Visiting Mom

Posted on September 7, 2009 by 40andover

So I let my son wake me earlier than usual on a weekend [dulcet tones of “wake up, WAKE UP, Mom, there are CARTOOOOONS on!!”] because I need to pick up my sister and father to go to visit Mom at the cemetery. My son didn’t want to come because he says cemeteries are creepy and make him think of ghosts and skeletons. I get that. Cemeteries are creepy, I tell him, but I have to visit Grandma’s grave. He says he will visit us but he is not ready yet. We are not ready to be visited there for a really long time, I tell him. He nods and then asks to turn on cartoons. Good, I think, death and destruction before the pilgrimage to the cemetery.

Lots of people are buried in Queens and on Long Island. Very convenient if you need to pop in on two funerals on different sides of the family on the same day. We had to do that once. Very convenient, indeed.

I pick up my sister who is limping badly, even with a cane. Her husband who is NOT coming with us (he hasn’t met Mom yet) is feeling sheepish but he needs to focus on a painting. He is trying not to look like a heel by carrying my sister’s stuff to the car. He even offers to carry her cane. Ok, he IS funny.

We drive to Dad’s and set off to Long Island. Once, when I mentioned that Grandma is in Heaven, my son asked, “Heaven is on Long Island?” [ To some, yes, I guess, Heaven is on Long Island.] I stammered that her body is there but her spirit is somewhere else. Then I called for my partner because I was WAY out of my element. Kids are smarter than adults. But I digress.

Dad gives me helpful driving hints like, “is there a reason you are driving behind the slow car?” and “go straight. no, make a left. I said make a left!” and “well, I guess I told you to get off at the wrong exit.” It is really ok. My dad is going to be 89 in October, and he is in terrific shape (spit in the evil eye, a Jewish superstition).

We arrive and get a little lost in the cemetery. So many dead people. But we find Mom and our other relatives. Luckily, they haven’t moved. We three say a few prayers for all of the family members, leave stones on the graves and reminisce about Mom. My sister brings pictures of Mom through the years. It is good to have the gravestone as a focus of our thoughts. About 45 minutes into our visit, a couple stops and visits another grave nearby. After they finish their drive-by visit, the woman comes over to us to say, “we come all the time and never see anyone else here.” Gee, thanks. Very thoughtful of you to say and I don’t really notice all your ugly plastic surgery.

My sister needs to take pictures to document the occasion. No joke, these go into our family photo albums. I wish she had taken a picture of the woman with the bad face lift.

Anything goes in an epic day where nothing happens

Posted on September 6, 2009 by 40andover

After meeting my sister at the gym (see prior entry), I raced home and showered and changed in time to go with my family to my sister’s house where some out of town, and newly-minted New Yorker, cousins were coming for brunch. Before meeting me at the gym, my sister had schlepped on her bad foot to Zabars to purchase a Jewish soul food brunch extravaganza. (We both got the food purchasing gene from Mom; too much is still never enough.) Where is my brother-in-law, you ask? He was working on a painting assignment in his studio, but I cross-examined him and I was satisfied that he was hard at work and stressed about the painting and, more importantly, he felt guilty and undeserving of my sister’s love. So, he was excused for the day of family activities.

Whenever our family gets together, gastro-intestinal fortitude makes its way into the conversation. This time, a fourth generation cousin (third generation born in this country) talked about her IBS (irritable bowel syndrome). I thought, wow, I thought irritable bowel was just a family personality trait (think about that for a second). I had no idea that it was a medical condition. She is a runner and cannot complete a run without — er, um — finding a bathroom (or remote area of the woods if she runs in the countryside). We discuss Metamusil, Immodium and other products while stuffing smoked fish down our throats. We discussed the relative cleanliness standards of most major chain stores in NYC and the value of her strengthened thigh muscles in being able not to sit down. Still we are eating. In fact, we have to talk with our mouths full just to get in a word amidst the chatter.

My son was very engaging until he stopped abruptly, got a bird encyclopedia (my brother-in-law is a bird nerd) and sat down to read. My father wanted to continue talking to my son, but my son would have none of it. He said, “Puh-leeze, Grandpa, I need some alone time to recharge my batteries.” Kids hear everything you say and some time, some place, it comes out — ZING!!!

My cousin brought homemade zucchini bread with zucchini from her garden. I thought that I could re-gift it for our barbeque in Scarsdale later in the day, but no one would believe that I made anything like that. Besides, it would be too much like life imitating art — or Seinfeld, whichever. Of course, after someone tried it and thought it was delicious, I mentioned that I had really wanted to re-gift it and was disappointed that any of it was eaten and my family (jokingly, I promise you) tried to make it look whole again so I could take it. I didn’t even watch Seinfeld (but I did hear the retelling of the episodes) and even this was too much. But reality is crazier than any fiction.

We had to leave this gathering to go to Scarsdale for a barbeque but by this time the migraine had overpowered the pills and I was achy and in need of a dark, quiet room. That is not possible in my house because when my son gets into playing with his toys, it is loud like an arena. And, he was so unhappy not to go to our friends in Scarsdale. So were we. I just couldn’t make it.

I slept for awhile and then we did some errands with the car I rented so we could go to Scarsdale. These are the kinds of errands that need a car — dropping off heavy stuff at donation places, etc. After a few of these type of errands, my partner gave my son a choice of whether or not to go to Fairway food store (the one that is like a warehouse) to shop. He opted not to, of course. My partner tried to change his mind but if you give a child a choice you have to live with the answer or start negotiating. So, I started negotiating. He got french fries and an ice pop at dinner if he and I stayed in the car while my partner went shopping for exactly 20 minutes. Then she remembered she had her iPod with the bird sounds game. But no one would let me renegotiate, so I was left in the car listening to high pitched bird calls. My migraine started to spread beyond the borders of my brain and threatened to create an epidemic of brain pain throughout upper Manhattan.

So as not to let the rental go to waste, we are going to the cemetery to visit my mom’s grave tomorrow. My sister will bring the left-overs from brunch so we can have a tailgate. Our family can eat anywhere.

Elul — A Deep Moment on Blogcation Day 3

Posted on August 25, 2009 by 40andover

When I was in Hebrew School, we were taught a song that starts, in new age, non-gender-specific translation, “Oh G-d, my G-d, I pray that these things never end: the sand and the sea, the rush of the water, the crash of the heavens and the prayers of all.”

The song is, in essence, a prayer for humanity to pray, a prayer for the basic elements, a prayer for the majesty and healing of the world.

It is the beginning of the month of Elul, which culminates in the Jewish Days of Awe, during which Jews repent and atone for sins. This leads to introspection (one hopes) about the gulf between who we are and who we want to be. That introspection is supposed to help one re-set one’s internal compass, toward righteousness and good. The annual gut-check, and if you are really not so righteous, a sucker punch to the gut (or groin).

I am not religious. Really. But tradition is important because it ties me to those generations who came here and struggled so I could have advantages, opportunities and the life I lead. I stand on their shoulders and my generation’s prosperity fueled their dreams and they stood tall with pride. Tradition also ties me to the generations that will follow mine. From generation to generation.

My grandfather renounced religion (it was the original Kumbaya Age: the Age of Socialism and communal living) and preached free love (he was ahead of his time — free love idled until the 1960s) but got married and never missed religious ritual built around the family. So Passover, Bar or Bat Mitzvahs were important, but non-family self-inflicted synagogue time? Hmmmm. Not so much.

But whether or not one is a deist, taking the time to think about life and mistakes, and things to do better, can’t be bad. The problem I have is that people can off-load responsibility on some sort of fatalistic rationalization based on the existence of G-d. Judaism doesn’t really afford that off-loading option but lots of Jews don’t seem to acknowledge that.

With all these caveats, there is something mystical about starting the month leading into the Days of Awe enjoying and marveling at the sand and the sea, the rush of the water, and the crash of the heavens (a little too much crashing, if you ask me, but rarely does anyone ask me). Maybe prayer isn’t so bad, as long as the responsibility to make the prayers come true rests with us singularly and as a human collective.

Maybe I believe in G-d, somehow, some way. The only compelling argument I heard for the existence of G-d was from an orthodox Jew with a nihilist edge (and not an insignificant case of depression). He said, “could everything be so screwed up by accident?” Can’t argue with that.

My Sister, My Hero, Part II

Posted on August 20, 2009 by 40andover

For you were strangers in the land of Egypt . . . Every Passover, Jews are reminded to be kind to the stranger because we were strangers in the land of Egypt and, well, you know what happened and how Charleton Heston had to lead us out with a mighty hand. . . The quintessential Jewish mother’s Midrash on this principle is “be kind to strangers; just don’t TALK to them”.

My sister is not a religious person. She is a spiritual person and that is in my view the important quality. My sister took into her home a very sick former colleague who had no family nearby and is trying to get this person help. Not because of a religious admonishment or directive but because of a spiritual imperative to lend a hand to those in need. She is like my mother (of blessed memory) in that way. She shrugs a silent “whatever” when anyone talks about religion. She, like my mother, does what others only talk about doing. And I only know because my sister had to miss a family dinner to help her former colleague. Otherwise, I might have never known. Because she does what needs to be done because it should be done and not for bragging rights.

Lest you think she is the Flying Nun or Mother Teresa with the glow of G-d upon her, my sister is definitely a real person with bad hair days (less so now that she colors her gray, oops, that shouldn’t appear in print I guess) and a limited attention span for most people. So, a saint she is not.

And still, she heals the world by her very presence among us. My sister, my hero.

Grandma, Mom and me

Posted on July 13, 2009 by 40andover

So I am not only becoming my mother, I am becoming my grandmother.

You may remember seeing old Jewish ladies like her. They had heavy accents and would offer you a “gless of tea in a kup” (because in the “old country” tea was served in glasses, but “vee know that here, in Amerrrica, dahlink, vee poot tea in a kup”).

They carried heavy shopping bags full of things. In fact, those shopping bags were so ubiquitous that they were called “Jewish luggage”. Which gets me to my point. This morning, I couldn’t seem to find any of my fancy shmancy bags in which to shove some of the daily detritus of my life. I spied a small Dean & Deluca shopping bag (note to self: remind family that this is not a eatery for recessionary times). So in went my blackberries (yes more than one), gym clothes, bills I need to pay, etc. Off I went to my fancy shmancy job at my fancy shmancy office with my shtetl style bag.

Some things must just be in our genes. From generation to generation. . . .

Losing my mother — 6.5 years later

Posted on July 10, 2009 by 40andover

Dear Mom:

Tomorrow is your grandson’s 7th birthday. You died one day shy of his being six months old. That means today is 6 and 1/2 years since you died. I can’t believe it. There is no “moving on” after your death; there is only “moving with” your memory and wishing you were here. Next to the computer is a picture of you holding him after his bris and I am sitting with you on your left. The person on your right (unseen in the photo) said something tremendously stupid because I can see it in your eyes. But I know that look — you were measuring your response to an inane statement. In fact, I have that same look on my face in the picture. Genes are amazing things, except you would have responded with something perfectly diplomatic but to the point. I would have responded like Larry King did when he interviewed Jean Harris (who killed the Scarsdale diet doctor), “so, you’re a murderer”.

You live in me and as I age I look more and more like you. This comforts me. But I need for your grandson to know you or know about you, so he can appreciate the remarkable person who was his grandmother.

I tell him about you all the time. I use those Yiddish phrases that you used with us when you cupped our punims adoringly. Sometimes, I tell him what Grandma would have said if she were alive because I want him to have a sense of you. So if he does something funny or wonderful or if he needs comforting, I tell him what you would have said to him if you were alive.

A few months ago, we were all in a cab after visiting Dad. I buckled up and put your grandson on my lap and “strapped him in” with my arms forming the “Grandma grip” (which he knows comes from your legendary strong grip on your children’s arms when crossing streets). The cab stopped short and everyone else went flying (though, thank G-d, no one was hurt). Your grandson was safe in the Grandma grip. That is the image of you I want him to carry with him — the strong, protective love that endures even though you are in Heaven.

I wonder if you would like my blog and would send the link to all of your friends. I wonder if you would comment. You would probably send me direct tweets that said, “be nice” in that slightly chastising way you have. You would worry about Sarah Palin’s daughter being so young to have had a child and tell me to be gentle about that. But, you needn’t worry. I, too, feel that the world is too much upon her. It is her mother who makes me crazy(ier).

Mom, this is not getting easier. And I know you would say to me, “my poor little tsatskele, if I could have this sadness for you, I would.” And that’s the catch: so much more to mourn.

Another transportation adventure

Posted on July 8, 2009 by 40andover

So, I was in a cab on the way to the airport to come home and the driver was making conversation. He was born in Russia, raised in Argentina and Rochester, NY and now in San Diego. Think war crimes by parents. He got on the subject of drinking a “glass of tea” and I mentioned that my grandparents used that phrase. He asked if I were Jewish. I responded yes and asked him if he were, also. He is not. But my being Jewish got him on the subject of the Holocaust. And how horrible it was and how humans are the only animals capable of torture. Think psycho. Then he said that he taped a 3-part series on the Holocaust and that he has hundreds of hours of tapes of shows on various atrocities throughout the ages. He gave an impassioned dissertation on the need for universal human rights and understanding among all religions. Think psycho in a kumbaya moment. He also happens to be an expert on “your tsunamis, volcanic eruptions and so on.” Think scary individual from hell in a kumbaya moment.We he let me off at the airline terminal safely, I gave him an extra tip for not being a total psycho.

My mother’s wishes and her mother’s honor

Posted on June 22, 2009 by 40andover

This week is my mother’s mother’s Yahrzeit. Yahrzeits always remind me of the Days of Awe (10 days including and between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur).

I am not much into religion since my mom died and given all of the heretical things I say I am waiting for the lightning bolt to strike.

I am not sure why this happened, but about three years after Mom died, I started getting reminders from my parents’ synagogue about the anniversaries of my grandparents’ deaths — their Yahrzeits. Maybe the synagogue staff finally got it together to start sending them to me but the staff wouldn’t have known where to send them unless my mother had put me down as the next recipient of these notices. None of my father, brother and sister receives these notices. I was overwhelmed that my mother trusted me with the responsibility of remembrance. After all of the issues, sturm und drang, etc. about my being gay (which all were resolved 15 years ago, thank G-d), my mother trusted me with this, in the end.

Remembering is very important in Jewish tradition. It is said that people live again when remembered. That does not generally resonate with me. But when I lit the Yahrzeit candles (Jews light them on the anniversary of the death and on Yom Kippur) this last year for Mom and her parents, I understood why. In this world of a 3 billion or so people, a person dies every second. I lit candles to say I remember you and you are not anonymous in this world and your life is not forgotten. I realized that I don’t know my great-grandparents’ names and no one remembers them. And so, maybe my son’s grandchildren (should he be so lucky) will not light a candle for me. Maybe, remembering two generations is more than anyone should have to do, because it dilutes meaning of remembrance if these dead people are strangers. But this Friday I will remember especially my grandmother on her Yahrzeit. She was a life force for my mother, a woman who suffered greatly in Europe and was often a prisoner of those memories. And on Friday, my grandmother will not be an anonymous dead person. Because I will remember. And, now, I get it. Remembrance. A commandment under Jewish law to remember and, by remembering, to honor. And by honoring, to make sure that your loved one isn’t relegated to a statistics of unknown and unnamed lives and deaths year in and year out.

Remembrances

Posted on June 19, 2009 by 40andover

I think about my mother all of the time but most especially around my son’s birthday. She died when he was six months old. My mom was a woman of uncommon strength with a deep concern for humanity. She believed in the American dream — opportunity for all who wanted a better life. She was a product of the American dream. Mom loved a good protest, voter registration drive or a lively dinner time political debate with family and friends. She believed that people could do small acts to heal the world. I remember thinking that I was glad she didn’t live to see the Iraq invasion. And I knew her pride in this country would have soared if she were able to vote in the Clinton-Obama Democratic primary. She, like me, would have been torn by the choice but thrilled that such a choice were even possible. And once Candidate Obama became President Obama, she would have cried at the ability of our nation to see past old prejudices. And then she would worry about his safety. And then she would want to scold him for smoking. And she would be grateful for the opportunity to set a new course for our nation and the world.

Mom would not “get” blogging or twitter. She would say, “get up from the computer and see the world and do things”. And she would rail against the dangers of typing on those raspberry gadgets while walking on the street. (She was never good at names or idioms). I would say, “BLACKberry, Mom!!” And she would wave me off with a quick retort, “DEEEtails”.

A Family Pilgrimage

Posted on June 18, 2009 by 40andover

So, we needed to go to Uncle B’s unveiling one recent Sunday. The previous Thursday, I received a call from cousin B. who wanted a ride because he and his wife want to see Uncle B. I wasn’t sure whether he remembered that Uncle B wasn’t going to be there.

So, on Sunday during the first hour of the trip, my sister and I tried to ascertain whether cousin B was going to freak out that no one told him Uncle B was dead, whether he actually knew but was using shorthand or whether he would start forgetting why he was there. Imagine, my sister’s and my asking questions in that way that people in the Saturday Night Live “Pat” skits tried to ascertain Pat’s gender. (He remembered.) But I digress.

My sister and I spent the day before bracing ourselves for my dad and Cousin B in the same car. Why, you ask? Because Cousin B talks about the intricacies of his bodily functions in such exquisite detail that it is a little disturbing and my father spontaneously breaks into “When Johnny comes marching home again”. No joke. No idea why.

My sister and I devised a counting system: my sister would get a point every time cousin B referred to prune juice as an elixir which he discovered, or how he is sledding downhill on a fast sled on an iced-over mountain. I would get a point every time Dad spontaneously broke into When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again, or The Chicken in the Army. What we need to include next time is cousin B’s constant complaining — I ruined his good knee because there was not enough leg room — and Dad’s need to read every sign on the highway and, for fun, putting the emPHAsis on the wrong sylLAble. Total travel time, 3.5 hours each way plus a few hours at Uncle B’s son’s house for the obligatory food orgy.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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