Tag Archives: Aging

A Great Party

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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.

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Dreaming

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I had multiple and elaborate stress dreams last night.  (It is unfortunate to remember one’s night terror.)

It started out in the usual way: there was a test coming up based on FOUR years of college-level mathematics and I had cut all of the classes for ALL four years.  So, I had to find a tutor.  My college friends suggested someone, another friend from college.  So, we went in search of her and that takes us to Brazil.  But we can’t see any of the sites while we are there (we are always stymied) so we are looking for a cybercafe to look up all the must-see things in Rio that we are missing.  We walked by an open-air stadium and we heard Diana Ross and the Supremes.  We whipped out our hair brushes, and used them as mics as we did a lip-synching street show.

Some facts to know:

  1. I cut almost every 8am calculus class freshman year and scraped by with a C (given the grade inflation that existed at Dartmouth, it was as if I passed by the grace of G-d) and never went near another math-related course.
  2. On rides to and from school, we often whipped out our hair brushes to sing back-up for whatever song was on the radio (no CDs or iPods then).
  3. I have been to many cities in Brazil, as well as the rainforest.

So, stress and life conflated into an intricate, colorful and stressful dream.  Maybe the humor in my stress dream signals a growing maturity in handling of stress.  Or, more likely, I was lucky that my dream amused me, in addition to sending me into a cold sweat.

Paging, Dr. Freud. . . .

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Photographs and memories

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We — the kids — are throwing a 90th birthday party for our Dad.  It is coming up, so SOB (sister of blogger) and I spent a few hours combing through old pictures that would go on a big poster board put up on an easel.

It wasn’t easy choosing among the pictures.  There are some as old as 1926 and as recent as last weekend.  Some are of individuals, and others are group shots.  We have pictures of cousins, friends, parents, grandparents and great-grandparents and some long-forgotten friends and family.  I looked at pictures of long dead relatives when they were young and laughing (and smoking and drinking).  Happy moments in sometimes hard lives.

A picture is worth 1,000 words, as an old adage goes.  Except the people who know those 1,000 words — and can tell the story, the back-story and gossip that brings the picture to life — are dead or have forgotten.  And when they were alive or could remember, I was too young to be interested.  And so, we have the pictures and sometimes notes and dates jotted on the backs.  There is a picture of my uncles in uniform with my grandparents.  Were they shipping out?  Were they on leave?  Were they home after the war was over?  The picture is small and the resolution not so great, so it is hard to tell their ages.  And my grandparents always looked ancient, anyway.  So, were my uncles scared about going to war, just on leave, or relieved that it was over and that they survived?

I wish I had 1,000 words for each of these pictures because now I am ready to hear the stories and learn the personal histories.  Now I know that people don’t live forever.  And I was so young and self-involved when people were trying to tell me.  And so I lost the richest part of my inheritance.

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Sunday night dinner chez nous

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Further reinforcing my hypothesis that older people progressively allocate more time to traveling and invariably arrive early, our fathers came for 6pm dinner at 4:30pm, which coincides with the time-honored “early bird” hour.  Which makes one wonder whether restaurateurs named, rather than caused, the phenomenon.

I don’t know about other Jewish families, but the first dinner after the Yom Kippur holy day involves comparing Yiskor books (books of remembrance for those who have died) and book plate honors (having someone’s name put in a prayerbook) from the various synagogues to which various members attend.  It is a morbid combination of “Bingo”, “Wheel of [Mis]Fortune” and “Celebrity Match-ups”.  I like to think of it as “Did You Remember to Name that Dead Person?”

My dad was upset that he forgot to list POB’s (partner of blogger’s) mom (z”l).  I said, “Don’t worry.  You’ll remember next year, Dad.  We had her covered.”

I mentioned that we also covered several uncles and cousins and he mentioned a few we forgot and also the grandparents.  Oooooh.  Darn!!!  Missed that!  Harumph. We need to have a huge list for next year, even if the dollars pile up (wait, you thought it was free?).

But we had a book plate put in a prayerbook for Dad’s 90th birthday.  SCORE!!!  (POB is sooooo awesome.)

POB’s father and our son were watching the football games.  The other Jews shrugged and then started to talk about concussions and debilitating diseases, as a way of showing interest in the football game.

Then SOB (sister of blogger) wanted to take out the old family pictures so we can mount them on poster board for my Dad’s birthday party.  We all got a little teary-eyed about how young and vibrant everyone looked and how most are now gone.

So, to recap:  we have talked about death, destruction and death again.  Just what Jews need to work up an appetite.

POB made a delicious dinner, over which we discussed the importance of building that Islamic Cultural Center right where they planned it and argued about the meaning of life, chaos theory and the mysteries of the universe.  It got rather heated when we were contrasting a Jewish, G-d-centric approach that assumes that actions have meaning and can cause change versus the view that most of what we do doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.  I ventured that, while I am not so sure that I believe the former, if I in fact believed the latter, then what’s the point and POB should just get my life insurance.  At that point, POB’s father then asked, “how much?” in a very oddly interested tone.  My brother-in-law (the bird nerd from other entries), quietly advised me not to go anywhere alone with my father-in-law.  All this while I was choking over the salad course.

Dessert brought calm to the table as we talked about the Million Moderate March on October 30th and exhorted our TV-challenged relatives to tune into Jon Stewart on the web.  (I could not speak to Stephen Colbert, because I remember him when he was really a right wing-nut at Dartmouth.)

So, death, destruction, death, religion & chaos, politics and comedy.  Another excellent family dinner with the extended family.

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Summer is for kids

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Memorial Day Weekend makes me giddy with expectation of a long summer of fun.  Labor Day Weekend fills me with a mournfulness about the summer-that-wasn’t, the kind of mournfulness that is rightly reserved for more weighty matters.

So this past week I was an interloper in my son’s summer.  We spent days in the pool or at the beach or on play dates.  Except he was the one who wanted to stay in the pool, dive into the waves, and had friends out at the beach.  I wanted to nap.  POB (partner of blogger) and I were relegated to the roles of adults and rule-enforcers.

We did have fun as a family and we giggled a lot.  And POB sent me off to the gym and for runs so that she didn’t have TWO kids to keep in line.  But those are not summer activities, as I remember summer.  We didn’t hop on anyone’s bike and ride on untrafficked roads to an old musty bookstore and then eat ice cream on the lawn of the town church or library.  We didn’t play tennis and then go to the lake for an instructional swim or make peach-pit rings in the art studio.  Those were the days of my childhood summers.

Even if my son were amenable to recreating those days, I can’t quite imagine how one navigates the busy roads and fast cars that are everywhere in sea-side communities.  Maybe I am looking for a time that is just lost.  And maybe, like some things, those memories are sweeter in the rear view mirror.

My son had his own magical summer doing his activities.  I am grateful and happy that he did.  He looks and acts older.  He is tanned (even though he was slathered in sun block many times a day) and looks rested and ready for school.

Me, I have a sunburn.

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In Memoriam — Yvette

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Yvette died peacefully today at age 94. She was born in Paris, France in 1916.

I met Yvette many, many years ago, as a friend of my mom from their days at Revlon in the 1960s.  Rudy and Yvette were stalwart friends to my father and my mother when my mother was dying and then died.  They were a necessary part of every family celebration (except for Thanksgiving). 

Even though she had been in this country for over sixty years, she would still say things like, “let’s get together for — how you say? — lunch!”  As she was losing her beloved Rudy to renal failure, she would say, “this is le end, ne c’est pas?”  “Oui,” we would say, our hearts’ breaking.

Rudy was Jewish; Yvette, as she got older and more forgetful, gravitated to her religion of origin — Catholicism.  At the end of Rudy’s life, when he wanted them to be cremated and their ashes joined and thrown to sea where they met (see below), her response was, “pas catholique!”  I said, “Yvette, you’re Jewish!”  A family friend motioned me over and said that she had been taking Yvette to Christmas and Easter mass for years, because as her memory was fading she didn’t remember she had been Jewish.  I had been noticing she was making signs of the cross every now and again and more frequently over the years.

Their lives could fill adventure novels.  She was a nurse on the war front for France during WWII and then worked for the Resistance.  She was awarded two medals (or commendations) for valor.  Rudy’s family had fled their native Austria when the Nazi took hold and found their way to Palestine (pre-Israel).  They met on a boat taking Jewish Holocaust survivors to Palestine; she, the ship’s nurse, and he, the commander of the boat.  They fell in love.  These boats were being strafed by British bomber pilots because the international community didn’t want Jews to populate Palestine.  Yvette did what she did because her nature compelled her to help people in need.  She and her beloved Rudy were heroes in cowardly times.  Their wishes were that their ashes be mingled and cast out to sea where their love began so many years ago.

And she lived life with humor, perseverance and strength of character that kept her going 94 years. 

May her memory be for a blessing.

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Just because he’s crazy, does that invalidate his compliment?

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Maybe at 46 years-old, I am scraping the barrel for any compliment that comes my way.  I need my blog community to rule on whether a compliment received this morning can be counted as such. 

(I wish WordPress had those voting buttons so you can click “yes” “no” or “maybe“.)

I have a lunch meeting later with a client, so I am wearing make-up, earrings and a necklace.  No, that is not all.  I am wearing clothes.  (Nice) t-shirt under a bespoke blazer (so it really fits well) and bespoke pants (which would fit better had I not gotten the peri-menopause tummy paunch).  Shoes and bag work with the ensemble.  A true outfit. 

Many of you may be shocked; as sometimes I wear nice clothes but ruin the look with a pair of clogs.  But, I digress (comme d’habitude).

A man, who was dressed well enough not to be homeless, entered the subway car with a cart.  I know what you are thinking.  But, really, the cart had perfectly reasonable looking things in it.  Not like he was carrying his worldly possessions or anything.  Look, he didn’t SMELL.  And some homeless people are down on their luck.  Not all of them are crazy.  And we should help them off the streets because it is as good a litmus test as any for how civilized is our society really.  But, I digress (comme d’habitude).

The train clears out at the next stop.  It is an express station — not because he smelled.  I sit down in a seat next to the doors.  Then I realize I could move down and he could sit in that seat and be closer to his stuff.  So I offer to move down. 

He thanked me but declined.  Then, he said that I looked beautiful and my outfit was just right.  I thanked him.

Then he started talking to himself and doing a little tap-dance, foot shuffle, whatever.  This continued until he got off the train.

Valid compliment or no?  That is the question.

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Post-Script to The Kids Are All Right

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I recently ranted (what else is new) about the movie, “The Kids Are All Right,” the first film about a lesbian family to come out of a major movie producer (http://40andoverblog.com/?p=2559).

Apparently, for the under-30 crowd (and maybe my own age-group), the lesbian sex scene is not so bizarre.

Ok.  I get it, in every marriage, sometimes you need to change things up to keep it interesting, but I still stand by my lament: for the first major motion picture about lesbians and their kids, there couldn’t be a little romance?  It IS Hollywood, after all.  And it isn’t like the movie didn’t push the outer edge of the believability envelope in other ways.

How about throwing a bone to the hopeless romantics in the crowd who still love and adore their spouses?

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The crazy coincidences of life

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33 years ago, my sister met another freshman at college because of random dorm assignments.  Two 18 year-olds, one from NYC and another from a small town in Wisconsin, became friends and that friendship has spanned the decades.

The friend is one of eight (yes, eight) children and, long ago, our mothers bonded over the trials, tribulations and –yes — tragedies from which they could not protect their children.  And the families have, by happenstance, and good fortune (for our family) literally kept bumping into each other throughout life.   I think Kurt Vonnegut had a word for this phenomenon.

When I went on college interviews, there was invariably a sibling nearby to greet me and show me around. When, years later, an out of town colleague of my ex was in NYC and wanted to bring a friend along for dinner, in walked another sibling.  (They are instantly recognizable.)  So, into my then home walked OMIGOD [name withheld] FROM WISCONSIN!!

When POB (partner of blogger) and I set up home and family in the very Upper West Side, who should be teaching at a pre-school nearby?  That same sibling.

Years later, who is dancing at my sister’s (ahem, long awaited) nuptials?  That college friend.

And whom do I see when I go for a run, on my way to work or out for coffee?  You bet, the sibling.  Sometimes we sit and chat about life.  Sometimes, I just yell a greeting.  If my sister’s college friend is visiting town, I always try to pop over to my sister’s and say hi.  Even if I can’t make it, I know that will — and do — bump into that college friend during her stay.

Because our two families — from different backgrounds and along different life paths — were intended to know each other.

I emailed my sister today because I, of course, saw the sibling.  My sister wrote back that this coincidence is not as crazy as how I met POB.

POB and I were in the same bunk at a camp on Cape Cod in 1974.  We were 10 years old and best friends.  Our families both lived in the City and subsequently we went to the same synagogue and Hebrew School.  She did her homework; I was in the rabbi’s office.  We continued to learn with the rabbis after Bat Mitzvah and Confirmation, until we graduated from high school.  We lost touch for 20 years and re-met, first casually, then as good friends, and after our own relationships imploded, as life partners.

All I remember is that POB’s mother randomly picked a camp because they were building a summer house and needed the girls to go somewhere.  POB’s father was not pleased at all with the facilities at the camp.  When POB’s mother was alive, I often thanked her for not consulting with her husband as that might have changed the course of history.  I still remind POB’s dad that going to that camp was one of the best things that happened to his daughter (I only say that when POB is not perturbed with me).

Life is crazy like that.  Which is another reason to listen to your grandmother’s warnings about not wearing torn underwear or never going out without lipstick because the doctor in the emergency room could be your first boyfriend.  And, no matter what happened since then — even if you are lesbian — you want to make sure that the guy regrets letting you get away.

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Wednesday Date Night with Friends

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I arrive early.  A possible stolen moment of mindfulness and relaxation out of a harried day.  But this is New York City, where quiet was expunged from the lexicon long ago.  And I am a consummate New Yorker so I must email something to somebody.  And so I did, to POB (partner of blogger) and FOPOBAB (friends of POB and Blogger) who were joining us for dinner.  Witness my descent into madness.

—– Original Message —–
Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:00:35 2010 [I am 14 minutes 25 seconds early, standing outside a pulsating restaurant]

A hopping place we picked. Such an active bar scene that if you were here early I wouldn’t be able to tell. I am sweltering outside listening to Dancing Queen (they pipe out the music for the pleasure of the passersby). I am trying not to sing along.  I wish there were drag queens around to dance with. My inner 20-something

Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:03:45 2010 [3 minutes and 10 seconds later]

Cabs are so plentiful I want to hail ALL of them.

Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:08:58 2010 [5 minutes 13 seconds later]

Men’s fashion is getting pushed to the limit. It is only ok if [husband of FOPOBOB, who always looks fabulous] would wear it. That is my litmus test.

Can you tell I am overwhelmed by the bar scene raging inside. Ok, a couple with a two year old are considering coming into the restaurant. Mean, evil parents. Toooo much. I am going to try to take a picture surreptitiously. [Unfortunately, I was unable to get my blackberry camera in focus quickly enough]

Sent: Wednesday, July 28, 2010 7:10 PM [one minute two seconds later]

I am going inside. I am brave.

No one would seat me even though we had a reservation.  We ALL had to be there.  I had visions of being in a suburban steak house located in a mall where they say, “Ma’am, if you have a seat after your party has arrived, we will call you.”  And then you wait to hear, “Blogger, party of four!! Blogger, party of four!!”  Ok, I CAAAAN’T GO THERE.

We all arrive and sit down and everybody is chatting and happy to see each other.  I turn to the wife of FOPOBAB and ask, steeling myself for the answer, “how is your sister?”  [note: her sister had cancer].  I knew it was gutsy. 

Although time seems to evaporate when we all get together, it has been quite a few months and ANYTHING can, and does, happen.  I see the look on her face. 

Pause.  Pause.  Momentary out-of-body-experience.  Back in my body and wishing it lacked a mouth.

“She died.” 

[Why do I forget that I have a big S on my forehead for SCHMUCK?]

“We’ve seen you since then but we were with the kids, and I couldn’t go there.”

“Some hors d’oeuvres?” I say.  NO, NOT REALLY.   She tells me a hilarious story that happened as her sister literally lay dying that involved a nun.  There is humor in these moments.  I remember with my mother.  And if you been there, you can very comfortably listen and laugh along.  Because those stories help those still alive cope.

Meanwhile, POB and husband of FOPOBAB are talking about something else.  There is a break in the conversations.  I decided to catch up the others on our conversation. 

I turned to POB and said, “So, I asked about [wife of FOPOBAB]’s sister and she is dead.  But still we both have our appetites.  And, as you know, I have schmuck written on my forehead.”

Silence.

I turn to my friend and say, “in the future, just text us “worry” or “cry” and you fill us in on the details later.  Ok?”

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