Tag Archives: love

Georgia, long time passing

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Dear Georgia:

It has been five years since you gave POB (partner of blogger) your blessing and then left this world shortly thereafter.

It was characteristically non-dramatic and understated: you pronounced yourself satisfied with our first Passover and with the matzo balls that floated.

I was keeping an eye on you (for signs of approval) at that Seder and you looked like you enjoyed the ritual, the discussion and the food.  You looked comfortable and relieved that the traditions would continue for another generation.  Dare I say proud of POB?  I have told POB my observations over and over again so she could imagine it and derive solace from it.

Yesterday, POB and I recited Kaddish on this fifth anniversary of your death.  How is it possible that time speeds by?

I don’t know how close your final resting place is to us and whether you need a telescope.  So, I will catch you up a bit on life after you left.

POB ultimately found her bearings.  For a while it was too much for her gentle heart.  And, she and I, we have different ways of mourning.  I mourn out loud and POB mourns quietly, in a more dignified way.  But that also means so much was bottled up for too long.  I watched, unable to help.  With time, POB re-emerged, stronger than ever.  (We are now more able to navigate our times of stress and unhappiness in a way that brings us together.)

TLP (our son, the little prince) is a marvel.  Sometimes, he speaks like a character in a British novel.  I have to laugh; that is you in him.  I can draw a direct line in the family tree — no dilution in that gene.  He just put on some Persian rock music for me to hear.  He said he really thought the melodies and rhythms were cool.  Need I say more?

TLP and SOSOPOB (son of sister of POB) are deeply bonded and both are growing up to be sweet, smart boys.  That makes us all happy; two kids without siblings reaching out to each other as more than cousins — perhaps, brothers.

FOPOB (your husband and father of POB) is, as you used to say, “more so”.  His personality is getting distilled and some of it is too sharp to let roll off.  Of course, you aren’t here to soften his edges.  He tells other people how proud he is of POB.  POB would like to hear it directly, but I emphasize that the point is that the message gets delivered.

He dotes (to the extent he has that gene) on SOSOPOB and SOPOB (sister of POB).  I don’t think it is always easy for us because while we don’t need FOPOB’s generosity (to the extent that is a noun applicable to him), we would like him to be in TLP’s life.  Nevertheless, we are grateful for his interest in SOSOPOB.  And, the Blogger family is incredibly fond of SOSOPOB.

Your daughters are finding their grooves.  POB gets more fabulous each day.  And, she even looks more and more like you.

Georgia, your line continues, strong and resilient, older (and maybe a little sadder) but infused with your memory.  Please try to visit POB in her dreams.  I know she would like to see and hear you again.

~~ Blogger

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Twas the day before Passover, and all through the house. . .

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It is really the day before the eve of the holiday (because we celebrate holidays from sunset to sunset) but every creature was stirring. Heck, 15 people are coming over.

POB (partner of blogger) made a vat of chicken soup.  She rendered chicken fat which, if you’ve done it, you know that is a disgusting necessity for light, floating matzo balls.  The whole house smells like a barn.  And while we are talking about matzo balls, I need to note for the record that the Blogger family tradition is that matzo balls sink, not float.  Their intended purpose — so say those in my tribe — is to line your stomach for the coming week of no bread and also give you a reason to complain about intestinal issues, e.g., (in a Yiddish accent) “I ate such a heavy matzo ball that it is cement in my stomach, and boy-oh-boy, have I got troubles getting anything out!!”.  However unpleasant, it is my inheritance.

But MOPOB (mother of POB), may she rest in peace, made floating matzo balls.  And since Passover is all about MOPOB (my mother’s memory is invoked on Thanksgiving), we “sinkers” just sigh and “boing” the matzo balls with our figures, wondering if, with a little push, they might sink.  No such luck these past few years.  So part of our Passover narrative (“and you shall tell your children on that day . . . “) also includes the sinker-floater dichotomy, because as surely as there were Israelites on the shore of the Red Sea, they were also arguing about whose matzo was better.  So, it is just in keeping with the tradition.  So I shall tell my child that “on that day” there were no floaters in the land of Egypt.  Ok, that isn’t fair because there weren’t sinkers either.  There wasn’t matzo ball soup.  But history is written by the conquerors and vanquished loud-mouths.  I can live with being in the latter category on the matzo ball issue.

Those of you who aren’t Jewish may not appreciate that importance of this.  This is a divide that can splinter families.  We are talking about our grandmothers’ and great grandmothers’ recipes.  We are talking about the overbearing, tyrannical beings that, upon death, miraculously turned into angels in everyone’s memories.  We are talking about tradition.  [Start singing from Fiddler on the Roof.]  This is big.

But MOPOB’s traditions must prevail.  She was terminally ill at our first Seder in our home in 2006.  She pronounced herself satisfied with the celebration — a high compliment and tantamount to a blessing on our home and us — and then, within 36 hours was hospitalized and soon died.  You can’t mess with that heavy trip.

I needed chairs and an extra table from my Dad.   We had lunch and then went down to the storage bins in his apartment building.  Dad is looking great these days, although slower since his fall two weeks ago.  Still he grabbed the hand truck at the entrance to this scary storage room in the bowels of his apartment building.  Only one light worked.  He and I were feeling around in the dark for his folding table and chairs.  We found them and managed not to fall or otherwise hurt either of us.  Every year we go through this ritual and I make a note to self to remind the doorman about the lighting.  Every year, Dad and I forget.  Every year, we grope in the dark until we find what we need.  So far, it has worked for us.  Tradition.

Tradition.

Tradition.

 

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Life as seen by Blogger, Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is a blessing for all of us.

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Life as seen by blogger

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Maybe you will understand a little more about the inner-working of my psyche after you read the following:

SOB (sister of blogger) and I planned to meet at the gym this evening, where we would silently and companionably exercise on adjacent machines, with me perspiring and her, not so much.  Per the plan, she would hand off some necessary documents to wind up my mother’s estate, thereby completing a highly-charged emotional task in the middle of sweating, grunting people.  Precisely the juxtaposition that would humor Mom z”l.

Then a received a message at the office from my secretary. “[SOB] called.  Nothing urgent.”

I called her back, thinking she was calling to bail on the gym part and set up another rendezvous of the document transfer.

She answered, “Hello?”

I gave my usual “Hellooooooooooooooooooooooooo” response.

Pause. “I’m here with Dad.” Pause.

Already, I am having visions of the ER and heart trauma, because SOB doesn’t just drop by Dad’s in the middle of her ICU work day.  My heart sank.  So this is what she means by nothing urgent?

“He looks ok.  He fell on the street and landed on the right side of his face.  But he’ll be fine.” In fact, my dad at 90.5 years-old is agile and still has some awesome Fred Astaire moves.  But still, he FELL.

She handed the phone to Dad.

“Dad, are you ok? Are you still at the ER?  Did you get stitches?”

“No stitches.  [SOB] thinks I look ok.”

“Dad, give the phone back to [SOB].”

“You mean a real doctor didn’t look at him?” I asked SOB.

“Oh, you mean like a juris doctor, like you?” Ok ok ok ok ok ok.  She had a point.

Dad was checked out and he is fine.  He just has one really bad bruised, swollen eye, made worse by his heart medication that thins the blood.   He fell but he got back up which is the best part.

SOB has a way of sugar-coating things, so as not to unduly alarm people.  But, SOB and I are a team and we need to deal with family issues together.

“Really, don’t come,” SOB continued, “Dad made me take a picture so you would feel like you were here.”

“Wait, Dad wants to tell you something.”

“Yes, Dad?”

“How much do you pay for your eye glasses?”

“why?”

“Because my $35 glasses didn’t break or cut me and I bet your fancy $400 glasses wouldn’t hold up so well.  Would you like me to pick up a pair at Costco for you?  Just give me your prescription.”

OK, there is nothing wrong with my father.  But I didn’t want to tell him that I spend more than $400 on my frames lest THAT give him a heart attack.

Crisis occurred and resolved in 1 hour.  Priceless.

Later at the gym, SOB whips out her cellphone and shows me a picture of Dad smiling with a huge bruise and swelling around his eye.  “Dad says you’re the family archivist, and this is one ‘for the books,’ so here,” she said.

Dad looked bad — horrible in fact, but he was smiling.  I think he was smiling for a lot of reasons, first among them, he is ok.  Second, he only had to call and help was immediately dispatched (albeit SOB).

But there is more.  He understands that SOB and I have this pact to share the funny, the macabre, the good, and the sad when taking care of our family members.  That way, we stay strong.  And his insisting on the picture was his way of telling us he understands us.  And that he is amused by us, too.

So, bottom line, in two hours, he was fine and glad to be home, resting, with his children nearby.  And we get to archive it, laugh and cry about and, best of all, I get to blog a our it. 

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An Olympic Win

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Last night, POB (partner of blogger) and I had our usual Wednesday night date.  POB brought me flowers because I had been feeling down about the world and work (that is, prior to my vow of one month of cheerfulness).

When we got home, TLP (our son, the little prince) was still awake.  He had called each of us earlier in the day to tell us that his team won the finals in his sports group, he scored the winning run and everyone on his team got a medal. 

We rushed into his room, humming the Olympic anthem, as I handed him the flowers and POB found the medal and put it around his neck.  Then I announced, “Please stand for the national anthem.”  So, POB and I stood, with our hands over our hearts, singing (croaking, in my case) the Star Spangled Banner, as TLP looked up from his bed — somewhat shocked and maybe even horrified — with a bouquet of flowers on his chest, hand over his heart and his medal around his neck. 

When we finished, I asked, “hey, buddy, how was THAT?”  I, of course, was thinking we were being totally awesome parents.

“Um, great, E-mom, but I was really hoping for a Star Wars action figure.“

I am still glad I shared my flowers.

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The Test

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COB (colleague of blogger) is tired of my doom and gloom. (Really?  I thought it part of my magnetic personality. . . .)

And that, in and of itself, is shocking, since COB was discussing that the end of the world could occur on December 21, 2012.  Something about the Mayan calendar, Nostradamus and planetary alignments. Not that COB BELIEVES it, or anything.  But he was just putting it out there.

Probably to stack the odds before he dared me to be hopeful and cheerful for one month.  ONE MONTH.

In case you didn’t read carefully enough, I was challenged to be hopeful and cheerful for one month.  (COB is a poker player and probably has side bets on whether I will sink into despair in 5 minutes, 10 minutes or 2 weeks.)

I think it is funny that people are talking about the end of the world being in 21 months away, since Japan lies devastated (and its nuclear rods laid bare) by an earthquake and then tsunami, Libya is in civil war, Bahrain and Yemen are in chaos, the Ivory Coast is a bloodbath, we are in two wars, our deficit is out of control, the recession hasn’t ended for most Americans and we have a dysfunctional Congress, and on and on and on.  Sounds like the end of days now.

BUT, I digress, comme d’habitude.

Back to sweetness and light and kumbaya.   A dare is a dare and I have my pride.  So, forget the images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Forget images of breadlines during the Depression.  Forget the daily carnage for an acre or two of oil fields.  I am going to be happy, hopeful and cheery, Gosh darn it.

So, here is what I did today to make good on the dare:

  • When I was at the gym, I didn’t tell the stinky man that he was curling my nose hairs, as we took turns on the same machine.
  • I made sure that all elderly, infirm or pregnant people on the bus had seats.  (Yes, I know I am too pampered to hang with humanity, but the recession hasn’t ended.)
  • I swore to POB (partner of blogger) that I would take a time-out from the 24-hours news REcycle, where the object is to scare us more than to provide information.  (Note to self:  If Wolf Blitzer or Anderson Cooper is at the nuclear power plant in Japan, it can’t be releasing THAT much radiation.)
  • I kissed and hugged my son, as I asked G-d (and whomever else with power over these things) to protect him from the chaos.

Not bad for my first few hours of Blogger-High-On-Happiness.

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The moment of learning

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DOB (Dad of blogger) brought more pictures of the family from the 1920s to the 2000s.  Quite a span.

I saw two pictures of my Mom attending Cousin Gentle’s Tai Chi class.  She still had hair, so it had to be 1996 or 1997.  It was part of her regimen to control the pain from cancer.  She had such faith in Cousin Gentle, and illness opened her (and the rest of the family) to non-Western medicine.  It was the age of humility for our family.  We learned that being doctors and lawyers was not the only measure of success and that we needn’t exclude ancient practices when western medicine had no answers.

We learned.  We evolved.  We opened our minds and our hearts.  And we resolved we would not close up again when Mom died.  Here are pictures of the turning point of the trajectory of our family:

Together we moved, slowly, in the beat of Tai Chi, to a more open, more humble place.  I remember that time, that moment, when we didn’t have the luxury of smugness and hubris.  We are better for it, although it was sickness that opened our minds, our hearts and our soul.

 

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Sunday School

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My son has a Hebrew tutor on Sunday mornings.  He goes to our synagogue’s bi-monthly Saturday program, but that is more about culture and being part of an LGBTQ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer) community.  (Please don’t ask me to explain bi-sexuality or queer-identification.  Those concepts arose after I settled down and became middle-aged.)

He has 4.5 years until his Bar Mitzvah and he needs to be able to read Hebrew.  I would also like him to understand modern Hebrew, as well, which is about as different from biblical Hebrew as English is from Russian.  And I think it would be more fun and interesting for him.  And that means he would squirm less in class and learn more.  You get the picture and, of course, as with many of my blog entries, it all must end in Kumbaya (this time sung in Hebrew).

Today, POB (partner of blogger) and I took turns going to the gym while our son had Hebrew class.  Since my gym is close to West Side Judaica, I took the opportunity to go in and see about kids’ books that have been translated into Hebrew (POB’s great idea for transitioning into modern-day Hebrew).  I was looking for books like Goodnight Moon or the Giving Tree that our son read when he was young.  He would know the story and be able to connect Hebrew words with its English counterpart and . . .  you get the idea.

I walk into West Side Judaica looking, as one might expect, as if I had just come from the gym, complete with ear buds attached to my iPod.   All Hassidic men in this store.  Can you say culture clash?

So, I ask Shloymi (that is really his name) if he had children’s books.

“Do I have children’s books?  Of course!! I have a beautiful section full of beautiful books!! For every child, I have a book.”

The melodic Yiddisha English is comforting to me because it reminds me of my grandparents.  I decided that his last comment wasn’t a dig at the sad nature of my child’s life since he was not being raised in an orthodox home.  I also decided that I would not be passive-aggressive and mention that we were two lesbians raising a Jewish boy.  I think that admirable restraint deserves an honorable mention and, voilá, here it is.

There were indeed many books.  All in English and all about G-d and wonderful Torah stories that will keep children trembling before G-d.  Greeaaaat.

I ask a younger man, Chaim, whether there were English books translated into Hebrew.

“Ach,” he said, “we have Curious George [really, is that what we export?], we have . . . .”

He pointed me in another direction. I found shelves of books.  The problem is that I don’t speak or read modern Hebrew.  So, how do I know what I am buying?  I look at the pictures.  Like any other illiterate.

Then I saw it!!  The distinct pea green color of the “Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein.  And there is the tree on the cover (the back cover because Hebrew is read left to right).  And then, I read, in the only thing that is English transliterated with Hebrew letters:

של סילברסטיין

(SHEL SILVERSTEIN!!)

Hooray!! Reform Judaism’s redemption in front of Chaim and Shloymi.

My son was not as excited as I about the book.  So I have begun reading it, in Hebrew. Why is this book so important to me?

I bought the book years ago, when our nanny, Leta Murray, died (may her memory be for a blessing).  She was my siblings’ and my nanny for 18 years (make no comment).  I read it and cried, because she was the tree and I was the taking child.  I know she knows that I loved her and still do.  So, I will teach my child, in Hebrew and in English, the importance of being the giving tree and not the taking child.  At least, not always.

מדור לדור

(from generation to generation)

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Elements of Life

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POB (partner of blogger) and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) went to the Natural History Museum today, while I stayed home, still on the “injured list” nursing my still aching back and trying not to feel useless and a slacker (it is ok to be a slacker when you’re not sick or hurt).

They returned in the mid-afternoon and SOPOBAB was so excited.  Not only did POB tell him that we got him the Clone Wars movie, so he would have something special to do while POB and I entertained some out-of-town guests tonight, but he got a new place mat of the Periodic Table in all these cool colors with all these things that were new to him.  “E-Mom, I never even HEARD of some of these things!!”

So we looked at the Periodic Table (click on it) together.

Apparently, when POB and SOPOBAB were purchasing it, SOPOBAB asked about hydrogen and helium, the first two elements, and why they were listed.  POB said that the table represented things that are not made of anything else, like a prime number.  And these were the basic building blocks of everything.  And, that two hydrogen molecules together with an oxygen molecule make water.  And that sodium chloride together make salt.

SOPOBAB got excited. Where are the french fries on the chart?

One person’s element of life is another person’s arterial occlusion.

Later, when we were going over the table together, he said, “E-Mom, I have bad news for you.  French fries are not an element, YET.”

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Calm in between the Storms

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New York, along with most of the rest of the country is under a siege of extreme weather conditions. (Can you sa-a-ay, “global warming”?  I knew you could.)

I think it is part of the human condition to look at events like sappy metaphors.  (Proof positive: the popularity of Made-For-Lifetime-Channel movies.)

So, I think about enjoying the respites between the real snow storms as a reminder that we must enjoy the respites between life’s storms.  There are more and more challenges and less and less easy answers.  There is so much uncertainty about jobs, about global threats, about economic, social and emotional recovery in this nation.  As we get older, we understand that good health is a gift and not a right, and that our days are numbered whether they be measured in days or decades.

Now, I look for the small moments, not the big triumphs.   My son was so excited that I picked him up from school today (his babysitter flaked out a little).  He hugged me and introduced me around.  In the cab (of course, I am such a princess), he said, “E-Mom, this is maybe the best part of today.” I wanted to bottle that (even with the “maybe” qualifier). I wanted to record it to play it back when he is a teenager and he hates me.  No such luck (or quick thinking).  But what a beautiful moment in the middle of the calamity we call the “new normal”.

My son has already forgotten those words, but for me, for me, it made me feel as if all was right with the world.

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