once she stops breastfeeding her twins.  Darn.  I ask if she wants anything.  “Water is just great, thanks.”

“Water is just great, thanks.”??????

Kill me with a thousand knife cuts.  She must see the kosher crackers on the non-kosher plate.

Ok, if a rabbi came to my grandmother’s house and only had water, my grandmother would sit in sackcloth and ashes.  There would be wailing and swooning of biblic proportion.  If this happened to my mother, she would be too embarrassed to go to synagogue and make us promise not to tell her mother (the wailer and swooner) of this blemish on our good name.

I am not a wailer and swooner and we don’t go to synagogue all that often, so I am left without tribal guidance on the matter.  And, of course, I can’t ask anyone how to atone and un-besmirch our good name, because then people would know and talk about it and it would be a SHONDAH (embarrassment) for us in our community.

Even Cyrano had a grape.  One lousy grape.

Oh, WAIT!!! She is having a grape!!! The rabbi is eating in our house.  Phew.

We averted a disgrace on generations by a margin of a grape.

Now, that’s stress.

 

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