Visit to Seacrest

VISIT TO SEACREST  10/29/15

   Recently, I visited our local Jewish senior “retirement” facility.  I call Seacrest Village a “retirement” facility because most of those living there have retired from their “other lives”: housewife, doctor, lawyer, teacher, sales-person or youth advisor.  That list hardly covers the variety of folks and the specifics of their “other lives”.   Their chosen vocations cover a long list of possibilities as diverse as the many shades of gray that exists in any sampling of today’s population. It is the list of what folks do to remain active, to earn dollars, to keep themselves busy and finally, to express individuality.

   I am considering a move to a facility because I am 93 years old; I live alone. Loneliness finds me too frequently; cooking for myself is a turn-off rather than a challenge.  Though I used to be fussy about the food I ate, I no longer am a gourmet, interested in the top-drawer excellence of the cuisine that I indulge in.  I simply wish to feed my appetite with “healthy” food.

   At Seacrest Village I found good food that satisfied my hunger successfully, there were more choices than I offer myself at home.  That kitchen provides a variety of sandwich fillings that would be impossible at any given time, at home.  I never get to choose between fish and meat at home – I eat what the cook (me) has planned or remain hungry.  A different dessert is possible every night at Seacrest and always there is a variety of ice creams.  No such luck at home.  In the food department Seacrest Village is the winner.  I could never achieve the variety and choices it offers.

   The question that I have to answer for myself, simply put, is “do I wish to move, give up my comfy home and a portion of my precious independence?”  I believe I can still be independent at Seacrest.  I can choose to have one meal a day or two or three.  I can choose to go to an activity or remain at home reading.  I can go to the gym or the pool, or outside for a walk. 

   It will however, be a comfort not to have to plan meals.   There would be little shopping to do.  Perhaps I would shop for “nosh” and have something available for Matt and Judi and my friends, when they visit.

   As I think about it, I would be more independent at Seacrest than I am at home.  A ride to the doctor would more easily be arranged, my contacts and social life would be provided; I can pick and choose.  Things would be easier than at home where I am responsible for myself.  Perhaps a retirement facility would share that responsibility with me.  There would eventually be tablemates as I begin to make friends and find myself sitting at dinner with the same people each night.  If I suddenly did not show up there would be people around who would miss me, maybe even worry about me.  Here at home, it could be many days before folks would realize and say, “I have not seen Ag, I wonder if she is alright”.

   If I go, I will have to break up this warm, beloved home of mine.  I used to say that wherever Erv and I were together, that was home.  He has been gone almost eight years so I guess home is where my head hits a familiar pillow in a familiar bed.  I will take them with me to Seacrest along with a few more well used and loved items.  The rest remains for Judi and Matt to pick and choose what they wish to keep and then I will cut the cord on my belongings.  They are only things;  I will take my memories with me because I need no string around my finger to help me remember. 

Visit to Seacrest

VISIT TO SEACREST  10/29/15

   Recently, I visited our local Jewish senior “retirement” facility.  I call Seacrest Village a “retirement” facility because most of those living there have retired from their “other lives”: housewife, doctor, lawyer, teacher, sales-person or youth advisor.  That list hardly covers the variety of folks and the specifics of their “other lives”.   Their chosen vocations cover a long list of possibilities as diverse as the many shades of gray that exists in any sampling of today’s population. It is the list of what folks do to remain active, to earn dollars, to keep themselves busy and finally, to express individuality.

   I am considering a move to a facility because I am 93 years old; I live alone. Loneliness finds me too frequently; cooking for myself is a turn-off rather than a challenge.  Though I used to be fussy about the food I ate, I no longer am a gourmet, interested in the top-drawer excellence of the cuisine that I indulge in.  I simply wish to feed my appetite with “healthy” food.

   At Seacrest Village I found good food that satisfied my hunger successfully, there were more choices than I offer myself at home.  That kitchen provides a variety of sandwich fillings that would be impossible at any given time, at home.  I never get to choose between fish and meat at home – I eat what the cook (me) has planned or remain hungry.  A different dessert is possible every night at Seacrest and always there is a variety of ice creams.  No such luck at home.  In the food department Seacrest Village is the winner.  I could never achieve the variety and choices it offers.

   The question that I have to answer for myself, simply put, is “do I wish to move, give up my comfy home and a portion of my precious independence?”  I believe I can still be independent at Seacrest.  I can choose to have one meal a day or two or three.  I can choose to go to an activity or remain at home reading.  I can go to the gym or the pool, or outside for a walk. 

   It will however, be a comfort not to have to plan meals.   There would be little shopping to do.  Perhaps I would shop for “nosh” and have something available for Matt and Judi and my friends, when they visit.

   As I think about it, I would be more independent at Seacrest than I am at home.  A ride to the doctor would more easily be arranged, my contacts and social life would be provided; I can pick and choose.  Things would be easier than at home where I am responsible for myself.  Perhaps a retirement facility would share that responsibility with me.  There would eventually be tablemates as I begin to make friends and find myself sitting at dinner with the same people each night.  If I suddenly did not show up there would be people around who would miss me, maybe even worry about me.  Here at home, it could be many days before folks would realize and say, “I have not seen Ag, I wonder if she is alright”.

   If I go, I will have to break up this warm, beloved home of mine.  I used to say that wherever Erv and I were together, that was home.  He has been gone almost eight years so I guess home is where my head hits a familiar pillow in a familiar bed.  I will take them with me to Seacrest along with a few more well used and loved items.  The rest remains for Judi and Matt to pick and choose what they wish to keep and then I will cut the cord on my belongings.  They are only things;  I will take my memories with me because I need no string around my finger to help me remember. 

  LOSS

                      In 1957, I lost my Dad a shocking, painful blow, I was terribly sad; I really missed him!  Mother followed Dad too quickly.  It is not supposed to happen that devastating way.  I had not time to mourn, to empathize with Mother’s torn heart.  And it was deeply torn.  “He needs me”, she wept, “You kids are doing just fine!”  She understood our comfortable marriages.  Her words were meant to smooth the moment when we needed soothing.  I did not understand, she was already on her way to Dad.  She left me no time to weep or to whine. 

                      In two month’s time, she did indeed follow Dad.  That did not rime with the rhythm of my pain.  Only yesterday I felt Dad’s hand holding mine and I still had more questions for my Mom.  Suddenly, she too was gone, she was not there, she landed in my heart along with Dad.

                      Then my dear brother sighed his last in 2007, fifty years after Mother and Dad.  I was not ready then either, he still had much to teach me.  Then to add the final blow, the coup de grace, my beloved Erv followed Ben in 2008!  Erv had lost his verve; he could no longer wait for me.  He broke his promise that we would go together perhaps jump off a cliff, holding hands!  He had to go and leave me with only my memories for company. They continue to glow despite the terrifying blow.  Missing is a heavy weight to bear.  Nevertheless,  I will always honor my dear ones, my lost ones by living, doing, hoping, trusting, remembering and embracing them.

Many Davids

   The Men in My Life              8/12/15

     David & Joel are among my closest friends.  They share their wisdom, their love and their listening ears with me. I cherish and depend upon their friendship.  I do believe that we share each others lives as true friends are supposed to do.  We are interested in on another and always challenged.  They are my brothers.

     Once upon a time I had a brother with whom I shared genes and arguments. He was four years older than I.  When we were children I did not think so much of his wisdom but was embattled more by his huge intellect and his physical strength.  He could painfully twist my arm without breaking it; he could do it and elicit my screams and get in trouble with our Mom.  That big intelligence failed to threaten me as much as it encouraged me to lay back and refuse to compete.  As we grew and became adults, he and I found a developing respect for one another.  I depended upon his political know-how, he stopped treating me as a kid sister.

     I recall the day that he won Junior Phi Beta Kappa, after the excitement simmered down I realized that I was next up.  I made a decision, said to my parents, “Do not expect anything like that from me.”  I met my own mark; I was a good student throughout school: valedictorian in the eighth grade; along the way to college there was the high school honor society and advanced classes, with an easy acceptance to the University of Michigan. Perhaps my brother was a role model that stretched me just far enough to do well, I was also encouraged by my parents to be myself. There is no Phi Beta Kappa in my history, no sense of disappointment either. At the University, I was not the most popular girl on campus, but I had fun; I had a boyfriend whose name was David.  That name has been attached to meaningful men in my life.  Even in high school, there was a boy named David who was one of my best friends.  Today he is a retired Hollywood director.

     Why the name David has an especially warm and wonderful ring for me, I will never understand.  So much so that when we adopted our son, there was no question that he would have the name David.  Because we also wished to honor my husband’s grandfather whose name had been Jacob, we chose Jeffrey David for our son.  His Hebrew name was Yaacov David.

     I did not marry a David.  My husband’s name was Erwin Lee, it too always landed softly onto my ears.  The reason that we did not name our son after my husband, it is against Jewish tradition to name a child after someone living.  Like so many “old wives tales” this was explained to me this way: if you name a child after the living, the Angel of Death may come by and make a mistake.  Davids come and go in my life. At the moment I have a good friend, my counselor who helps me navigate some of the rough spots that occur in life.  Yes, his name is David!

     In these late years of mine, I have found that a friendship with a man is valuable and fun without romance.  Men and women share many viewpoints, but there are huge differences among people; I am always happy to understand another side of the story.  The men in my life today and those there yesterday have always been supportive, helpful and challenging.  I am so grateful to be alive and enjoying my friends. Of course my very best friend was my husband of almost 63 years.  He is a story unto himself.

    

1945

                                                1945             October 3, 2015

1945 was a very good year,

With one exception that’s clear.

FDR died in ’45.

A man who honestly did strive

 

To be the great President who

Saw us through World War II.

He slew the giant, the monster

We called him, Hitler the gangster.

 

Roosevelt kept us safe, unharmed

He really did it and unarmed:

He said,

We read:

       “The test of our progress is not

         whether we add more to the abundance

         of those who have much;

        it is whether we provide

        enough for those who have too little.”

 

I believed in Roosevelt

I liked the hand he dealt.

’45 was a very good year

It brought little fear.

 

‘Twas the year we married

We were in love, never tarried.

Seventy years this month I’ll mark

Each year was a celebratory lark.

 

I score the day quietly, alone.

Sadness will be the day’s mood and tone.

The joy and the happiness I had

Bring memories that make me sad,

 

  Remind me of the great years we shared,

  Recall for me today how much we cared.

  Franklin Roosevelt kept us alive

   in 19 hundred and 45!

 

  Yes, it was a truly special year!

  Though October 7th brings a tear.

 PATIENCE

(bits& pieces from the internet worth sharing)  

My Mother used to quote an old-fashioned limerick:  “Patience is a virtue, seldom found in

woman and never found in man!”  Of course Mother was born in 1890, I trust we have come a distance from that thinking.  Patience, nevertheless, is a characteristic all of us wish to enhance.

It is the ability to remain calm when waiting a long time or dealing with problems or difficult people (Merriam-Webster).   According to Dr Mitch Abbott, a clinical psychologist who works with children and adolescents in the Boston area, there are three Mindful components for building patience:

   1/ Cultivating an acceptance of what is actually happening in the present

       moment, in our reality.

   2/ Getting our thinking clear around the very real fact that everything is

       constantly changing.

   3/ Finally, not getting stuck on believing that you are separate, an

      “island” unto yourself.  

Dr Abbott added, “Patience might not be flashy, but it is crucial to well-being and effectiveness. And it is not something only the Dalai Lama can do. Patience is what modern psychological and brain science would support and it is what you can do while waiting for the next thing – the end of the meeting, your driveway at the conclusion of a long vacation, the salivation and smell of dinner about to be served, sleep before dreams of the weekend’s diversion. 

Impatience on the other hand, pulls the rug from under our best and loving intentions. It is possible to pause and practice patience, try the following suggestions:   

      Does your indignation toward another person feel good?

     How might you learn something from this other?

     Let folks know your riding negative urges and reactions. Some of us refer to it as

     “having a bad day.”

 Here’s to patience, may our store increase!!!           

 

A Cab Ride to Forget

A Cab Ride to Forget                                                       August 2015   

This is a true story. It is a story from the past, a coming of age story. It happened in Cincinnati in 1944. Looking back on the incident from where I am today, is much fun.
      I was a young social worker concluding my obligations to Family Service of Cincinnati. The agency had made it possible for me to go to the Columbia School of Social Work in New York, to obtain my Masters’ Degree. I owed them a year on staff for every year in school. The boy was a seminary student, bright and sure-footed, too sure-footed. He was studying to become a rabbi. I had dated one of his fellow-students. When we broke up, Dan (not his real name) asked me for a date. We went to dinner, had a great time, the evening went well. We talked easily about our undergraduate days at different Big Ten schools: Dan had his Bachelors’ degree from Ohio State University. I was a graduate of the University of Michigan, mortal enemies on the football field.
     When a game was scheduled during the November football season of 1944, Dan asked me to go with him to Columbus, his hometown, so we could enjoy our rivalry and our football teams. I trusted my friend completely, foolishly, I was naïve at 22, had no idea that he had the trip well planned. I was simply eager to go to the game. In answer to my questions, my friend lied in absolutely bad faith. Yes, we could stay at his home in Columbus, yes I would have a room to myself and yes his parents would be at home. I trusted him, I was a foolish innocent girl.
     We took the bus between Cincinnati and Columbus. My friend Dan was a good talker, we chatted all the way as time flew. I was delighted to be with such a bright friendly man and thrilled at the prospect of hearing the Michigan band once again while watching “my” team beat his team. Deep down I knew that Mother and Dad would admonish me: “You are going to his home overnight and you have not been invited by his Mother, you should not go!” I was 22, living on my own and said to my conscience, “we will discuss this later.” It took twenty years before I told my parents about that weekend. By then it was a humorous incident.
       We arrived in Columbus on the Friday evening before the game. His parents had taken a “sudden” trip to Detroit; it was too late for me to raise objections or find a hotel room in a strange city. Of course he entered my bedroom that night. I ordered him out. I surprised myself, shocked him, my fury overtook his expectations. I think I frightened him with my intensity. He had offended me and I let him know it. I am sure his anger-disappointment matched mine. I was trampling his pride, at the time I was shocked, naïve enough to be angry at his deviousness. As he had promised, I had a room to myself. I was a virgin who felt protected by his promise that his parents would be home. We did not even pretend to be in love with each other, good friends, maybe.
     We went to the game together the next day without speaking. I believe Michigan won, that only added fuel to his ire. I do not recall having a meal with him or talking to him on the way home on the bus. We reached Cincinnati at 2 am in the morning. My Sir Galahad paid me back for my refusals. He left me on the sidewalk in downtown Cincinnati to find my own way home in the middle of the night. Dan did not scare me, but the circuitous cab ride surely did.

 

Highway of the Homeless

  Traveling From North to South as Erv Herman Saw it!  August 2015

   Let me tell you about Erv.  Erv Herman was a human magnet!  People, all kinds of people were drawn to him.  If someone with a sense of humor crossed his path, he matched him joke for joke.  Anyone who wished to discuss politics, Erv had an opinion and never hesitated to share it.  He discussed Bible revealing an uncanny memory and sensitivity.  And he adored children; with children he was a pied piper.  They never left him alone in the swimming pool pushing his very own kids out of the way.  In his religious schoolroom, teens stepped over the little kids to get his attention.

   You see, Erv Herman was a rabbi, pastor to the Jewish community.  I mean community in the truest sense of the world.  Wherever this man was, a community formed around him, members of his own flock, of course, but others also turned to him for guidance and counsel. In his congregation in Scranton, he had heard that the teenagers had not related well to his predecessor.  Without commotion Rabbi Erv Herman installed a pool table in the basement of the synagogue. The teens flocked to the temple, Erv had to lock his door when he needed privacy to work though he preferred to play pool with the kids.

   When Erv arrived at his first congregation in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, among the responsibilities that he shouldered, was the “Fund For the Homeless”.  This meant that he was responsible for handing out small amounts of money to the folks who traveled between the North and South, following the weather, jobless, frequently without family, always with a heart-rending story.  Very quickly Erv Herman ran out of funds and asked for more to distribute.  They tried to take the responsibility away from him because he was “too” generous.  He believed each story he was told.  He looked people in the eye and believed that they were telling the truth, always.

   In as much as no one else wanted the job Erv retained the responsibility.  He continued his generosity until one day in his office in Scranton, far from Winston-Salem his secretary announced that there was a homeless person who wished to talk to him.  Erv welcomed the disheveled man in, gave him a seat and sat down himself, to hear his story.  As the story moved along, the man warmed to his rapt listener, but bells were ringing for Erv Herman.  Bits and pieces of the story became familiar.  Erv suddenly realized that the story was becoming very familiar.  Did so many men have sick, lonely mothers in Florida? The homeless man had received help several years earlier on his way North from Winston; years later on his way back down South he again sat in front of Erv Herman in Scranton, worrying over his sick mother.  He furiously denied that he had ever seen this rabbi before, but the secretarial staff remembered him, there was no mistake.

   This time Erv decided to tell the gentleman what he would have to do to “earn” financial assistance.  The older and wiser rabbi made a call to Jewish Family Service and made an appointment for his “friend” to talk with a social worker to get help and perhaps job.  He also called the local shoemaker (a member of the Temple) and arranged to pay for having the man’s shoes fixed. He gave him money for a meal.   After that interview, Erv Herman lost confidence in the people who ran on the Highway of the Homeless from season to season, the man in question took the few dollars Erv had given him for a meal, never kept the appointments, simply continued on his way begging from rabbis to keep himself fed and cared for.  I guess he figured that no rabbi would turn away a Jew. He was correct.  Erv Herman did not stop giving aid to the homeless, he learned to fill only basic needs and trimmed his own expectations.  It is true that a Jew will not turn a fellow-Jew away, but when one deals honorably with people, one can expect honesty in return.  Erv Herman kept on giving despite his disappointment.

  

A Cab Ride to Forget                                                       August 2015

  
This is a true story. It is a story from the past, a coming of age story. It happened in Cincinnati and is too good to keep to myself.
     I was a young social worker concluding my obligations to Family Service of Cincinnati. The agency had made it possible for me to go to the Columbia School of Social Work in New York, to obtain my Masters’ Degree. I owed them a year on staff for every year in school. The boy was a seminary student, bright and sure-footed. He was studying to become a rabbi. I had dated one of his fellow-students. When we broke up, Dan (not his real name) asked me for a date. We went to dinner, had a wonderful time, the evening went well. We talked easily about our undergraduate days at different Big Ten schools: Dan had his Bachelors’ degree from Ohio State University. I was a graduate of the University of Michigan.
     Our schools were big rivals on the football field. When a game was scheduled during the November football season of 1944, Dan asked me to go with him to Columbus, his hometown, so we could enjoy our rivalry and our football teams. I trusted my friend completely, foolishly, I was naïve, had no idea that he had every moment planned. I was simply eager to go to the game. In answer to my questions, my friend lied in absolutely bad faith. Yes, we could stay at his home in Columbus, yes I would have a room to myself and yes his parents would be at home. I trusted him, I was foolish.
     We took the bus between Cincinnati and Columbus. My friend Dan was a good talker, we chatted all the way as time flew by. I was delighted to be with such a bright friendly man and thrilled at the prospect of hearing the Michigan band once again while watching “my” team beat his team. Deep down I knew that Mother and Dad would admonish me: “You are going to his home overnight and you have not even been invited by his Mother, you should not go!” I was 22, living on my own and said to my conscience, “I will tell Mom and Dad about it later.” I was twenty years older before I made my confession.
       We arrived in Columbus on the Friday evening before the game. His parents had taken a “sudden” trip to Detroit. Of course he entered my bedroom that night. I simply shouted, “get out ”; I made my fury over take his expectations. He had offended me and I told him so. I am sure his anger-disappointment matched mine. I was trampling his pride, at the time I was shocked, naïve enough to be angry at his deviousness. As he had promised, I had a room to myself. I was a virgin who felt protected by his promise that his parents would be home. We did not even pretend to be in love with each other, good friends, maybe.
     We went to the game together the next day without speaking. I believe Michigan won, that only added fuel to his ire. I do not recall having a meal with him or talking to him on the way home on the bus. We reached Cincinnati at 2 am in the morning. My Sir Galahad paid me back for my refusals. He left me on the sidewalk in downtown Cincinnati to find my own way home in the middle of the night. Dan did not scare me, but the circuitous cab ride surely did.

   The Men in My Life              8/12/15

     David & Joel are among my closest friends.  They share their wisdom, their love and their listening ears with me. I cherish and depend upon their friendship.  I do believe that we share each others lives as true friends are supposed to do so.  We are interested in one another and always challenged.  They are my brothers.

     Once upon a time I had a brother with whom I shared genes and arguments. He was four years older than I.  When we were children I did not think so much of his wisdom but was embattled more by his huge intellect and his physical strength.  He could painfully twist my arm without breaking it; he could do it and elicit my screams and get in trouble with Mom.  That big intelligence failed to threaten me as much as it encouraged me to lay back and not compete.  As we grew and became adults, he and I found a developing respect for one another.  I depended upon his political know-how, he stopped treating me as a kid sister.

     I recall the day that he won Junior Phi Beta Kappa, after the excitement simmered down I realized that I was next up.  I made a decision, said to my parents, “Do not expect anything like that from me.”  I met my own mark; I was a good student throughout school: valedictorian in the eighth grade; along the way to college there was the high school honor society and advanced classes, with an easy acceptance to the University of Michigan. Perhaps my brother was a role model that stretched me just far enough to do well, I was also encouraged by my parents to be myself. There is no Phi Beta Kappa in my history, no sense of disappointment either. At the University, I was not the most popular girl on campus, but I had fun; I had a boyfriend whose name was David.  That name has been attached to meaningful men in my life.  Even in high school, there was a boy named David who was one of my best friends.  Today he is a retired Hollywood director.

     Why the name David has an especially warm and wonderful ring for me, I will never understand.  So much so that when we adopted our son, there was no question that he would have the name David.  Because we also wished to honor my husband’s grandfather whose name had been Jacob, we chose Jeffrey David for our son.  His Hebrew name was Yaacov David.

     I did not marry a David.  My husband’s name was Erwin Lee, it too always landed softly onto my ears.  The reason that we did not name our son after my husband, it is against Jewish tradition to name a child after someone living.  Like so many “old wives tales” this was explained to me this way: if you name a child after the living, the Angel of Death may come by and make a mistake.  Davids come and go in my life. At the moment I have a good friend, my counselor who helps me navigate some of the rough spots that occur in life.  Yes, his name is David!

     In these late years of mine, I have found that a friendship with a man is valuable and fun without a hint of romance.  Men and women share many viewpoints, but there is a huge difference between the sexes and I am always happy to understand the other side of the story.  The men in my life today and those there yesterday have always been supportive, helpful and challenging.  I am so grateful to be alive and enjoying my friends. Of course my very best friend was my husband of almost 63 years.  He is a story unto himself.

    

  “Ready Set No”!                                                                 August 8, 2015

   I write this for all of my beloved family and friends, for Judi, for Rachel and the others who have expressed their concerns about me, to me and to each other.  I understand those concerns for me and for my future.   I share them!

   When concern, however becomes intrusion, a line must be drawn.  I am thoroughly and completely grateful for the love and fears that some members of my family show for my welfare and my health.  I understand that my age is a red flag.  How can one be past 93 and continue to live alone?  That is a fair question.  Of course I answer that question from my experience.  If “alone” means that I sleep alone and when day is done, I am usually alone, that is correct, that is the way of life that I have studied and crammed for during the last 7+ years.  I wish my family to understand 1/ that I am not afraid, 2/ that over the years since my beloved took off, I have schooled myself in the art of being alone and 3/ that I like my own company!  Incidentally, most important, I have an infinite number of ways to fill my time.   In addition, my friends are always ready to lend a hand, have some fun, answer my questions and my needs.

   I regret that my “aloneness” worries others.  I am always grateful and appreciative to accept guidance, suggestions and help. I know it would be more comfortable for everyone who loves me, to know that I am ready now to be safely stashed in a comfortable retirement facility.  Unfortunately for the concerns of my others, I am not yet ready to give up my freedom, independence and the comfort of my home.  Call me selfish, I do not mind. I believe that we old folks have earned the right to be selfish; so many years of being unselfish have gone by.

   I hope that everyone understands that the decision to move has to happen when I am ready to make it, not when others think that I am ready.  I understand my beloveds believe that it is for my comfort and safety that they know I am ready and should be eager.  When I lose my mental acuity and when I tire of living alone, I will be ready.  Not yet!

Okey-Dokey

                               Okey-Dokey                                                            August 6, 2015
 
Okey-Dokey is a word, a phrase, or a saying that we rarely hear today. I have a friend who uses it constantly. I have heard it from him so frequently that I was motivated to look it up. It is an anachronism that was used and abused in the thirties when I was in elementary school!

   In recent years, I have wondered every time my friend responds with okey-dokey why it sounds so strange to my ears. I believe that he uses it to end a specific piece of our conversation.  It resonates as a mindless agreement, a shut-down:  “OK you have said your piece, I have had enough, now let’s talk about something else!”  My friend succeeds, it does shut down conversation but I am not always satisfied because the implied agreement does not always ring true.   I am uncomfortable with the phrase; the person using it was not around in the ‘30s.  It is his automatic shut down valve and I have to be wise, simply accept it.

   It is almost like using “thee or thou” in everyday conversation today. Okey-dokey was a favorite of those of us who graduated in the thirties.  Those were tough years coming out of the Depression, prewar years when Europe was erupting.  I was just a kid graduating from the eighth grade, heading to high school.  Okey-dokey was perhaps like whistling in the dark.  If you said it and felt it, the world might get off its merry-go-round and provide some sense of security.

   Some words become dated.  I recall that I insisted that my father was “mid-Victorian” whenever he corrected me or reminded me of the boundaries.  That was the worst insult I could safely think of, I used it over and over again.  He simply shrugged it off; sometimes he said he was sorry, he was pleased because I was not cursing.  Today, our young people have a vernacular that is frequently incomprehensible to me.  I ask occasionally what a word means, always happy when the answer does not embarrass me.

   So, perhaps I can simply hear my friend’s okey-dokey and not listen for bells to ring when it is repeated.  Okey-Dokey? Finis!

Rachel Visits

 Rachel  Visits---- July 30, 201

   Rachel is my grandniece, my late brother’s granddaughter.  We are separated by geography, years and even beliefs.  Our hair and stature, however, mimic my Mother.  When my memory reaches for my Mother, I see her at the mirror struggling to tame her curly locks. I also see her directing my Dad on a ladder reaching for something, fixing something that eluded her.  Rachel is short, a few inches taller than my four foot ten plus   perceptive, sure-footed and smart with her hands and head.   She reminds me of my Mom, down to the last curl she tucks into her scarf.

   Her beauty is her own: sparkling skin, sharp, insightful eyes combined with an eagerness to help, to reach out to accept whatever she confronts.  She is the only one that I know who entered Wellesley College as a Reform (Progressive) Jew and graduated as a traditional, strict believer.  Her Judaism evolved from the liberal nature of the Reform Jewish movement, toward the more traditional Orthodox Judaism, requiring stricter observances,  a more encompassing belief system and way of life.  To accomplish that in the relaxed atmosphere of a college campus took a great deal of soul searching and determination.  I salute this young woman whom I love, for her sincerity, tenacity and for herself.

   It should now be clear that I welcomed her visit.  I have written many times how good it is for us (elderly) to have younger friends who embrace and challenge us and never ask if we had a bowel movement today!  Rachel is family; that makes her very special to me. 

   She is also warm and friendly, eager on the one hand to offer assistance and on the other hand, always ready to allow me to do it myself.  She never was insistent with her help, her perceptions allowed her to step back, whether “it” was getting out of the car or reaching something a bit higher up on the shelf.

   My daughter and my friends have special places in my heart.  Rachel’s willingness to take a time out with her “Aunt Aggie” endears her, she enhanced my life by giving me her gift of time, patience and affection.

   Everyone should have a young person in his/her life, a young man or woman who has no personal agenda beyond spending time with an elderly family member.  What Rachel gave to me this week was a willingness to join me in whatever I chose to do.  She was prepared to enjoy with me, at my pace.  We went walking at the beach both days that she was here.  Walking with me can be slow.  When Rachel felt the need for more intense exercise, she let me sit on the bench while she walked faster and further.  As she well knows, I am always happy for chance to sit in the sun and enjoy the ocean as it comes and goes.  That was a treat.

   Rachel in her thirties shows great patience for her aunt in her nineties. Sixty years between us, more or less, it did not mean that we had nothing in common to talk about; we found lots to engage us.  Of course I am interested in the three little ones she left behind in Tacoma, with her Mother and husband Ben. Rachel and her family live in Israel and come to the States, most often in July and August to visit with parents. When I was a bit younger I visited with her in Tacoma, she was to my joy, eager to come and visit me here at home.  I hope she enjoyed doing it, I certainly did.

   Rachel is also a creative young woman.  The wall in my spare room is covered with family pictures.  One afternoon she took pictures of those pictures and then asked me to describe each and identify everyone.  Rachel and her visit are proof positive that the generations can enjoy each other.  When Rachel left I drew a deep breath of satisfaction! That was fun!

  

A Piece of My Mind               

July 10, 2015

   At this late date I have decided to momentarily put aside the Memoir that is filled with the past and start

writing about now.  In my life of 93 years the past is fast fading.  Oh sure there are many stories that I cherish an 

do not hesitate to relay to friends who express interest.   Life for me now however, must be about today.  I must  

live one day at a time, that might be cliché, but when you arrive and survive into the nineties, it is now, today that

really matters.  I am finding that my younger friends support my survival.  They are good for me, we exchange no

kvetching ( complaining), just swap challenges!

   Younger relatives, on the other hand, have little patience with their aging aunt.  That is quite a blanket
 

statement.  For me it is true eighty per cent of the time.  I believe,  if I would just sit back moan a little, allow

others to make the important decisions regarding my future, I might become more beloved.  Sitting back, 

kvetching is not in my nature.

  
   These days trouble seems to find me frequently when I open my mouth to family.  Apparently the wrong thing is said or the right thing is not said.  Recently, my daughter showed me a picture of her son, my grandson who had taken off a lot of weight.  I know I said something like “Great…thanks” and then posted it on the refrigerator.  Judi was offended that I did not make more of a fuss.  We had talked earlier about his weight loss.  I told her that I thought the credit and kudos go to Matt, he is 27 years old and he dieted in prison!  That is awesome. I wrote to him, shared my pride and offered compliments.  Regret I failed to say it all at the moment when Judi handed me the picture!

   Then I called my niece who is piqued with me.  I am not sure why.  I tried to apologize for something I did not understand, she told me she has no energy for forgiving, too much on her plate.  She has no patience with me, or respect for my years.  Perhaps as she and Judi pass into the seventies, eighties and nineties they will discover growing old also has issues.  I ask for almost nothing from them.  It would be more comfortable, from their point of view, if I languished in a retirement facility. I appreciate their concerns, even their wish to see me “settled”.  They must understand I am the one who is responsible for me.  I am still able to make my decisions about myself.  They should hold their tongues, control their anger and let me decide what I am going to do next.  It is my decision until I lose my ability to think straight or I ask them to do something with which they disagree.  Then, “let’s talk”.

   I have no trouble with friends.  They are easy, they know how to be accepting, they know how to listen and they are discreet with advice.  That is the kicker.   I do not wish to be told what to do next before I ask. It is time to stop distributing advice and stop having expectations.  I still am my own person and have every right to make my own decisions and react as I see fit. 

   If I say or do the wrong thing, I am sorry and acknowledge the slip-up.  I too have expectations: I would enjoy some patience, some understanding; softer attitudes, fewer arguments.  In return for those I will be more careful and studiously stay away from playing the “age card”. Of course I am not sure what that means.  I am 93, I find it awesome that I am still here,  I am grateful, expect some understanding and respect, if that is playing the “age card”,  I am in the game!

  

 

 

Trip to LA

A trip to LA……June 30, 2015

  Last weekend I went to Los Angeles.  That is a trip I do not take lightly.  It must be something special for me to sit in a car (with friends) for at least two hours and watch and wait with the traffic.  The traffic can always be an un-chartered obstacle.  Last Sunday morning it was not bad it took us two hours to manipulate the two-hour drive.  We enjoyed chatting, my friend who was the driver was not a close friend, but the drive brought us closer and we became friends in a truer sense.

   Our errand was, at first glance, simple.  We were going to the Awards Brunch of a synagogue, an annual occasion.  The synagogue is special to me. My husband was the inspiration and the motivator that established the place of worship in 1972.  Beth Chayim Hadashim, House of New Life, was established because the gay Jews in Los Angeles wanted to have a place to worship that belonged to them.  Previously the Metropolitan Church in Los Angeles opened its doors and welcomed the group, enabled them to share the church.  As the community grew, there was a need, finally expressed, to have a “place of their own” in which to worship.

   My husband’s job for the Union for Reform Judaism (UAHC at the time) included encouraging and enabling new congregations.  When this special group of Jews applied to him (and his associate) for help, they were eager to do so, even I helped when I could, I never missed accompanying him to a service.  I learned quickly that this was the friendliest, warmest group I had encountered in our journey to support new congregations.

   I frequently tell the story of our first meeting with the congregation.  My husband was scheduled to lead the Sabbath Service while the group was still worshipping in the Metropolitan Church.  As we parked our car and approached the church, the congregation exited the building in a body and came down the tall steps of the church to meet us – more than halfway.  That had never happened before. Usually when we met with a forming congregation, we entered the building and blindly searched for people, for a place to worship, for the niche where we belonged.  This welcome committee of the whole astonished and seduced us immediately.

   I have always felt that the special nature of LGBT communities has to do with the fact that they understand rejection thoroughly; they have experienced it.  Therefore, they will not, do not reject: they welcome and accept as no other group that I have encountered; their arms and hearts are open.

   Since that first day we have shared many happy occasions and watched with pride the growth and development of this special synagogue.  They have established a Herman Humanitarian Award in our names, this year the award for special outreach and outstanding contribution to the LGBT and Jewish organizations, went to Jeffrey Tambor, an actor.  He said, “I am happy to support BCC and the work they do to provide a safe and welcoming place for Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender Jews and all who gather there.”

   It was a grand and glorious day.  Personally I had the opportunity to re-connect with many folks that I have not seen in a long time.  It was very satisfying to participate with a group of warm friends who once were family as well.  Life has improved for so many gay and Lesbian Jews, I am grateful to note.

   When it was time to leave, I wondered who would take me to the train, my driver was not returning to North County.  Rabbi Lisa Edwards said, “no way am I going to put you on a train, we will drive you home.” This is the same woman who had an appointment with my husband the day he died.  When I called and suggested she might not want to come, she asked, “May I come anyhow…?”  She did and she was so helpful to me, I will never forget her kindnesses that day.  And so, she and a friend drove me home last Sunday!  Kindness and selflessness is deeply ingrained in my friend Lisa.  She knows no other way – I am grateful.

ALONE

Alone!

I have been alone since 2008. At that time my beloved husband had enough of his illness and disability, he slowly, quietly, sweetly turned his head away, left me and so many other folks who loved him dearly! I believe that he turned to the wall because he did not want me to see his dismay at leaving. I miss him enormously. I am grateful that he no longer is suffering, but most important I am grateful for the remarkable life he shared with me.
That first night Judi, my daughter worried: could I manage to be alone, she asked if I would be all right by myself. I said that I would and I have been alone since that moment. I find that alone is not awful. I have learned how to “manage” it.
Alone and lonely are two different states. Lonely is sad, when I am lonely, I have to fix it: I pick up the phone and talk to someone about whom I care, not to complain but just as proof that I am not alone in the world! Or I go outside with my walker and find my friends and neighbors. We stop and chat; we are interested in one another’s life and when I walk away I say to myself, “See you are not alone, there is always someone around who will stop to talk, who most likely cares, I am a lucky woman!” Then I saunter back home, having once again proved that there is a living, listening world out there with eager open arms!
Alone carries many fears for many folks. Some fear robberies, break-ins or the unknown. Others worry about making ends meet. I am safely locked into my home and I wear an alarm around my neck that would bring help in minutes. Since I survived the Great Depression I have not seriously worried about money. I am satisfied that I am secure enough.
There are perks to being alone. In the beginning after my beloved died, I hesitated to even recognize the perks; I certainly never verbalized them. I was not fully aware of them either. Today I look back and ahead as well. There are numerous perks: I can eat what I want, when I want; I choose how often I do or do not eat “properly”. I decide when to go to bed, when to awaken, when to eat in or out, whether to watch TV or read; I know when I feel like playing tennis on the Wii or when I prefer to ride my stationery bike or take a walk. Only my doctor cares about those things and I am as honest as a normal person is with her doctor – I tell him almost everything. Often I eat standing up, you know that if there were anyone else in the house the objections would be loud and clear.
Averting loneliness requires that we master the art of being alone. Yes, it is an art. Always there is the choice between whining, feeling sorry for ourselves, lying down with a ”poor me” attitude or moving along. I have never tried the former so I cannot say much about whether it works. I have found that being honest with friends and family is the best thing I can do. Friends are more eager than family to accept this. Family feels required or responsible to tell me how to handle my life and what in its opinion is best for me. That comes with the territory, family cares.
I dig down deeply within myself and attempt to find and validate my true value. I admit to myself, rehearse the talents I have and those I do not. I have learned to value myself, to be honest with myself as I find out who I am. Being alone requires that I look in the mirror and see myself clearly inside and out. I have learned to say to that person in the mirror, “I know who I am, I know what I need to fix and what is valuable about me.”
I know that I am handling this business of being alone rather well because most of the time, I am satisfied with my life. I do enjoy making my own decisions as I learned back in my college days: independence is a wonderful attribute; I have learned to use it well. I thoroughly enjoy it. It is precious to me….
When I am lonely however, I shout, I cry, I scream: "How could you do this to me, how could you leave me!  You always promised to take me with you. But you said that you loved me!

Happy Fathers' Day

My Memory of Dad June 7, 2014 & June 20, 2015

It takes all kinds of Dads to make the world go around and keep kids happy. There are stern Dads, thoughtless Dads, lenient ones and above all there are mostly loving Dads. I had a loving Dad, a lenient one who was always ready to help me with art homework, spelling lists or math. He left the rest to Mom. He was lenient to a point.
Shortly before I married, I had the temerity to climb into his lap one day; I needed a favor. He was a big man and I was a small person. Physically sitting on Dad’s lap posed no problem and he loved it. That is he loved it until I verbalized the favor. As soon as he heard what I wanted his lap disappeared and I hit the floor, astonished. My astonishment did not match his hurt. How dare I ask him for something that way: I was buttering him up, he knew it and was offended. It took months before he gave in and provided me with a railroad pass to visit my beloved!
He and I had an Easter Sunday routine, a date we looked forward to. Every year on Easter Sunday, as our neighbors and friends dressed up for church or for parading on the avenue, he and I would don our oldest clothes. (Easter is not a Jewish holiday.) Then, looking like a homeless pair, we went down to the boardwalk at the beach and took a long walk. We did lots of talking. Subjects in my early years were about taking care of myself. “Take care of your hands, a lady should have nice hands, always wear gloves!” Then as I grew and was making college plans, “Be sure you take a worthwhile course of study so that if you need to, you can have a job and earn your way.” He did not worry about me; I don’t think he did. Frequently he gave me his own point of view, I always listened, sometimes, I heeded his advice.
When Dad died in 1957, I remember sadly seeing him lying in peaceful sleep, I looked at his hands. He had beautiful strong hands. I pictured then and do now what those hands did for me: they taught me to hold a tennis racquet; they held me close when I needed a hug. His hands taught me to draw a straight line, to hang on to him when we crossed the street. His hands held many doors and showed me how to go first. Those hands never hurt me; they caught me when I first jumped from the side of the pool, taught me to swim. They always helped me on with my coat and took it from my shoulders when we returned home. In the early years, his hands pushed me in my carriage and straightened the covers; later they were not too big to push my doll carriage and help me cross the street.
As Father's Day approaches tomorrow. I continue to focus on Dad with more thoughts...he has been gone for fifty-eight years; that does not seem possible. He is as vivid today in my head and heart as he was when he took me for a walk, to a movie or simply kept me company as I walked to religious school on Sunday morning. He and I were very good friends. He was a big man, a six foot two giant to my five foot two. I never thought about that then. I only knew that he was helpful when I needed a straight line, an explanation regarding geometry or a book from the top shelf. Mother was in charge of the rest, especially my comfort in the kitchen. Dad taught me about exercise and the outdoors.
On pretty spring-like Sunday afternoons, he and I would sit in the backyard sunshine, he with the New York Times puzzle and I with my homework. We helped each other, occasionally I could find the right word for his puzzle and he was always eager to answer my school-book questions. He was a so-so student in school, but he kept at it and received an electrical engineer’s degree from Columbia University in 1905. When 40 years later I received my Master’s in Social Work from the same school, we celebrated! I do not know which of us wore our pride more ostentatiously.
When he stood next to me, under the chuppa and literally handed me over to my Erv, I felt his ambivalence, the mixture of sadness and joy. He was breathing with difficulty, trying keep his mind in control of his heart. My own mind was torn with worry and excitement: would Dad make it through the ceremony, how soon could Erv and I comfortably take off and run? Twelve years later Dad took a deep breath and left this land of the living. Packed in those years before he died there was much joy to share: grandchildren to enjoy, successful adult children to provide nachas (joy/pride) to satisfy even my undemanding Dad. He preceded Mother in death by two months, just as they had planned. God heard them and approved their wishes. Their example and dedication to one another provided the role model that kept my marriage alive and well for more than 63 years.
Dad, you continue to live in my heart, Jeff and Erv are keeping you and Mother company. Every time I pick up a ruler, I think of you, Every time I play tennis (now on the Wii), I remember those first lessons, and whenever, I wash my hands and use lotion or pull on gloves, I remember your words, “a lady takes care of her hands”.

Thanks and Happy Father’s Day, Dad!