Another year, another synagogue retreat

Posted on May 2, 2011 by 40andover

This year’s synagogue retreat didn’t provide as much blogging material as last year’s. But I have a gift of missing the whole point of a spiritual retreat. But someone said that G-d is in the details. That can’t be correct; see below.

The retreat started the same as last year, with the welcome sign that dared me to wreak such havoc that the sign would be revised to read “Maybe we are blessed by your arrival”.

Next year, I hope to report back that my efforts were successful.

The theme of the retreat was “transitions”. Actually, throughout the retreat, there were some really poignant and insightful observations as to certain life cycle and relationship transitions. Even I have to admit (grudgingly) that the discussions and religious services did strike chords in me.

There was a specific emphasis on inclusion of members of the transgender community and their stories and issues. Accordingly, our name tags listed our preferred pronouns, such as “she/her” “ze/hir” “he/his” “they/their”. My selections were so ordinary:

We got an upgrade from our accommodations last year. As you may remember, we stayed in a bungalow that the forest was in process of reclaiming. Apparently, nature correctly recognized it as a compost before the retreat management did. This year, our accommodations ranked a few levels above girl scout camp:

Ok, maybe just one level above girl scout camp. But we did have a mini-fridge.

The camp keeps the Sabbath and maintains a kosher kitchen. So, no coffee on the Sabbath. A riot almost breaks out each year. I heard someone offer anyone $1,000 for a latte. That night, the same person was offering even more for a shot of tequila, right after everyone found out there was no wine with dinner. Ok, the camp maybe “shomer shabbos” (Sabbath observant) but us visitors, well, not so much.

Also, the food was not so kid-friendly (cholent, quinoa with fruit and string beans, etc.), so one family broke the Sabbath and drove their kids to McDonald’s because the kids could find nothing to eat. Hey, living by Torah means that you can’t let your kids starve. (We packed enough snacks, yogurt and fruit so that TLP (our son, the little prince) would have enough to eat. We also had to rely on this stash.)

But there are helpful reminders to everyone about religiosity, especially in one’s most private moments:

(Same sign as last year, but good material is good material.)

The camp is also a working farm, so we saw Hasidic Jews tending to the goats. There was goatyurt for sale, “blessed” goat cheese, and other kumbaya stuff. In fact, the gift shop offered bottles of essence of peace of mind and women’s cycles.

Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya. Oh, Lord, kumbaya.

I don’t know if POB (partner of blogger) can convince me to go for a third time.

Georgia, long time passing

Posted on April 24, 2011 by 40andover

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

Seder

Posted on April 20, 2011 by 40andover

I am always nervous ahead of our family Seder.

I do some preparation ahead of time, including copying pages of the text (in English and Hebrew) with a theme in mind. This year’s theme was: how is our ancient story relevant to Arab Spring? Dad came up with that. Pretty awesome for a near-91 year-old.

Even though I plan it out and “run it”, I lose control of the Seder almost immediately. Our family’s idea of exercise is a rigorous argument, and it always starts with, “We are told . . . ” and every response starts with a silent “oh, yeah?”.

Almost immediately in the readings (think, “we are told”) G-d says he will stiffen Pharaoh’s heart again and again. (Listen for the “oh, yeah”s.) Ok, let the exercise begin: Don’t Jews believe in free will? If Pharaoh doesn’t have free will, then do any of us? Or does G-d sometimes intercede and constrain free will? And isn’t the concept illusory because how we act in any situation is dictated by our past and learned responses? And can we cast off that prior learning and should we?

I’m telling you, our brains hurt even if our guts were growing from the fantastic meal made by POB (partner of blogger).

(The brisket was delicious. Of course, my Dad couldn’t help criticizing my less-than-uniform carving. But his critique is a necessary part of our family tradition. If he didn’t, I would rush him to the hospital.)

On the Seder table is a Seder plate. The Seder plate contains the symbols of the holiday for all Jews — egg (rebirth and renewal), parsley (springtime), charoset (chopped up apple concoction for the bricks and mortar but sweet because of deliverance), bitter herbs (for the bitterness of slavery), salt water (for the tears of slavery) and the shankbone (representing the blood that was spread over the doorposts of the Israelites so the Angel of death would pass over).

For us, I would add a few more symbols of our family’s festive rejoicing:

זול יין — a bottle of the cheap wine my Dad brings because he can no longer taste the difference (for the record, I wouldn’t even cook with it);

משה בובה–our Moses action figure, complete with staff and detachable Ten Commandments (for the obligatory smashing episode);

שעון עצר — a stop watch because SOB (sister of blogger) gives me exactly one hour and then she shuts down the service, in favor of eating; and

הגדה — the second part of the Haggadah to remind us that we don’t persecute our family by making everyone continue the service after the meal.

Happy holidays to all.

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

Posted on April 17, 2011 by 40andover

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.

Tuesday, the Rabbi ate nothing — almost

Posted on March 22, 2011 by 40andover

A rabbi is coming our house for a visit tonight.

I hadn’t focused on the fact that she might be hungry at 7:30pm, until I got home at 7:15pm.

I have Kosher wine on hand as a general rule. One thing I learned is that if you have kosher liquor, even religious people’s dietary restriction loosen up some.

I scrounge up un-opened Kosher (and Pareve) hummus, kosher tortilla chips, carrots and grapes (what’s not to be kosher about carrots and grapes?).

Ok, now what to put them in? The RULE: Glass plates and bowls because one doesn’t have to worry about whether they are dairy or meat dishes because glass doesn’t absorb molecules of food.

And grapes are self contained fruits so we don’t have to worry about a kosher knife. Phew. Bonus (pronounced “bo-NUS” in a high pitched voice).

But we don’t really have glass plates handy (I do think my Dad gave us a set of 12 that he had lying around but we stored them) and I hate paper plates, so the kosher crackers are ruined by being put on a regular plate. I have bowls for most things, but POB (partner of blogger) already put crackers on an un-kosher (but lovely) plate. I look at her and she looks at me with a “Really?” expression. I say, “we can at least try.” I quickly become Zen about this (because what is done can’t be undone) . . . until . . . the rabbi rings the doorbell.

The minute the rabbi arrives, I offer the Kosher wine. She responds that she looks forward to having cocktails again once she stops breastfeeding her twins. Darn. I ask if she wants anything. “Water is just great, thanks.”

“Water is just great, thanks.”??????

Kill me with a thousand knife cuts. She must see the kosher crackers on the non-kosher plate.

Ok, if a rabbi came to my grandmother’s house and only had water, my grandmother would sit in sackcloth and ashes. There would be wailing and swooning of biblic proportion. If this happened to my mother, she would be too embarrassed to go to synagogue and make us promise not to tell her mother (the wailer and swooner) of this blemish on our good name.

I am not a wailer and swooner and we don’t go to synagogue all that often, so I am left without tribal guidance on the matter. And, of course, I can’t ask anyone how to atone and un-besmirch our good name, because then people would know and talk about it and it would be a SHONDAH (embarrassment) for us in our community.

Even Cyrano had a grape. One lousy grape.

Oh, WAIT!!! She is having a grape!!! The rabbi is eating in our house. Phew.

We averted a disgrace on generations by a margin of a grape.

Now, that’s stress.

The test: day 4 or 5 or so; Purim

Posted on March 19, 2011 by 40andover

I was at a Purim party at the synagogue. At Purim, kids (of all ages) dress in costume. I am not sure why, although in the Story of Esther, King Ahashverosh has a party at which Esther (with the help of Uncle Mordecai) saves the Jews from death at the hands of evil-doer Haman.

It was primarily a kids party with associated adults expected to dress in costume, as well.

The theme of the costume party was “under the sea.” I put on an old blazer that I used to wear to the office, over a t-shirt, sweater and jeans. So, I came as a lawyer and lawyers are often referred to as sharks. So it was a come-as-you-are party for lawyers. The one time being a lawyer has been an advantage.

One of the rabbis asked, “how goes your month of cheerfulness and optimism?”

Uh oh, CLERGY is reading my blog. Actually, that may, in a convoluted way, validate my sometimes sanctimonious attitude.

Wow, this month of optimism and cheerfulness is getting really, really awesome.

Sunday School

Posted on February 13, 2011 by 40andover

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)

Extreme Family

Posted on January 3, 2011 by 40andover

On Sunday, just as we and our apartment were recovering from the New Year’s that was, we had two cousins (children of dear cousins Ricky z”l and Judy, and dear, if young, cousins in their own rights). FOB (father of blogger and their great uncle) joined and so it was a multi, collateral-generational event.

It was scheduled for 11am and then re-scheduled for 10:30am by one of my young cousins, so she could catch a train to get upstate for school. She had lived in New York for a year but in short order we forgot that she is never, ever, ever on time. If this fact was lost to save another, more necessary fact from slipping out of my memory banks, so be it. [As a digression (of course), does anyone else fantasize about have one of those 8 GB memory cards inserted in your brain? Did I just admit that this is the subject of my fantasies? Ugh, my filter was gone years before I could blame age.]

I didn’t even bother to tell FOB of the earlier start time because, as I have discussed before, as a person gets older, a person arrives earlier and earlier at any event. So I knew he would be on time, even early, for the rescheduled time. And FOB did not let me down. I was a little worried that he would be so early as to eat dinner with us on Saturday night, but we aren’t at that stage yet.

POB (partner of blogger) got up early to get provisions. She is a G-dsend and she reminds me of that daily (the memory thing again).

So while the rest of were all assembled at 10:30am (FOB even earlier and her younger brother exactly on time), my little cousin and her NEW boyfriend arrived at 11am. We didn’t realize he was ACTUALLY coming — a little mix-up on that score — but we always buy enough lox, bagels and white fish salad. And we have food on hand if a person is not Jewish — gastronomically or otherwise.

We endured her old boyfriend who was Dutch-Israeli (how did his parents get along long enough to procreate, you might ask, but I really, really can’t go there). You might be having trouble imagining the effect of a Dutch and Israeli genetic mixture? Rest easy, I have your answer: You get someone who tells you his opinions framed as THE TRUTH (there is only one) in a smug and arrogant way. Really, I am not joking. But wait, it gets weirder, the old boyfriend works in the hospitality industry. Let’s pause on that point for a moment because you cannot make that stuff up. There was something undeniably charming about him. But I digress. [Sigh] Yes, I digress AGAIN.

So, bottom line, we were prepared for anything. And quite curious.

Also, just some background on her (right) wing of the family. They are somewhat religious so non-Jewish partners are problematic.

The boyfriend (now, probably, “ex” after meeting us) is not Jewish. Never letting inappropriate conversation get in the way of a family gathering, my other young cousin reported that his grandparents on the OTHER side of the family have issues with their older brother’s relationship with an older non-Jewish woman who has two kids. Pause. I contemplate that both my siblings are happily married to non-Jews and that I, THE LESBIAN, am the only one with a Jewish partner.

Not wanting the new boyfriend to feel toooo bad about this xenophobic-is-it-good-for-the-Jews conversation, I offered helpfully that my cousin’s eggs are Jewish so the family should be ok with a Christian boyfriend (assuming that he wasn’t yet dying to run screaming out the door), but of course we will need some of his blood in order to make wine for Passover.

Did I really mention the blood for Passover wine? Happily I can say, with little or no guile, that I honestly don’t remember. Maybe I don’t want that memory chip after all. [cheesy smile]

Holding fast to the old and ringing in the new

Posted on January 2, 2011 by 40andover

Over New Year’s, my worlds collided in the most spectacular way.

We hosted our group of friends who have rung in the New Year together (in various iterations) for the past 8 years. Our god-daughter (at whose wedding I will officiate this year) joined us this year and made a DELICIOUS confection that made me wonder anew why she is a lawyer and not a baker. So, our nuclear family was complete (except for her partner who was stuck in THE HEARTLAND).

So, it would seem that it couldn’t get better than this. And you’re right. Except people from those dear, sweet (and sometimes naughty) childhood summers also guest starred.

First, a day before New Year’s. This person is a dear friend (her handle is Janet2) whom I never see and yet to whom I feel bound in this deep abiding way, so much so that if she showed up on my doorstep, penniless, I would take her in, without a question. Maybe because she and her three sisters (one of blessed memory) and my sister and I shared summers — among us all — for maybe 18 years. Maybe also because her father and my uncle served and were scarred in the War together and her parents (now her mother) have been a part of my extended family all my life. Maybe it is just, that deep down, there is just a connection that doesn’t need to be explained.

So, my friend is now a really big-deal in the music industry (and if she isn’t, I don’t care, because she is to me) and under the guise of a “family that plays music together, stays together” sent us the hugest package I have ever seen, with two Wii guitars, microphone and drum set. Now I know she thinks I am this really successful lawyer, but it was hell to find a storage space for all of this because we live in a lovely box in New York City — but a box, nevertheless. (We don’t have a suburban den, Janet2.) We will discuss this more in depth as the story progresses. (We do have storage for it, thank G-d.)

Then, because there are only two degrees of separation among Jewish lesbians, a friend called to say that they were coming with one more person for New Year’s and that person knows me from Camp Wingate!!! Another person from camp in two days? The circles of life about which we sang around the Saturday night camp fire are now creeping me out.

Of course, I remember this person, who shows up at my door essentially 30 years later and who looks EXACTLY the same (except, sweetie, the gray roots were showing and only someone-who-know-you-when can tell you this). Almost exactly, except that she wasn’t wearing the Gilligan-like hat that she wore every day one summer as she walked around making wry and far-too-insightful-for-a-ten-year-old comments about the life unfolding before her eyes. It also turns out we both had strangely close, yet chaste, relationships with the same women. But that will be for another blog entry.

So we rang in the New Year, with family and old friends and even older friends (I include the box of Wii stuff as a stand-in for Janet2). But not before I shilled for HOSOB. He is a painter and we are determined that his fame not be posthumous. So, I had him prepare cards with his watercolor of SOPOBAB with an indricotherium (sp?) (from the Extreme(ly Ugly) Mammals show at the Natural History Museum) as a sample of what he could do for those of our party with children. No studio pictures, please. Instead, watercolors courtesy of HOSOB. I really put on the hard sell. I poured it on thick. My house, my Tupperware party. So, eat our delicious food (courtesy of POB) and drink our wine but listen to my shpiel.

Happily, we were all of an age where we struggle to stay awake until midnight and everyone wants to get home almost immediately afterward. We had dear friends and their kids sleep over that night (who can find a sitter on New Year’s Eve?). One of our friends is very technically adept so when the kids woke up at 7am, she got to work on setting up the Wii extravaganza courtesy of Janet2. By noon, SOS was mastering the drums, our friends had a guitar each and I was on vocals.

What I didn’t know is that after the song (from the Beatles greatest hits), the Wii grades your performance. I figured that, not wanting to alienate users, Wii might stop with “Don’t quit your day job.” But no, my vocals were such that I got “human? If so, an abomination.” Don’t worry, Janet2, if you appear on my doorstep, I will take you in AND I will not sing to you because you don’t need to go even lower emotionally. But since you seem happy now, I may send you a tape of my performance. I am way worse than Bob Dylan or Elvis Costello, but their voices also suck. And, I can do a mean impression of both especially Elvis Costello when he looks like he has to pee and is holding it in.

So, let’s sing together the old camp fire song, “make new friends, but the old, one is silver and the other’s gold.” (http://kids.niehs.nih.gov/lyrics/makenew.htm). And those of our childhood are like priceless gems.

Pearl Wolfson, thanks is not enough.

Walkin’ in a Winter Wonderland

Posted on December 27, 2010 by 40andover

Today was the truest snow day ever. 18 inches of snow in New York City. Stalled car and buses every where. Blizzard-scale winds that made me believe in Mary Poppins. Law firm offices closed. Let me say that again. LAW FIRM OFFICES CLOSED EVEN AS THEY TRY TO MAKE BUDGET FOR 2010. Now, that, THAT, is saying something. I live in the City and there was no way I was going to make it to the office except by walking, and the blizzard-scale winds would have taken me way off-course. The Upper West Side of Manhattan is not even plowed 12 hours after the last snowflake fell (don’t they realize that we vote with our ballots and pocketbooks? Has anyone noticed the UWS demographic has changed????)

POB (partner of blogger) was supposed to go east to the beach with our son (SOPOBAB) and his cousin, our nephew. Oh, I think Mother Nature is a teeny tiny bit stronger than the sheer will of POB. Although Mother Nature won, she was bruised and hospitalized. Anyway, my beautiful prizefighter POB thought that we needed to go sledding. I thought we needed to drug the boys (just kidding, for all the Child Protective Services personnel who read this). How else do you keep two rambunctious 8 year-old in check?

So, a-sledding we went. A winter wonderland. Sheer, treacherous beauty on West 108th Street.

As I was fretting about the absence of protective gear while trying not to fall down the hill at scary velocity (I remember all too well flying down the hill with SOPOBAB when he was a littler kid. I also remember buying another life insurance policy the following day, because SOPOBAB would bounce, as children do; I would not have survived another run.)

But, then, life has a way of keeping it all real. A child, whose family apparently fell on hard times (they must have been slumming by spending year-end at home), stated with disgust, “There isn’t even a hot chocolate shack!” If that were my child, he would be enrolled at military school tomorrow. Yes, I am passing judgment (and also stating a fact).

Toto, I have a feeling we are not in Aspen anymore. It was so pathetic and sad at the same time that I couldn’t, simply couldn’t, take a picture of the spoiled brat who uttered that line. Ok, I almost did, but G-d intervened and the battery of my camera failed. Lucky kid, but karma, as we know, is a boomerang.

BUT, THE BATTERY DID NOT DIE BEFORE I GOT A PICTURE OF A SARTORIAL/PSYCHO-SOCIAL TRAGEDY. Before I share this vignette, I will note that my own outfit could remind a person of Pippy Longstocking — everything was mismatched in that way that you wear whatever will keep you warm. In fact, I was wearing a serial-killer hat (depicted in every artist sketch in an all-points bulletin) that made me look particularly deranged and very much like a predicate felon. But that isn’t what I am talking about.

I am talking about an outfit that could scar a child for life.

A MOTHER IN A SUMMER’S PEASANT SKIRT, WINTER JACKET WITH FUR LINING, CARRYING A BRUSHED COPPER COLORED PURSE, TOTALLY IGNORANT OF THE GRAVE EMBARRASSMENT AND LIFETIME TRAUMA SHE WAS CAUSING HER LITTLE SON:

Later she yelled at her son who is out of control as he sled down the hill, “watch your kepilah [head]!!!” as if summoning G-d to deliver her from this pagan ritual that assimilation has thrust upon them. The only saving Grace is that this the Upper West Side of New York, with a Jewish population larger than the whole of Israel. So, we understand. Because was heard these humiliating stories from our parents as part of their own, very personal, Exodus stories.

A bastardized adage still holds true:

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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