Tag Archives: family

Veterans Day

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Yesterday was Veteran’s Day.

I was thinking a lot about war and life yesterday.  When I became a mother and god-mother, I understood that if my son (or god-daughters) went to war, I would have to go as well, because anything that is worth my child’s life, is worth my life.  (And the corollary: if you mess with my children, you mess with me.)  Of course, I think it would be hard to take your mom into battle.  But if you know me, you know that the enemy should be really, really, scared.

So, I am grateful to the young men and women who routinely put their lives at risk for the high stakes political chess that our world leaders play with way too much glee and ooky blood lust.

And I am grateful to the veterans of prior wars for their sacrifices.  It is hard to imagine old men and women in their prime, as spies (www.dailymail.co.uk/…/Tragedy-WWII-spy-Eileen-Nearne-escaped-Gestapo-died-alone.html) and soldiers and nurses on the front.  They look so old and enfeebled now.

Today, as I was leaving my office, I saw two old men in wheel chairs.  Using “old” is somewhat euphemistic.  “Ancient” is more appropriate.  Incapacitated and dependent.  When I see random ancient people on the street (as opposed to family), I cannot think of them as once young and vibrant.  I just see strangers with no past and probably not much of a future.

Except the two old men in their wheelchairs with their attendants were wearing war medals and insignias of their military service.  All of a sudden, they were not inconvenient and uncomfortable reminders of my future decrepitude.  I know that when they were young, they were warriors.  Given the number of medals, they were brave warriors.   And they have stories, of war and peace, love and hate, passion and indifference.  Maybe these were good, generous, upright men.  Maybe they weren’t.  Probably, like all of us, they fell somewhere in between.

Two of my uncles were reluctant warriors in WWII.  One was captured and imprisoned.  I know his story, which is powerful (www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/Shapiro.html).  It was hard to know these things about my uncle.  I know it was hard for my uncle to remember, transcend the evil, and have his story known.

It wasn’t until my other uncle, Uncle Al, died about 9 years ago that I learned he fought in the Pacific in WWII.  He never talked about it (or maybe we just didn’t see enough of him to draw him out).  My father thinks he was at Guadalcanal.  Of course, that generation never talked about the war, even when the effects of the war crippled, or at least altered, the trajectories of their post-war lives.

Truth is that I didn’t know this uncle very well.  He was the third of five sons and got short shrift by three generations of our family.  He was a quiet man with great artist skill.  I wonder if I would have interacted with him differently if, while he was alive, I knew to look at his life through the prism of the bloodshed he must have witnessed and (possibly) perpetrated in some of the most grisly fighting of WWII.

Today, we have veterans who need our support.  Whether or not we agree with the politics, their mere willingness to go to war to protect and defend us is heroic.  We owe it to these young men and women to learn their stories, help them re-acclimate to post-war lives, and protect them from their deepest, darkest memories of combat and, yes, deal with the bad things they did “over there”.

It is hard to imagine that some of our warriors and their families have not yet been granted US citizenship.  It is hard to imagine that some of our warriors and their families are treated like second class citizens because of sexual orientation.  It is hard to believe that anyone thinks our returning veterans don’t deserve the very best in medical care and social services.

I just hope that no one has to wonder, when the veterans of our generation are in wheelchairs with attendants, if they will be remembered and honored.  I hope the next generations remember that they once were warriors, protecting and defending us.

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First, fire the pundits. Second, let’s talk about race.

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Yesterday op-ed by Bob Herbert of the New York Times really got me nuts.  It was the straw that broke the camel’s back.  I don’t care which party “gets it” or not.  That is not even a relevant question.

That we have a president named Barack Hussein Obama is in fact a delivery of his campaign promise of change.  The fact that he is decried as not that much different from other presidents is another delivery of his campaign promise of being President of all citizens, not just blue states.

You see, you may not have noticed, but the President of the United States is African-American.  Now, I am a middle-aged, white, Jewish lesbian (MWJL).  And I have no idea what it is to be anything or anyone other than who I am. But from my perspective (for what it is worth):

The President may be post-racial, but the country is not.  (We are making progress and, as we do, sometimes there is backlash that makes us think we are losing ground.)  The fact of his presidency is a challenge to much of the nation.  The fact that he is continuing some of the Bush policies in matters of war means that his opponents (the Grand Old White Man Party) need to frame his domestic policies as so radical as to threaten our very existence as a nation.  Thus, the charged rhetoric.

Because it is, at least in part, about race.  (Please no eye rolls — I am a MWJL, remember?)

Lest we forget that John McCain and Sarah Palin got a lot of votes and stirred up fears of the end of the reign of the Old White Man.

Remember when he let a little of his anger show when Professor Gates was arrested?  You would think that he created an international incident.  All he did was call the actions of white cops stupid.  Imagine George Bush doing that.  Not even a blip on the radar.

Listen to the racist language of the Tea Party.  These people are scared that they will be treated the way they have treated minorities.  They know that karma can be a painful boomerang.  So, now that the Establishment is run by an African-American, they are fighting the Establishment tooth and nail.

I had an epiphany the other day about DADT.  The President is Commander in Chief of a military run by conservative white men.  When he leads, they need to follow.  So, he needs to show he will listen, too.  So, maybe he needs to protect DADT for now as it winds it way through the courts and the Congress.

The President is the embodiment of the American dream, with the picture-perfect American family.  But he is not a reflection of America yet, but an aspiration of what America can be.  We all have some work to do.

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A Morning at the Museum

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Yesterday, POB (partner of blogger), SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) and I joined HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) and FOB (father of blogger) went to the Met to look at the Kubla Khan exhibit (everyone now spells Kubla in a more authentic way, but it was 10am on a Saturday and that kind of information will not get absorbed into my brain).

SOPOBAB is studying Chinese and the information on a significant dynasty was appealing to him.  Also POB talked up the portraiture galleries which had pictures of Revolutionary heroes, etc.  SOPOBAB has read a lot about that, too, and seemed interested.

Great, I think, ancient Chinese dynasties and portrait galleries, could there be anything else I would want to see LESS on a Saturday morning at 10am?  Arms and Armor.  Ok, I am lucky I think.  At least no trifecta.

As a child I hated going to the Met.  It was an overwhelming place with furniture exhibits, armory and ancient Greek statues.  None of it mattered to me.  As an adult, I enjoy the Modern Wing and some of the African art, probably because I have studied some about the art in these areas.

I actually enjoyed the Kubla Khan show, most especially because I watched SOPOBAB find things of interest and talk to FOB and HOSOB about portions of the exhibit.  SOPOBAB, at 8 years old, is a young man who can navigate an exhibit at a museum.

The American Wing was closed for renovation.  The gods were smiling on me.  No portraits of American heroes.  Phew.  Waaaaaitt!!! Where are we going now?  Not to the diner for lunch?  no?  Arms and Armory?  Really?

Ok, so I walk through the exhibit that totally freaked me out when I was a kid.  All of this body armor.  I am a sport and try to focus and learn something.

I look at the body armor and read about the history.  And then, in a moment, the one sight that compelled a blog entry:

It is hard to see, but Kind Ferdinand of Spain needed a lot of extra space for his genitals.  No other body armor has this.  I think this was a message to his adversaries.

So, I learned that in every exhibit, there is something for everyone.

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Migraines

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I suffer from migraines.  They have gotten worse over the years.  A few years ago, an old white male ob-gyn cheerfully told me that my migraines should go away after menopause.  I have since moved on to another ob-gyn (not that I need the “ob” part anymore).  His name is Dr. Jew.  He is a great doctor and lovely man and, yes, I would go to him in any event because of his name.  Why?  Sometimes you have to laugh at the odd twists and turns of your grandmother’s every dream — a Jewish doctor.  In this case, the doctor’s last name is Jew.  He is Korean.  But I digress.

Back to my migraine.

I had a blow-out one yesterday.  The aura — no peripheral vision in my right eye, tingling in my legs — made me reach for the prescription medication and not just “tough it out”.  If I take the medication in time, it can really blunt the pain and limit the duration.  I got home at 6:30pm and took to my bed in the dark.  POB (partner of blogger) and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) came home a little later.  I crawled out of bed with my sunglasses on (migraines make me sensitive to light) and looked like a holdover from Halloween celebrations.  I think I scared my son more than any Headless Horseman could.

Anyway, I had to go back to bed because it was all too much (those with migraines can understand) but I was feeling helpless and useless and getting angrier at my migraine (again, those with migraines can understand).  So, I put on my sunglasses, turned on my laptop to read up on new ideas for prevention.  Instead, I read, www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/79402.php, which essentially says that having auras correlates to higher risk of stroke and heart attack in women.  I emailed it to Dr. SOB (sister of blogger) and, overwhelmed with this new information, I drowned even further in self-pity.

Luckily, SOPOBAB (who, at 8 years old, is sometimes a better doctor than Dr. SOB) came in and kissed me so that I would feel better, but really he wanted to tell me in full voice about some new train magazine.  Wallowing was over.  Happily, so, too, was my headache.  SOPOBAB is really good medicine.

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Family Album

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I am the archivist for my original nuclear family (FOB (father of blogger), MOB (mother of blogger, may she rest in peace), SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of SOB).  And of course, for my nuclear family, POB (partner of blogger) and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger).  I also have archived pictures of some of POB’s extended family.

After struggling to identify people in old photos, I decided that we need to catalogue pictures with names because the people who would know are forgetful or “no longer with us”.

So, I upgraded my iPhoto program so now I have face recognition software.  I will have to press FOB about some people; MOB would have known.  Thank Goodness, Aunt Betty was at FOB’s party and helped with some identifications.

Still, there isn’t room for the stories behind the pictures, but I will work on that next.

But there are some people in these photos who were important at one point but turned out to be rotters.  But if we don’t name them, then later generations might think they remained important but their names were lost to history.  THAT won’t do. So we have to name them, but in a way that conveys the backstory.

In the pictures of my sister’s wedding, there are many – dare I say TOO many — pictures of the one-time fiancé of one of SOB’s dearest college friends.  Subsequent to the wedding, problems arose and we took to calling him Stan (not his real name) so that if they patched things up, we could revert to his real name without negative attachments.  (Brilliant idea by HOSOB.)

Well, they didn’t patch things up and he is figuring TOO prominently in the wedding pictures.  (see back story http://40andoverblog.com/?p=1907)  Just to call him “Stan” would only convey his loser-ish behavior to very few people in the family, leaving subsequent generations to think his name was Stan and there is nothing more to the story.  No, this will not stand. He was horrible to a dear friend of SOB, whom we have all known for 30 years and, despite her Republican party identification, is FAMILY.  Every time he ruins a perfectly good wedding picture by his mere image in it, I become enraged.  Yet, I am a mom, so I have to be careful how I characterize him (i.e., no profanity). I tried out a name, but I wasn’t sure.

As I was doing the endless name recognition (10,000 faces can be daunting), SOPOBAB was looking over my shoulder and asked, “Who is ‘Stan the Loser’?”  And so I explained to the next generation the sins of Stan.  And now the back story won’t be lost.

And then I knew I got the name just right.

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Mi Cherie Amour

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On Thursday afternoon, I slipped into the bathroom of my office and transformed into a girlie-girl.  I traded my clogs for pantyhose and heels and my turtleneck and blazer for a sleeveless black number that swirls when I walk, along with some serious bling and a full face of make-up.  POB (partner of blogger) insisted on the serious bling (she wanted anyone who might flirt with me to know I was expensive).  G-d bless her to think that someone at this outrageously hetero event (for which I was dressing up) would even look twice at me.

Of course, I ripped the hose as I put them on and — uh oh — this was not my pair of hose.  POB and I are different sizes, so I felt the sli-i-i-i-ide down below my waist happening almost immediately.  Ripped and sliding.  Dressing up is always epic.

The event was a fundraiser for one of the most worthwhile organizations (outside of refugee relief) — The Hole in the Wall Gang camps for kids with life threatening illnesses.

I left my office to meet a colleague who was flying in for the event.  We were going to the pre-party that started at 5pm.  Nothing like alcohol at 5pm for pickling your brain.  And goyishe hors- d’oeuvres — meat and cheese or pork.  Not even mixed nuts for the Jews.  I realize this is going to be a long night featuring a liquid buffet.  And that is so not my cultural upbringing — run out of booze, ok.  Run out of food? Change your name and leave town because you’ll never live it down.

We attended the main event — a concert at Avery Fisher Hall, featuring Meryl Streep (looking fab without plastic surgery), Emmy Lou Harris, John Cougar Mellencamp, Bill Cosby, Lyle Lovett (I kept thinking, Julia Roberts, really?), Bette Midler (who got middle-aged), Renee Zellwegger (she looked so much better before all the plastic surgery) and Stevie Wonder.

More important than these luminaries were the campers who helped emcee the show, and the video of Paul Newman, who together with Joanne Woodward, founded these camps.  One of the campers belted out “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”.  I think everyone was crying.  Here is a terminally ill tweenager singing THAT song.  A song of the downtrodden, the sad, the defenseless, those with hopes and dreams that seem destined not to be realized.  THAT song.  My heart ached and my mascara ran all over my face.

Paul Newman (may he rest in peace) was so eloquent — in the video made some years ago — about why he started these camps.  (I am paraphrasing, but I recollect it this way:)  “I have been lucky all my life and I wanted to help people who only knew the other side of luck.” He is a good man but I hate his salad dressings.

He looked at luck as a zero-sum game.   And if luck is a zero-sum game, then our luck means someone else has less (or no) luck.  Contrast that with people who say today, “I make my own luck.”  As if to impart that those who are “unlucky” don’t deserve success.  Ok, let’s super-impose this paradigm on children.  Can anyone with a sense of humanity say to a terminally ill child, “you could’ve made your own luck”?

Surely, we can share our good fortune — our luck — with the children.  The children.

Of course the evening got lighter when Stevie started playing Cherie Amour and a few other standards.  My colleague and I were standing and singing in Avery Fisher Hall while everyone else politely sat.  After an evening of ill children with fight in their hearts, it was good to be on our feet and singing.  It was life-affirming.

There was an after-party.  Cheeseburger sliders were served.  Really?  Goyishe v’hetzi (150% non-Jewish).  Still with the vodka drinks.

There was a Motown band and singers who were awesome.  I dragged my colleague out on the dance floor.  I told her, it’s New York, no one cares if two women dance.   We totally rocked out.  Of course, at that point my hose were dangling dangerously low like the pants on some young men and I was scared that they would just drop.  And it was getting late and really I wanted to get home, get in bed and feel the serenity of having my family safe and asleep around me.  We were waiting for Stevie Wonder to show up at the after-party so my colleague could meet her idol.

Finally he showed up and she was star struck and frozen in place.  The batteries in her camera ran out.  I had to elbow my way to spend a few minutes talking to Mr. Wonder while I motioned for her to get next to me.  Mr. Wonder’s bodyguards were concerned that I was doing something dangerous and were ready to drop me.  Finally she got near enough to put her hand on his shoulder and I snapped the photo using my blackberry.  I thanked Mr. Wonder for his patience (and holding on to my hand for what seemed an eternity as my colleague got close) and the conversation and I receded into the crowd.

My colleague is on Cloud Nine.  We have bonded.  I can call her “friend” now.  Without a hard-headed New Yorker, she would not have even gotten close to Mr. Wonder.  As a friend, I tell her, “I have been in heels for seven hours, my pantyhose are almost falling off, and I need to go home now that we have a picture with you and Stevie Wonder.”  I am walking you to your hotel and I am throwing myself in a cab.  The alternative is to put a sign on you that says ‘return after 3 days to . . . .’  I would get to sleep but I would get fired.  So you decide:  How is this evening turning out?”

Having gotten a picture of Stevie Wonder, she didn’t put up a fight.  Thank G-d.  I got her back to her hotel and in 15 minutes I was in my comfy apple-green jammies in my comfy bed and ready to sleep.

I laughed, I cried, I danced, I shook hands with a celebrity, I was moved to help others.  A great day.

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Play dates

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Yesterday, my son had a friend over in the afternoon.  The ground rules were no electronics — no computer, no video, no TV.  His parents are rather concerned about the amount of time he spends on Wii and on the computer generally.  So, low-tech play date.  No problem, right?  Now, remember it is 2010 and we are taking about an 8 year-old and a 10 year-old.  BOYS.

First my son refused to stop what he was doing when his friend arrived.  His friend was kneeling in front of the Wii remotes.  Ok, ok, ok.  POB (partner of blogger) took out all of this cool building sets, some even have circuitry (electric ok, but electronic, no).  No one tried anything.  Variably mournful and angry eyes were watching us.  I started helping the friend put some circuit boards together and we made lights flash on and alarms ring.  Just like those awesome kits that you could do at camp if you brought an extra $5 dollars which in 1972, was a lot for an 8 year-old.  We were having an awesome time although my son was still pouting by reading train books, hoping that I would cave and let them watch a train video.  Nooooo. Then his friend got up and knelt by the Wii again.  I said no, and we had a tense moment when he kicked something over angrily.  We walked back into my son’s room.  At that point, the friend tried to make conversation with my son, but my son, who figured he was punishing me by being rude to his friend, was unresponsive.  So I sat down with this friend and played scrabble and asked my son to help me.  Finally, finally, my son decided that fun was a good thing to have and they started to play together.  Phew.  All is good, right?  Ten minutes later, “we’re booooored.”  Really?  Really?  With all of the toys in this house, you kids can be bored?

Then I remember what withdrawal was like when I quit cigarettes.  And, I realized that neither of them bargained for a non-electronic play date, although we did tell our son the ground rules.  So, in a lapse of parental judgment, I started a pillow fight in the living room with the couch pillows — some cushions, some just decorative.  All fair game.  POB looked on in horror and amusement as there were many near-misses with the lamps, etc.  But the humans were each in one piece.

They were able to amuse themselves for a little while.  But the electronic-free play date was running a little too long for anyone’s patience, let alone those of pre-tween boys.  Recently, I bought a Star Wars light saber to match our son’s (Mom, please forgive me, for buying something that is a weapon, but your grandson is a boy.)  My son didn’t want to play but his friend did.  So, I handed him a pair a protective glasses (see, Mom, you did raise me right) because I cannot live in a world where a child is blinded while playing while fencing with light sabers in my house.  Ok, I never, ever, imagined that I would be condoning, much less partaking, this behavior, but, sometimes, one has to stand less on principle in order to survive your child’s play date.  Then the boy’s father came to pick him up just as he was striking me in the gut with his light saber.  Score one for Luke Skywalker.

Luckily, POB and I had a dinner date with our machertunim (the parents of the girl that our son is intent on marrying).  Machertunim is the Yiddish word that describes the parents’ relationship when your children are married to each other.  This play date also did not have electronics.  We coped very well with these parameters, since we have great fun talking and laughing, and there was wine and great food.  Did I mention the wine?

Both play dates were fun.  But I suspect that they won’t need my facilitating non-electronic play dates after a while.  And to tell you the truth, the second play date was awesome.

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Tuesday, The Day My Pampered Child Called Me Lazy

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Ok, Ok, Ok, Ok, Ok.  I am not good in the morning.  Mostly, because I have very unrestful sleep.  All day, every day, I am tired to the bone.  That is just life for me.  I yawn even when I work out because even that much adrenaline doesn’t keep me awake.  I would drink coffee all day if that burning sensation in my stomach or esophagus would quit.  You get the point.

POB (partner of blogger) has been away on business and is coming home late tonight.  Our son remarked that “Mommy will be so tired tomorrow she’ll seem as lazy as you, E-Mom.”  Shock.  Disbelief.  Dismay.  My son is calling ME, lazy?  At first I think maybe he understands the concept through comparison with his own exemplary model of laziness.  But then I realize there is neither an introspective aspect nor an attempt to bond with a fellow lazy person.

This is what “we in the Tribe” would call a Jewish compliment — an insult made less stinging by including someone, i.e., POB, with otherwise excellent qualities in your category of degeneracy.  So, since he has never been around Yiddish speakers or members of the immigrant generation, there must be a genetic component to his uncanny ability to deliver a stinging, yet subtly amusing Jewish compliment.

I would have appreciated it more had I not been appalled and yelling.  Yelling is the one throw-back parenting technique that is still grudgingly allowed by the good parenting police.  But it can only be used when you have had another stressful day at the office, working ever harder to mute the effects of a bad economy on your sense of self-worth and your ability to provide for your family.  So, I properly invoked the technique.

But then I know that my son was just expressing things as they appear to him, unencumbered by a social filter.  I know that others his age have some form of social filter.  My son is different that way.  And most times we work through the issue without my resorting to yelling, “how dare you say something like that?”  My son was a little freaked out but not the least bit bowed by the event.  Only now I have to put me in a time-out and have a serious talk with me about my behavior and how to channel my emotions in more socially acceptable ways.

And my son?  He had dinner, shower, books and music before bed.  I told him I love him and nothing changes that even if I was angry at what he said.  And I do love him, and I always will.

But I am NOT lazy.  (Ok, not compared to him.)

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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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Dad at 90

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So, Saturday is the big birthday celebration for my dad who turned 90 this week.  SOB (sister of blogger) told me I had to give a tasteful toast.  (Did she think I was going to give a bawdy bachelorette party toast?)

I have been having the hardest time coming up with something to say.  I don’t want it to dwell on the past because it sounds to funereal, but there is more road behind than ahead, if you see what I mean.  My dad did promise me that he would live to 120, just as Moses did.  Some days he is up to the task; other days, not so much.

Dad is not someone who is comfortable in the spotlight.  He always referred to himself as Mom’s husband. But people are drawn to him by his effusive optimism, unassuming nature, cheerful disposition and kind heart.  (He also makes us crazy by recounting every little ache and pain and digestive discomfort.)

Most of Dad’s nieces and nephews and dear friends (who are still alive) are coming to the party.  In some ways it is the gathering of the clan in honor of an elder.  He is the last of five brothers who lived the American Dream in varying degrees of happiness and success.  He and his sister-in-law, my aunt, are the last of a generation.  They will have seats of honor.

But really his birthday is about us — his family and his extended family and what his generation meant to us and how we define ourselves as more than a family — really, a clan.  He and our aunt form our link to our heritage  — they are the last of our family’s Yiddish speakers, they are the last to be born into poverty and ride the rising tide of the American Century.

We stand on their shoulders as we do on the shoulders of our uncles and aunts who are no longer alive.  They made possible our lives and our choices.

Of course, it IS about Dad on his birthday.  I hope he looks back with satisfaction and wonder at his years so far, and I hope he doesn’t think that this party is the coda, but rather a reflection point on a continuing life well lived.

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