Mothers' Day 2015

MOTHERS’ DAY   5/1/15
An edited version of the first article I sold to the Los Angeles Times in 1985.

Mothers' Day
  
   I am a Jewish Mother who does not take Mothers’ Day lightly.  Oh, I can do without the ribbons, roses and sweets. For me, the day is a tribute to my mother, a celebration of my own motherhood, an acknowledgement of my daughter, the mom. A kaleidoscope of memories brightens the occasion, blending laughter and tears into bittersweet recall. Today, I am a child again searching for the right words to express the love and gratitude I feel.
   But I am also an adult who remembers the sweet smell of an infant daughter and the dazzling excitement of our first child, our son. Once again I search for words of gratitude and love. On Mothers’ Day, more than at any other time, my inner child and my adult reality are in harmony.
   Mother is forever! My mother died many years ago in 1957. Hardly a day goes by without a thought of her, a remembered conversation, a confidential chat, a shared chore. She is never far from me. Mother’s years of surveillance gave birth to a patience that was never ending. While we children acted out our stages of impatience, short tempers and ugliness, Mother patiently awaited the fulfillment of her expectations. Hopes stained by disappointments, health blemished by illness, plenty diminished by Depression’s deprivations never discouraged, disheartened or defeated her.
   She understood the special-ness of children. To her, no child was ugly, dirty or unmanageable. Tears had to be dried carefully, tenderly; she understood that the sun was waiting to shine through. Her joy was complete when she coaxed a smile from an unhappy child.
   Mother was extraordinarily flexible about certain things and adamantly stubborn about others. Truth was an absolute. Truth forgave our misdemeanors; lies were always discovered and severely punished. “Silent treatment” was her weapon of choice. The pain I suffered when communication halted, was intense. Mother’s flexibility allowed us to learn and enabled her to change her mind. I learned early that she was vulnerable to the word “fair”. Her advice and wisdom were usually on target; she always assumed she was correct, she usually was! As I look ahead and remember Mother, I recall my own mothering, with the hope that some of the patience, understanding and flexibility flowed from my Mother through me to my children.
   I disagree with the cynics who denigrate Mothers’ Day. It is a celebration. I am a proud mother who has experienced disappointment, discouragement and deprivation. But there always is hope that health, dreams, patience and understanding will prevail and prevent an erosion of love.
   Hugs and kisses we exchange are the receipts for that love. The cards, gifts and endearing words are, perhaps, the thank-you notes. Every mother should have a time when she feels special. We contribute richly to our offspring, responding from our individualized qualities to theirs. Some of us specialize in cookies, others in athletics, music, storytelling or math. All of us have sidelines in soothing scraped knees, healing hurt feelings, listening to lovelorn stories. We major in granting permission or with holding it, raising objections and demanding obedience. For some of us there is another legacy.            
   Remember I said I was a Jewish Mother. The adjective and noun, part of the American vernacular, join to describe all the mothering qualities I have discussed and more. A Jewish mother worries more, protects more, aspires (pushes) more, expects more and in her own mind is more culpable. “Don’t be a Jewish Mother!” means stop worrying, stop pushing, stop coddling, slow down. Jewish mothers wear guilt like a second skin, blaming themselves for the child’s shortcomings and at the same time shout: “How could you do this to me?” Jewish mothers assume an awesome responsibility for the totality of their children’s deeds and misdeeds. One would think there are no other influences upon a child. That’s nonsense!
   Not all Jewish mothers fit the stereotype. Today’s woman no longer depends on her mothering and culinary skills for status and identity. Jewish mothers and their counterparts understand today that nurturing, loving and letting go is what mothering is all about. In the final analyses, we open doors to allow the child’s aspirations, fulfillment and efforts to go through. No, I do not take Mothers’ Day lightly. I delight to remember my mother, I rejoice in the continuity, privileges and rewards of motherhood.
Happy Mothers’ Day!

The Beginning…? April 30, 2015
Not long ago, I said to Judi that I was trying to gather stories from our past, put them together, perhaps in a memoir. Her answer stopped me in my tracks, “Oh Mom, I have heard all those stories.” I had to question myself; is my interest in writing down pieces of the past from my childhood or hers, ego-centered or maudlin? I savor memories, enjoy writing them down, in that way, I re-live many of them. That past, all that past is, for me, fun to recollect. It is fun and celebratory, even the bad stories because from them, I learned lessons, even repaired broken bits of myself.
I have to ask myself if Judi’s rejection of the idea of “hearing the stories repeated…or reading them”, is a rejection of her past, or simply a rejection of my telling stories again? Of course she is not 93, she is 64 and still has much to look forward to, much about my adopted daughter’s roots are unknown and potentially exciting. Matt, her son will be coming home in November. That is a biggie. It holds a degree of uncertainty, a challenge, the close of a chapter from the past that neither she nor Matt wishes to re-open.
They have both learned many lessons in patience and hopefully, he has learned a big lesson regarding boundaries. Learning about boundaries is a difficult lesson. Our lives frequently seem to be surrounded by boundaries. When I list the many “thou shalt nots” in my limited life, I am shocked by the enormity of them all.
A good place to start is with basics: the Ten Commandments. No matter what religion defines them, puts them in “acceptable” words, they come out the same. The acts or thoughts that are against God’s will are forbidden to women and men who believe in a Deity. It matters not what that Deity is called, whether man or woman, black or white, gay or straight, we all acknowledge there is a power greater than ours, that we do not understand, that (or who) is responsible for the good things we enjoy, some of the bad as well. For non-believers, I have questions: How did we all get here? Where does Nature’s beauty come from? In the beginning there was what? These are not our questions alone, today, at this time. The ancient world puzzled over them as well. We have more answers today, but not THE answer, yet.
While searching for answers we frequently turn to stories from childhood, stories we know well hoping that they can lead us to answers. They seldom do. There are many stories to tell from my childhood and my kids growing years right up to today. Perhaps they can give us perspective, I doubt you will find answers. I share some snippets as they come to me.

The Day We Brought Judi Home!
The day we brought Judi home was a bright, sunny day in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. We had met Jeff’s baby sister and were informed that she was “hot or cold running water”, she turned her emotions on and off with no effort, unexpectedly switching easily and noisily. Apparently the change of moms was scary and distressing. She had had two for the first eight months of her life: foster Mother and birth Mother shared her care every day, maybe they fought a few battles over her. No one told me about that time. But two Mothers in competition for one child must have their moments.
Then along comes Mom #3, that was me and there was no way I could communicate to my infant daughter that I was “it”. For better or for worse we were matched, we were Mother and Daughter, in reality and with legal back-up. On the way home from the agency, Judi screamed in high frequency. I tried everything that I had learned: I held her and cuddled her, I sat her next to me and tried to talk to her with love and joy; nothing worked, when I held her she beat my chest with tiny fists; when I talked to her she cried harder.
When we finally arrived home, I took her into the living room, sat her on the couch and fell to my knees to calm her on eye level. She wanted none of me. Big brother Jeff came in to complain about the noise, he looked at her yelled, “Hey Judi, look at me”. He stood on his head, flipped back to his feet and made a funny face. The crying stopped short, Judi giggled and giggled at her upside down brother. We drew a collective family sigh of relief, Judi was home!

Unprepared! April 29th, 2015

Sad to say my grandson is serving a short sentence in a California state prison. This is a serious blow, a bitter pill for all of us who care about him. He committed a crime for which he must do time, we understand that and at the same time regret it. Life has suddenly become strictly business, not too many laughs.
His Mother, my daughter and I traveled for a full day to visit with him on a recent weekend. Previously, before the sentence came down he had been a few hours away. We now had a longer drive, we could no longer visit and return home in one day. So we relaxed, made motel arrangements and decided that we had a three-day outing ahead of us. Though a visit to the prison is never a happy celebration, we had not seen our boy in a long time so we felt good about our trip and looked forward to it.
The day after entering the town of Corcoran, California we drove to
the prison to spend the day with Matthew, our boy. He has just turned 27, always will be our boy. As I presented myself with my ID, I was told by the deputy that I would have to change my clothes. I was wearing dark blue with a light blue top: blue is forbidden. I knew that, but I had forgotten as had Judi when she picked me up. It is obvious why: inmates wear navy slacks and light blue tops. If I were a criminal trying to smuggle someone out of prison, I would mimic their clothing! Instead I was shocked, I did not have a change with me.
The deputy suggested the used clothing shop on the prison grounds. The shop is hosted by a jolly group of women who apparently are quite used to the confusion that visiting families endure. One of the women looked me over and then showed me to a room where I could change in privacy. The room was lined with hanging clothing bars and bins with folded shirts. Someone gave me black sweat pants, obviously big, but easy to get into. Then Judi handed me a blouse, also big with a nod to style. So feeling like a clown I presented myself to the authorities who accepted the outfit and sent me through the metal detector. No bells rang. I had learned the hard way in another town that my bra must not be wired.
Now I have a list, forbidden items include: no blue, no orange either there is a list on the internet that includes no wired bras! It is always wise to keep jewelry simple and sparse and necklines high!
A visit to a friend or relative in prison is stressful. I was pleased that the women in the second hand shop were eager to smile and even giggle with us about my clown-like outfit. A bad moment was momentarily fun!

Unplugged
Several years ago Doyle McManus wrote an editorial in the LA Times called “Vacation Unplugged”. His meaning was clear and welcome: during vacation times, unplug the machines that connects us to our work responsibilities. His words resonated with me at the time and they still do. He said, “A vacation is supposed to help you reset your brain to become more productive.” I sincerely hope that his vacations continue to be “unplugged” so that he can glean the most benefit from time off.
“Hamlet’s Blackberry” written by William Powers is a short book that taught me the wonder of taking just one day off from our devices each week. It is an almost impossible discipline, nevertheless, an important concept that needs to be understood: “to connect properly, we need to know how to disconnect.” A sense of freedom from cyberspace gives us the opportunity to engage in free wheeling ideas. One day from email, the web and the telephone, enables me to find awesome peace, quiet and relaxation that these wonderful means of communication do not always encourage.
As Doyle noted it is not easy, but it is tremendously unburdening. I found that I resented anything that called itself an emergency while I was working, writing weekly for the North County Times. I tried to regularly take Saturday off because my deadline was Thursday. Researching the Internet is wonderfully satisfying; remember when going to the library was the same? When one is committed to research for work it is true that an occasional vacation, occasionally relinquishing the responsibility is often urgent. Once we have learned to unplug we can work to increase fulfillment and joy in our work. When I deliberately unplug, I feel like I have given myself a gift of freedom. Little did we understand this back in the days when that freedom came easily, we were not addicted to machines and a vacation meant a day at the beach. Today is also means unplug and let the brain search and find ideas and plans without electronic aid.

Loneliness – April 9. 2015
I have just made an interesting discovery, one that turns my thinking upside down and it is good. Loneliness is defined as isolated, without companionship, sounds like a bad thing. It can, however, be a good thing too. I have discovered that when I am lonely, I generally feel bad and very sorry for myself. My mind wanders and I begin to list, in my head, all the things that are wrong, today, right now. That kind of thinking leads to a longing for the love of my life: my partner and my best friend. The longing then leads me on, to think about him and his death but seven years ago. I find that I am suddenly engulfed in a sea of memories, wonderful, tear jerking yet delicious memories. Like my tongue seeks the sore tooth and keeps returning to the “pleasure” of the soreness, I continue to think about him.
When my loneliness finds my memories, it is suddenly no longer sad but sweet and sometimes, funny. Remember the definition above speaks of the lack of companionship and its relationship to loneliness. In the years that I have been without a companion, I have found no one to take his place, I feel comfortable in knowing: no one can!
Our 63 year-old marriage has left me with a plethora of stories, happy and sad stories; exciting and boring stories. When I tried recently to write them down, our daughter reminded me that she had heard them all. I despise repetition, but I chance it now. My memories reside in the pictures that Erv and I placed on the walls of this home: Judi and Jeff as toddlers, Erv and Ag as newlyweds, Mother and Dad as young folks. Those memories do not hurt; they keep me company.
Without my memories, my life would be pale and malnourished. With the warmth and joy of my memories, life is stronger, even joyous as I remember the wonderful times we shared. I remember the time a group of us piled into a car to drive the 80 miles between Cincinnati and Dayton for good corned beef sandwiches. What fun we had. I also recall the time at a colleague’s wedding, after we sent the bride and groom off, three of us laid on the floor, emptied the bowl of Champagne punch, sucking through straws to inhale every sip. Because I imbibed the least, I was elected to drive us safely back to our hotel. I was so proud that our friend trusted me to drive his new Plymouth on strange roads.
The two most important days of our young lives were the days that we brought our children home from the adoption agency. The days were 18 months apart and as different as were the two little ones from each other. Two bright, brown-eyed kids with temperaments as different as day from night, both delighted us: Jeff with his calm and Judi with her volatility. They kept us on our toes as they grew and matured into adulthood. They made us very proud and at times sad and confused. That is what parenting is all about. Had I had nine months to think about all that, I would not have changed my mind about having children but I might have been more prepared.
Until the day he died, Erv and I disagreed on which one of us asked Jeff the vital question: “Are you gay or in trouble, you are acting strangely…?”
His answer “I am gay,” set us on a very unfamiliar path, taught us about homosexuality and strengthened the love we shared with our son. Not long after, Judi took us to a “meeting”, naïve and innocent we had no idea where we were or why she rose to the podium and said, “My name is Judi and I have been sober for a year!” We were totally unprepared for Jeff’s statement of who he was, or Judi’s statement explaining why we had not seen much of her.
Our love for these children never diminished despite the challenges they offered. Many times when they were little, we would tell them, “We might not always like what you are doing, but we will never stop loving you.” We meant it and lived it for more years than their ages at the time of their “confessions”.

FLYING         4/2/15

     In 1945 my brother was working for the Washington Post. He flew from Washington, D.C. to San Francisco to cover the conference that was to establish the United Nations. It was during this period that air travel in America was becoming popular, but until Ben's flight no one in our family had ever flown, not one of us dared.  Dad was an electrical engineer for the New York Central Railroad.   “Flying is dangerous, the train is comfy and safe,” he said.  When brother Ben persuaded the pilot to tip his wings over our house, I was delighted; Dad was singularly unimpressed.  I knew my chance to fly would come. Within the year, it did.

     Erv Herman and I were married that year in October; we traveled by train from New York to Petosky, Michigan for a fun honeymoon.  The slow moving train suited our mood perfectly.  We delayed our return to reality as long as possible. Of course, we ran late for Erv’s return to classes at seminary and I was expected back at work, but we had to fly.  Neither of us had ever flown.  Together we found courage and without family blessings, (our four parents were nervous and angry) we flew home to Cincinnati.  For us it was a wonderful trip; we decided flying was our way to go.

     It would be four years before we had another chance.  Frankly we could not afford to travel very far.  When Erv was ordained as a rabbi in 1949, we hitched a ride with friends to visit family in Baltimore.  From there we were to interview for a congregation in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.  (Yes, in those days the Rabbi’s wife was considered an asset or a liability, we were scrutinized.)  We decided it was our chance to fly; the congregation had offered to pay for our flight from Baltimore.  We experienced another glorious flight.

     On the way back, however, everything changed.  We found ourselves aloft in the midst of an electrical thunderstorm. I expressed my fears without embarrassment.  My sweetheart asked “where is the lightening,  you are too scared?”  “The lightening is right next to me,”  I pointed my trembling finger to the window.  Yes, I was so frightened that I did not fly again for seventeen years!  Every time I dropped my husband off at the airport, prior to a business trip, I suffered a panic attack.

    By the time our two children were in their early teens, an occasion arose that made me face those fears directly. We had moved from New York to California, drove west.  After a year on the West Coast the kids begged to go back to visit with friends.  I knew that they had to get the New York scene out of their system. The thought of two teens for three or four days alone on a train boggled my mind.  I had to consider sending them by air.  And, I did!  Erv was in New York on business and would meet them at the airport and their friends offered bed, board and transportation.

     I joined them in their excitement, helped them pack, took them to the airport and waved as they navigated the jet-way. After the plane took off, I stood in the middle of the lounge, weighed down with guilt, “Omigosh, I'm afraid to fly and I just put my precious kids on an airplane-that makes no sense!!!”  They landed safely, had a great time, returned to California in good spirits, stopped pining for New York and told me how wonderful it was to fly.

     The next time Erv planned a business trip, I said I wanted to go along.  I knew he was flying.  I did not sleep the night before. I trembled at check-in, I refused to look at the ground when we took off.  Suddenly in mid flight, I relaxed and began to enjoy the altitude and the speed and said, “This is great, I think I love it!”  I have calmly chosen air travel ever since; I forget to be afraid.  I might be a railroad man’s daughter, but flying is more fun.  Dad would be 133 this year; he would shake his head in amazement and prayerfully would bless our travels, keeping his railroad thoughts to himself:  “You flew alone at 92 years of age you must be joking, I do not believe you!!!”