Tag Archives: family

The Apple Fell Not Far From the Tree

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I think about my mother, z”l [may her memory be for a blessing] every day.  I always draw strength from those thoughts, although they are sometimes tinged with humor or sadness, but always with gratitude for her life among us.

I reminisced about her with colleagues.  It wasn’t maudlin; it was apropos of the conversation and we laughed at her antics.

My mother was the epitome of discretion and a vault when it came to secrets.  However, if you asked her a question or her opinion, be ready for her whole truth and nothing but her whole truth.  Mom never thought she cornered the market on “Truth”, but she did believe everyone was entitled to hear her version of the truth.

A number of weeks ago, during a conversation with my sister, I stopped mid-sentence and said, “you’re thinking what life will be like when I lose my already limited ability to censor my thoughts, right?”  She nodded heavily, somewhat overwhelmed by what the future held in store for us.  My sister is the epitome of discretion and the vault for secrets.  While I dabble in discretion (and must be a vault as a lawyer), she inherited the qualities that allowed Mom to opine with impunity.  I just opine with impunity.  Look, Mom’s genes were allocated to three children.  Together we make a clone of Mom.  Separately, we struggle a little.  So, let’s accept that stuff that comes out of my mouth sometimes must be followed by a whisper (from a sympathetic witness), “she means well.”

It is hard to generalize about Mom’s more emphatic ways, so here are some specifics.  When Mom was well into her 60s, she joined an abortion rights picket of then Cardinal O’Connor (now deceased).  My mother started the chant, “keep your rosaries out of my ovaries!!”  Ok, it isn’t always easy to have a Mom who says things like that, but it certainly awesome.  Or, the time, she got up from her seat on the bus and move over to a young man who seemed foreign-born.  She put her hand on his forearm and said, “You’re such a good-looking man.  Why must you pick your nose in public?”  It turned out the guy ran the newspaper stand near where my parents lived and, whenever Mom passed, he would run out with a free magazine.  Mom always declined, with “You have rent to pay!!  Stop it!!”

My mother always believed that you opened your home to those in need or without family.  Needless to say, since Mom’s death, I have discovered that some of my “cousins” are related only by love and not by blood.  Mom taught us that love makes a family — nothing more, nothing less.

Mom believed that each person should leave the world a little better for that person’s having lived on earth.  She helped found New Yorkers Against Gun Violence, an organization that thrives today.  She helped plan the silent marches on Albany, NY, and Washington, DC, because people needed to visualize the empty shoes representing all who died from gun violence on the streets of America.  She loved America and only wanted it to be an ever-shining beacon of hope.

So, in the end, I only got her directness and inhibition about saying her truth.   My sister has her discretion.  My brother has some of her activism (ok, before he moved to the Republic of Texas and had a family but at least he is a Democrat).   My sister was right to shake her head, wearily.

SOB (sister of blogger), it is just going downhill from here.  Be afraid.

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From Ben to Bust in 234 years

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Benjamin Franklin, a rock star of his generation, said, when signing the Declaration of Independence, “United we stand, divided we fall.”  Our founding fathers and the colonies, united, defeated a great and mighty empire.

Throughout our brief yet notable history, the cities of our nation were known for the dog-eat-dog way that fellow citizens treated their neighbors, eschewing the cornerstone of religious faith, all the while claiming to be part of the most upright of Christian nations.  But, outside the cities (or so I would like to think), neighbors helped each other and generations of families lived together, all working to keep everyone afloat.  Maybe it is the romantic myth of the heartland.  But, I am buying it, lock, stock and barrel.

Today, we live in a society where people are more worried about their morning lattes than they are about ending our two wars, reducing our crushing debt and the stopping all politicking, all of which threaten to bankrupt out nation.

There is no silver bullet cure for our woes.

I heard today that people say that the Congress should not have saved the 300,000 teacher and firefighter jobs because their unions are too strong and teachers earn too much for doing too little.  Ok, so, make the unions feel some pain, but does that justify keeping the Bush tax cuts for the wealthiest Americans?  The illogic is frightening and delusional.

So the great experiment started in 1776 is rounding the drain because of greed and me-first-middle-and-last mind think.

Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but I will forgo my Bush tax cut that I never wanted and didn’t need to pay for health care and to start reducing the deficit.

How about this:  we make giving up the tax cuts voluntary.  Just like the optional $1.00 gift to Wildlife Preservation (or is it public campaign finance?) on our tax forms.  Just put a line item on the 2010 tax return that says, “This is how much more you would pay if the Bush tax cuts lapsed.  Do you want to pay this amount (a) to reduce the deficit, (b) to pay for health care for the uninsured or (c) 50% to each?” and publish the list of people who contribute to these funds.

Maybe neighbors will embarrass neighbors into paying the money (because if you’re not on the list, either you’re selfish or you don’t make enough) or we have a pledge drive and use positive peer pressure.

Either way, Mr. President, I am with you for letting lapse the tax cut I never wanted and our nation couldn’t afford.

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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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Sunday night dinner with the family

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As usual, SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of blogger), DOB (dad of blogger), COB (cousin of blogger), POB (partner of blogger), Blogger and our son have dinner together at our house on Sunday nights.  Our son calls the crowd, the “Regulars” (as in, “[Blogger], are the Regulars coming over this weekend?”).  Often, after a funny story told by one of the assembled family, our son sometimes says to me, “[Blogger], why don’t you blog about that?” (Put that under the category of “Kids Say the Darndest Things”.)

Fresh Direct was scheduled to deliver groceries between 4pm and 6pm.  DOB came at 4pm; Fresh Direct came at 6pm.  In fact, as DOB ages, he is coming earlier and earlier.  I think that is why restaurants offer early bird specials — the elderly set factor in so much time to get where they are going that, even though they intend to eat dinner at 6:30pm, they arrive at the restaurant at 4:30pm.  So, if my rough calculations are correct, in just five short years, when DOB is 95, he will be showing up at brunch time.  So we will have to have new menu options by then.  Fair warning.

As I said, the Fresh Direct delivery came at 6pm.  In our house, we play FDF (Fresh Direct football), which means that I throw non-glass groceries to our son, who runs it into the kitchen where POB puts them away.  Sometimes, I follow in pursuit for a two-hand touch tackle.  For glass (and milk), I do a pass off and our son runs it in.  Less yardage but the quarterback can’t always pass.  Sometimes, the vegetables look a little mangled and bruised if the pass is incomplete, but it still tastes fine.  POB is unconvinced but keeps her opinions in the “if looks could kill” category.  That works because I just look away.

SOB and HOSOB were at the house while we were playing FDF and SOB was a guest quarterback for a few clutch plays.  I could tell she was a bit overwhelmed by the number of boxes and volume of foodstuffs that required cooking and preparing.  SOB and HOSOB have been married for only a few years and, before that, SOB mostly lived alone and out of prepared food cartons.  Even now, their refrigerator is a little post-apocalyptic (see http://40andoverblog.com/?p=2355 for pictures).

The expression on her face as she looked at the Fresh Direct boxes suggested that she found this somewhat foreign cultural activity charming and said to HOSOB pointing to the now empty boxes, “Groceries. [pause.]  Groceries.  We should have groceries, too!”  (Dear SOB, most people buy groceries.) 

HOSOB, looking a little scared, said “What would we do with them?”  Oh, sweet, HOSOB, you and SOB can do nothing with groceries.  You need to stick with what works — take-out.

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Dear Mr. President, please read the Judge’s opinion

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I accept (but disagree) with President Obama’s view that marriage should be between a man and a woman, as a matter of personal religious belief or doctrine.  But I do not accept that view from him in his capacity of head of state.

As to the legal issues, if one reads the opinion striking down Proposition 8, it clearly sets out the correct legal premise that the state gives the marriage license and that it need not be consecrated in a religious ceremony.  Celebrants of the various religious faiths need not perform same-sex marriages, but it is irrelevant to the actions of the state.  The USDA certifies pork and pork products, but many religions prohibit the eating of pork. http://40andoverblog.com/?p=2124

What is the real legal issue?   Equal protection under the laws. 

As to the social issues, I don’t want anyone’s tolerance.  I refuse to rely on someone else’s good graces and “open” mind in order to live my life.  

 

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Bill’s and Hillary’s redemptive moment

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From what I read — how can one avoid it — the details of Chelsea’s wedding were better kept secrets than, say, our troop deployments in Afghanistan (thanks, WikiLeaks).

Good for them. It was Chelsea’s wedding and not a media event.  The Clintons, who have a love-hate obsession with media, kept it real.

Chelsea was the star of the show (and NOT Bill or Hillary).

I, for one, am glad not to know all the details.  I am neither family nor friend AND I don’t care what the bride wore or who was/was not invited.

I do wish Chelsea and her husband much happiness and joy in their lives together, as I would wish any newlyweds (whether or not the union is recognized by the laws of the several states).

But, Bill, really, don’t you feel a tinch bad about the Defense of Marriage Act?

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Parenting Skills (or lack thereof)

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My son likes to play the lottery.  He is 8 years old.  Ok, he likes us to play the lottery for him.  Which we do every month or so.

Why? If he wins big, he reasons, then we don’t have to work, or travel for work, and then we would get to be together 24/7 and end up killing each other.  (He doesn’t think about the last point.)

He has another reason.  He is endlessly fascinated by the rub-off function of finding out whether you win and by the incomprehensible instructions.

He has been winning some and we let him keep his “profit” — we take back the principal and he gets to put his winnings in his piggybank.  I have been thinking about teaching him about the cost of money — interest, exit fees, prepayment penalties and premiums — as well as keeping track of his losses so that we get repaid all of our principal before he takes a profit.  Real world stuff.  Most of my friends think I am nuts.

But I really want him to know that there are losses associated with the lottery and that he could lose more than he makes.  He needs to know that this is really not a feasible game plan for a self-sustaining future.  Also, because he is too young to have learned the lesson, “if it is too good to be true, then it is, and you need to run as fast as you can in the other direction.”

I have been thinking about how to introduce this subject without sounding like the Grinch who takes pennies from a child.  Then, the other day he asked, “what is addiction?”  We asked him why he asks and he said that on the back of lottery tickets, they write about getting help for gambling addictions.

Ok, a cool piece cardbard with potential prizes hidden all over has now spurred my 8 year-old to ask about addiction.

My son opened the door to the conversation.  POB (partner of blogger) and I walked across the threshold and gently talked about it.

So the biggest asset in the my parenting skills? My son.

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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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A Bar on the Side of the Road of Life

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Our goddaughter is in the midst of taking the bar exam — a two- or three-day hazing ritual — so that some day soon she will have the dubious honor of practicing law with a license. (In our family, many consider themselves lawyers even though actually allowing them to be licensed would be tantamount to yelling fire in a crowded theater.)

Any way, back to our goddaughter.   She’ll do fine.  She is smart and capable.  And those are not even prerequisites — have you looked at who gets admitted to the bar?  And then what percentage of those also get put behind bars (at penitentiaries)? 

Anyway, my sweet, I can’t wait to welcome you to the club.  Just remember, it is just a bar on the side of road. 

Life is bigger, wider and better than any heights of any profession.  I know you know that.  But you also know that, as I am in loco (LOCO) parentis in the State of Blogger, I must tell you anyway.

POB (partner of blogger), SOPOBAB (son of POB and Blogger) and I love you and POLTB (partner of lawyer-to-be) VERY, VERY, VERY much.

~ Blogger

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