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!
Friday, June 26, 2015
Friday, June 12, 2015
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!
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!
Monday, June 8, 2015
A Vacation Saga
It was an adventure! We were going to California from New York! I was five and big brother, Ben, was nine. We were headed west with Mother, on the train, of course. It was 1927, as far as I knew only Charles Lindberg flew. Dad an electrical engineer, worked for the New York Central Railroad. He heartily disapproved of flying; it was dangerous.
The doctor had recommended a change to enable and enhance our recovery from scarlet fever. There were no curative antibiotics then. Dad provided passes for travel; relatives in Los Angeles offered us bed and board. It was a family vacation in its own special way.
Our Dad was able to travel from New York to Chicago with us before returning to work. He needed to see that we changed trains without difficulty. He was very sure that Mother required his support and guidance, she knew otherwise as we were to find out. Our tiny mother was creative, innovative and confident. Lunch in Chicago was no picnic, but it was fun. Huge June bugs nearly spoiled the day by trying to share our sandwiches; they (the bugs) failed. Saying goodbye to Dad for 13 weeks did not distress me, I knew he would be there to greet us on our return, he promised. We were going to sleep on the train for three nights that was exciting.
The trip on the train became a bit of a bore after we tired of reading and playing checkers. Mother showed us how to make paper airplanes and allowed us to go to the back of the train and let them fly. We managed to conquer boredom, when there was nothing else to do we quarreled with each other. The biggest challenge occurred when the refrigeration on the train shut down; on a four-day trip that was a serious problem.
Creative Mom worried about hydration, she was irritated by our constant complaints that we were thirsty. She did not approve of soda; she had to become creative. For “medicinal” purposes she carried a flask of whiskey. It was a swell disinfectant. The whiskey would sanitize the dirty ice put on board every day to backup the broken refrigeration system. How? Mom poured a bit of whiskey on the ice, swished it around for a time, then drained the whiskey from the glass and voila, we had clean ice to suck. I do not remember if she drained the whiskey by drinking it down. Perhaps she did!
Once that was solved and the refrigeration was being fixed, we kids found another way to harass Mom. Since there was no more ice cream on board, we repeated our refrain at every meal, “We want ice cream.” The porter took pity on us and explained that we were going to stop at Salt Lake City for a half hour that evening. There was a drugstore with ice cream across the railroad tracks; Mother could buy cones for us. When the train stopped she hurried us off and settled us under a streetlight, showed us that we could see the drugstore where she would get our cones and she would be right back. “Don’t move!” she cautioned.
My big brother looked around, his sense of importance leaped, he said, “Don’t worry, if anything bad happens, I will take care of you!” Until he opened his big mouth I had not thought to worry, Mother always kept her promises, of course she would return. However, once the seed of worry was planted, I began fantasizing, “What could happen?” By the time she returned with dripping cones, I was trembling. Thanks Ben!
The other highlights of that vacation included a bout with mumps that I endured. California required a city inspector and quarantine, so Mother found a tiny apartment and moved us into it temporarily so my cousin could go to work and other family members were able to come and go. We circumvented the quarantine, continued to take meals with the family. We got away with it, no one else became ill!
After the mumps we spent long days at the beach. We kids thoroughly enjoyed the sun, the sand and the surf. Dad sent us each a dollar every week so that we could treat everyone to ice cream; in those days an ice cream cone was a cheap treat.
During those vacation days of sun and fun, I told all who would listen, “When I grow up, this is where I will live.” In 1965, 38 years later, my husband came home with a question: “How would you feel about moving to California?” I answered before he finished, “I have been waiting years for you to ask!” 10/14
It was an adventure! We were going to California from New York! I was five and big brother, Ben, was nine. We were headed west with Mother, on the train, of course. It was 1927, as far as I knew only Charles Lindberg flew. Dad an electrical engineer, worked for the New York Central Railroad. He heartily disapproved of flying; it was dangerous.
The doctor had recommended a change to enable and enhance our recovery from scarlet fever. There were no curative antibiotics then. Dad provided passes for travel; relatives in Los Angeles offered us bed and board. It was a family vacation in its own special way.
Our Dad was able to travel from New York to Chicago with us before returning to work. He needed to see that we changed trains without difficulty. He was very sure that Mother required his support and guidance, she knew otherwise as we were to find out. Our tiny mother was creative, innovative and confident. Lunch in Chicago was no picnic, but it was fun. Huge June bugs nearly spoiled the day by trying to share our sandwiches; they (the bugs) failed. Saying goodbye to Dad for 13 weeks did not distress me, I knew he would be there to greet us on our return, he promised. We were going to sleep on the train for three nights that was exciting.
The trip on the train became a bit of a bore after we tired of reading and playing checkers. Mother showed us how to make paper airplanes and allowed us to go to the back of the train and let them fly. We managed to conquer boredom, when there was nothing else to do we quarreled with each other. The biggest challenge occurred when the refrigeration on the train shut down; on a four-day trip that was a serious problem.
Creative Mom worried about hydration, she was irritated by our constant complaints that we were thirsty. She did not approve of soda; she had to become creative. For “medicinal” purposes she carried a flask of whiskey. It was a swell disinfectant. The whiskey would sanitize the dirty ice put on board every day to backup the broken refrigeration system. How? Mom poured a bit of whiskey on the ice, swished it around for a time, then drained the whiskey from the glass and voila, we had clean ice to suck. I do not remember if she drained the whiskey by drinking it down. Perhaps she did!
Once that was solved and the refrigeration was being fixed, we kids found another way to harass Mom. Since there was no more ice cream on board, we repeated our refrain at every meal, “We want ice cream.” The porter took pity on us and explained that we were going to stop at Salt Lake City for a half hour that evening. There was a drugstore with ice cream across the railroad tracks; Mother could buy cones for us. When the train stopped she hurried us off and settled us under a streetlight, showed us that we could see the drugstore where she would get our cones and she would be right back. “Don’t move!” she cautioned.
My big brother looked around, his sense of importance leaped, he said, “Don’t worry, if anything bad happens, I will take care of you!” Until he opened his big mouth I had not thought to worry, Mother always kept her promises, of course she would return. However, once the seed of worry was planted, I began fantasizing, “What could happen?” By the time she returned with dripping cones, I was trembling. Thanks Ben!
The other highlights of that vacation included a bout with mumps that I endured. California required a city inspector and quarantine, so Mother found a tiny apartment and moved us into it temporarily so my cousin could go to work and other family members were able to come and go. We circumvented the quarantine, continued to take meals with the family. We got away with it, no one else became ill!
After the mumps we spent long days at the beach. We kids thoroughly enjoyed the sun, the sand and the surf. Dad sent us each a dollar every week so that we could treat everyone to ice cream; in those days an ice cream cone was a cheap treat.
During those vacation days of sun and fun, I told all who would listen, “When I grow up, this is where I will live.” In 1965, 38 years later, my husband came home with a question: “How would you feel about moving to California?” I answered before he finished, “I have been waiting years for you to ask!” 10/14
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Alienation
Alienation June 5, 2015
Alienation and anger both start with “A”; they frequently are partners. When I allow anger to overtake my emotions, I have to find someplace to put it. If I hang on to it and allow it to go nowhere, it damages every fiber of my body and soul. It harms, damages other relationships as well. I search unwittingly for a target in order to put the onus of “working it out” elsewhere. I do not want that burden and do not know what else to do with my fury. How easy it is to separate from an “adversary” of the moment and become alienated. Perhaps I inadvertently think that if I stop speaking to the offender it will all disappear and go away, it does not happen that way.
My Dad had two sisters that were constantly in some kind of dispute. Belle and Lil just could not get along. I have no recall if they were ever close or if they were just close in age. Dad, the kid brother (youngest of 12) was addicted to peace. He did not like shouting or name-calling. When his sisters started to yell at each other, I think Dad heard them, no matter the distance. He and my mother would run to fashion a peace treaty and force- feed it to the “girls”.
Family alienation is painful, especially when it occurs between a mother and an adult child. I have stumbled into that caldron frequently; always I have regretted my words said thoughtlessly. I say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I judge it to be a small matter that we can fix. My family member, on the other hand believes it is no small thing or I speak out of turn unaware that my words could be a serious embarrassment for another. Once my words leave my mouth the damage is done, no apology, no sincere regret can erase that moment when my “innocent” words hit the air and strike another in a hurtful way. It is too late for retractions or even apologies.
If someone is in need of a target on whom to focus seriously hidden anger, I understand that she/he must find a place or person. It is assumed by everyone that mothers have broad shoulders, built for carrying blame. I learned a long time ago that mother is the perfect target because mothers do not run away; they always come back for more. There is a degree of safety in being angry with mom. The argument may continue, then wither away eventually, leaving the players in place.
Yes, mom is a safe target, often I told my small children that “I might not like something you have done, but nothing will ever stop me from loving you.” The child who has faltered can take a deep breath and try again to please the parent. It is safe to make mistakes. Only when the “mistakes” occur in the child’s adulthood, does the scene change. Errors of judgment or misspoken words become more dangerous, less easy to hug away. Embarrassment is terrible for both adults and children. Children forgive more easily than adults, though it is always threatening and hurtful. My dear old Dad would beg, “just let it go”! My mother on the other hand said, "it is easier to forgive than forget." That is hard, but true.
Alienation and anger both start with “A”; they frequently are partners. When I allow anger to overtake my emotions, I have to find someplace to put it. If I hang on to it and allow it to go nowhere, it damages every fiber of my body and soul. It harms, damages other relationships as well. I search unwittingly for a target in order to put the onus of “working it out” elsewhere. I do not want that burden and do not know what else to do with my fury. How easy it is to separate from an “adversary” of the moment and become alienated. Perhaps I inadvertently think that if I stop speaking to the offender it will all disappear and go away, it does not happen that way.
My Dad had two sisters that were constantly in some kind of dispute. Belle and Lil just could not get along. I have no recall if they were ever close or if they were just close in age. Dad, the kid brother (youngest of 12) was addicted to peace. He did not like shouting or name-calling. When his sisters started to yell at each other, I think Dad heard them, no matter the distance. He and my mother would run to fashion a peace treaty and force- feed it to the “girls”.
Family alienation is painful, especially when it occurs between a mother and an adult child. I have stumbled into that caldron frequently; always I have regretted my words said thoughtlessly. I say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I judge it to be a small matter that we can fix. My family member, on the other hand believes it is no small thing or I speak out of turn unaware that my words could be a serious embarrassment for another. Once my words leave my mouth the damage is done, no apology, no sincere regret can erase that moment when my “innocent” words hit the air and strike another in a hurtful way. It is too late for retractions or even apologies.
If someone is in need of a target on whom to focus seriously hidden anger, I understand that she/he must find a place or person. It is assumed by everyone that mothers have broad shoulders, built for carrying blame. I learned a long time ago that mother is the perfect target because mothers do not run away; they always come back for more. There is a degree of safety in being angry with mom. The argument may continue, then wither away eventually, leaving the players in place.
Yes, mom is a safe target, often I told my small children that “I might not like something you have done, but nothing will ever stop me from loving you.” The child who has faltered can take a deep breath and try again to please the parent. It is safe to make mistakes. Only when the “mistakes” occur in the child’s adulthood, does the scene change. Errors of judgment or misspoken words become more dangerous, less easy to hug away. Embarrassment is terrible for both adults and children. Children forgive more easily than adults, though it is always threatening and hurtful. My dear old Dad would beg, “just let it go”! My mother on the other hand said, "it is easier to forgive than forget." That is hard, but true.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)