Mothers & Daughters

December 24^th, 2014

       Mothers and daughters, it seems, are destined for squabbling. I sure wish Judi had a daughter, so at least she would understand a little of the discomfort I sometimes suffer. My Mom and I fussed and argued.  Just before our wedding she asked, “Haven’t I been a good Mother to you?”   Of course I told her how wonderful she was, she was a great Mom, really she was, despite the fact that she never played tennis.  Her insights and instincts were astonishing.

     That morning before our wedding, at five am, she cried because I had chosen to visit with my future-in-laws on my last night at home as a single woman.  She forgot that Erv and I had been at home with her and Dad the whole week before we married and Erv’s parents had just come into town.  There my Dad stood at the foot of my bed, imploring me to help Mother feel better.  I went to her and was able to coax her smile out of hiding.

     For whatever reason, mothers and daughters watch each other carefully, suspect foul play quickly and can easily hurt one another without intending to do so.  It is inherent, I remember small Judi squeezing between her Dad and me on the couch while asking, “When you die Mom, can I marry Dad?” With certainty I answered, “Sure!”

  The news of Matt’s return next November is good news.  Inasmuch as he has been away for so long the responsibility of re-entering a life of freedom is primarily his.  I am sure that he hopes and believes that it will be easy.  The freedom to choose time, place and occupation sounds seductive from where he is now sitting.  Expectations for him will be different however. I hope he understands that he must find suitable employment, perhaps enroll to obtain training in something that interests him.  The choice is not mine, but he has to make a decision, that might be complicated.  Like his decision to explore Christianity, this is not something for me to decide.  His decisions  impact his life, that is why he has to make them.

     Today I took his Mom to lunch.  I thought it was a good idea.  For whatever reason she asked out of the blue why I gave Matt a doll on his first birthday?  I simply told her I thought (and still believe) boys should know about babies just as girls do.  I added I was certain I had discussed it with her first, she was just as sure that I did not.  Erv is not here to mediate.  It poses a 25 year-old memory question, I cannot answer for sure.  So the question hung in the air between us; she was angry and I was in shock and most likely angry too as our discussion deteriorated.  “But why didn’t you give him a truck or car?”  That answer was simple, “he had so many of those…!”  Mothers and daughters, destined to disagree.

On My Own

On My Own – February 19, 2015

A sense of responsibility 

   Perhaps because it is February, the month during which I lost my brother in 2007 and my beloved partner in 2008, I sit down to write about being on my own.  In the course of my life I have experienced numerous incidents that were like a tap on my shoulder, each time a reminder that there are times when I must be on my own.  When I was six, I remember standing in the cold of winter waiting for my brother to walk me home from school.  I was not permitted to cross the New York City streets by myself, until that day.  Big brother forgot and arrived home without me.  Mother came running, she was angry and I took advantage of the moment and said clearly and with certainty: “Now, will you let me go to school on my own?”  What a thrill when she said “yes”.  All the way home that memorable day, she instructed me.  By the time we arrived my head was swinging from left to right, right to left in delicious abandon, repeating “look both ways, always look both ways”.

   In later years, at an older age, I remember arguing with my Dad about staying at home alone.  It was against his best judgment; it was an exciting prospect to me.  When I was finally away, at college on my own, I felt like a bird released.  I can still feel the sense of freedom, the excitement of simply being free to decide when to eat dinner, what to order, finally I felt I was on my own.

   Then I returned home from college, once more to the nest where, “what are your plans” became a consistent, though courteous question.  Dad still had trouble with my being home alone despite the fact that he had no idea when or if I was alone in the dorm at school.  That was not a subject for discussion. Then I graduated from college and went job hunting, a frustrating, disheartening experience.  Finally I faced reality: a Bachelor’s Degree in the social sciences, prepared me for nothing! The need for graduate training raised its head.  I went hunting, I knew I wanted social work; a summer’s experience working with disadvantaged kids had pointed the way.  I found a fellowship that enabled me to exchange a year of grad school for a year on the staff of Family Service of Cincinnati.  That meant two years in a large city where I knew no one, two years on my own.  I grabbed the opportunity.

   That experience lasted two years and I enjoyed every minute.  I loved making decisions for myself, I loved the freedom to choose, to decide, to follow through or not as I wished.  Then I met the love of my life.  In making a decision to marry both Erv Herman and I agreed that I would give up, to a degree, the delicious feeling of being on my own.  We also agreed that we were not each other’s parents, as a couple we were on our own together to decide those things couples are responsible for.   As individuals we would never give up our sense of self, our responsibility to ourselves.  As our family grew and our bond strengthened, we made individual decisions and joint ones as well.  I never thought again about being on my own.  We were a family.  We discussed the decisions and made choices together.  Then after many years, more than sixty years my sweetheart died and left me once again, on my own.

   This time was different.  I am grateful that he never knew or understood what it was like to be suddenly on my own at the age of 86:  so many years of togetherness, making decisions together, checking out choices together, being each other’s sounding board, watching facial expressions, knowing what each was thinking before a word was spoken.  We had grown up together and thus had grown together.  Yes, I was bereft in the beginning and often until this day.  When anything important has to be decided, I find myself yelling, “Where are you – how could you leave with this – I do not know what to do!” 

   I am on my own to discover what I must do!  This time for good, this time really and truly!  I am doing fine.  I make my own decisions and when I hit a wall and cannot decide, I have a couple of good people who help me weigh my alternatives.  I have one person I turn to when I bump into a financial problem; another individual helps me with those “emotional” roadblocks that we all run into.  Others, friends and some family form a fine support system. I know to whom to turn for each unique problem that is to me, a life-engaging problem. Yes, I’m very much on my own; because I cannot have Erv back, I now treasure every single moment of my independence.

A Strange Thing Happened

A Strange Thing Happened: There is nothing funny or ludicrous when one visits a dear one in prison. Though folks will smile in response to a greeting there is no gaiety or fun as visitors listen for their names to be called. Sometimes the weatherman adds to the general discomfort. We could sit in the cold and/or rain, waiting for the call. Those are times when I realize that not only my beloved inmate is punished, but so are we, his Mother and I. I visit my grandson every other Sunday. Last Sunday, believe it or not humor enlivened the anxious group of families. I had forgotten one basic rule concerning visits: a visitor may not wear a brassiere with wires. Obviously those in charge of writing rules have had experience with inmates’ ability to turn innocent items into dangerous weapons. My own imagination conjures ideas of how to turn the thin, innocent-looking, flexible bra wires into daunting weapons. I would need a whole set of tools to accomplish anything…I do not have that kind of array, even in my garage. When my turn came, I walked through the metal detector at the prison last Sunday I suddenly remembered the “no wires” rule. The deputy was not impressed with my plea “I am 93, I forgot!” He suggested that I walk (a distance) to the visitors’ center and get a different bra; he was not clear whether I needed to purchase or borrow one. “Just do it if you wish to visit.” My embarrassment was no match for his clarity. The distance was intimidating. I hated delaying Judi’s visit with her son. I suggested that I just take my bra off (in the woman’s room) and visit without wearing one, I was wearing a shirt and jacket, foolishly believed I would be presentable bra-less. I guess I was wrong. The deputy said, certain of his words, “I cannot allow you to do that.” Guess who is in charge! I was already intimidated enough not to state “why, you do not pat every woman down, you have no idea who is and who is not wearing a bra.” I decided this was a power thing or a lascivious man thing: did he think I was planning to seduce someone? Didn’t he notice I was completely covered-up that I am old, need to ride up and down the steep stairs and high hills? We were standing at the gates of a state prison; I behaved, kept my thoughts to myself. My daughter who supported me through this ridiculous caper borrowed a scissors. The deputy ALLOWED her to have them, take them outside and release the wires in my bra. She is 30 years younger than I, apparently she looks less dangerous than I do. I understand rules must be obeyed. But no one can make me believe that the deputy at the metal detector makes a decision about whether a woman is or is not wearing a bra. He hears bells ring and off he goes on his mission: a woman should wear a bra without wires, but wear one she must. Somehow, without touching anyone he can be set off, like the metal detector, no one goes bra-less on his watch. 
  February 10, 2015 Happy 97th Birthday Brother Ben, wish you were here! AGH

This Aging Thing – February 7, 2015 This aging thing raises its head periodically. Usually my life moves along at a steady pace. The years are ever changing, every once in awhile I am startled to do the math and really look my age in the face. I have been so very lucky, I have had much joy and well-being in my life that I am still here. I have not done anything spectacular unless giving up nicotine 52 years ago was unusual. My life is mundane, I wake up early, I take my merry old time getting out of bed and into the kitchen. There, I breakfast on oatmeal, perhaps a horrible cold cereal (what do kids see in that stuff?) with fruit or a bagel with peanut butter and cream cheese (delicious, try it). Always and all day there is fruit. Occasionally I make myself an egg, I really have to want that egg to bother. Then my day moves along to the bathroom, the shower that I take delight in every other day; that is my recognition of the drought and my own slowing energy. This routine is followed by a walk that I do alone. I am not reliable; I cannot promise another that I would maintain a schedule. Sometimes that walk gets postponed until evening, or right after lunch or occasionally I skip the day. The best part of the walk is the neighbor, any neighbor. I stop to chat with, the friend who shouts “hello, how are you today”. I try to avoid Sundays when most of my neighbors are in church or in hiding enjoying the Sunday paper. On Sunday the streets are usually empty and there is no one around with whom to chat. That is a weird lonely day. After my “exercise”, my slow walk around the neighborhood, it is time for lunch or for the lunch date that I have set with a friend. Those are the highlights of my day. I sincerely do not care where we go or what I eat. I am delighted to catch up with a young friend or an elder one. We talk about a great variety of things. We are all different; my friends come from a variety of places around the states and the world. Having a great mix of friends keeps me alive, alert and well. Knowing that others care, knowing that I can still engage in the game of catch-up helps sharpen my wits. Yes, I am interested in other people’s children, as they seem to be interested in mine. Do we talk about politics or religion, those two sensitive subjects that frequently send the best of friends off into anger or angst? It depends. So many years of hearing my dad and brother argue politics as they sat at opposite ends of the discussion, taught me to tread lightly. These “talks” were defensive, loud, angry and for me the younger child, frightening. My rule of thumb regarding religion is to teach as much about my own and listen carefully to what others say about their belief system. At this stage of my life I am in agreement with those who feel death without pain is the best way to go. My own thoughts about after-life are no secret, but they belong to me and I would never try to persuade anyone that mine is the only right way. Most discussions end up with an agreement that we really do not KNOW what is to come. Believing is neither right nor wrong; it’s personal. Politics is a different story. There is a variety of political belief out there in our heads and on our tongues. Through our genes, our jobs, our parents, our life styles, we have made personal decisions about what we believe is good for our own community, city, state and country. Our beliefs are sincerely held many of them have been thoroughly perused. We listen to the speeches; we try to believe the officials and those who insist they will do the right thing for us, I hope those I trust have researched the issues and are sincerely interested in helping us to better our lives. Experience attempts to teach us to distinguish the good people from the not-so-good folks. There is, however, no “good-ometer” to refer to. It is said that by age 25, we are achieving judgment. Hopefully, good judgment includes caring, carefulness and perspective. Meanwhile I just keep on trucking through this aging thing, enjoying all the good things and people who come my way.

Dorothy Died last month!                                                                          February 2, 2015

   Dorothy was my friend; I lost her the other day.  Her iron will, her love for her boys, her

enthusiasm when we talked, her willingness to argue a point have sapped her energy; she was

ready to go.  Surrounded by family Dorothy took her last breath and left us to mourn and to

miss her.

   Our friendship was not long standing, but it was strong.  For both of us it bore witness to the fact that even the elderly, the aged can make new friends and enjoy the warmth a new friendship offers.  Dorothy’s mind was quick, and she was a mischief.  She sought conversations that were not mundane.  She was not interested in the ordinary list of aches and pains, the discussions of good/bad doctors, nor remedies for an aching back or cures for constipation.  She did not even want to discuss how she felt.  Once in awhile she would tell me that yesterday was better than today, “you know what I mean.”  Then she went on to talk about a party at the Chateau that she had not attended.

   On the whole she participated at the Chateau when she felt like it.  In fact it was at a writers’ group there that she and I connected.  Dorothy was a retired psychiatrist and I a retired social worker.  We spoke the same language and had the same spectator sport: we liked to people watch and figure out who people really were.  We shared a desire to understand life’s roller coaster.

   I found that Dorothy was accepting, I could not shock her.  I believe if something I shared did indeed shock her she would simply say, “Oh really” and change the subject.  Though she denigrated her memory and very often could not find the other shoe, she remembered the important things.  She knew who she was and what was important to her.  Sure she was critical, by the time we sail by 80 and 90, who has a better right to be critical?  Dorothy would never deliberately hurt someone’s feelings.  She could be sharp and disdainful, but only to make a point.  I found that Dorothy was a good listener; that of course was her job.  It was a finely honed trait.

   As her friend I knew I could depend on the truth when I sought it;  a listening ear when I needed it; and a caring response when I was at my wits’ end.  Fortunately we never felt “down” at the same time.  Dorothy adored her boys and her grandchildren.  She was smart enough not to have many expectations; therefore she was seldom disappointed.  I will miss my friend who gave so much without even knowing it.  Incidentally, we never discussed religion or politics; good friends know when to skirt sensitive issues.

Thoughts on My Birthday

Thoughts on my Birthday                                      January 20, 2015

  

   Yes it is hard to believe today I am 93!  I do not know what 93 is supposed to feel like.  A 93year old book would be considered an antique.  Am I an antique?  No, according to the dictionary an antique has special value as a collectible because of its considerable age.  In the first place, I am not a collectible; I have no special value in the antique market.  More than one “Aunt Ag” is superfluous even to me.  I enjoy everything and everybody who crosses my path.  I can only handle one of me. 

   There is no question that I am lucky.  Let me list the reasons.  I am lucky that I am relatively well; I am happy that my mind does not wander off into space, though my ability to forget is trying to overtake my memory.  I have my daughter close by, she worries about me and is “there” for me.  Even though we occasionally quarrel, we know how to comfort one another lovingly. I have many friends who reassure me constantly that I am alive, balanced and worthy of the time they spend with me.  That is the most significant part of being in the nineties club.  The people who still care; the folks who pick up the phone on my birthday, send cards, even buy gifts, seek me out with congratulations, are the ones to thank, because thanks are in order.  They are the ones who keep my spirit lively.  They are the ones who rescue me from loneliness.  My friends from today and yesterday who call me, write to me, remember me, they deserve my sincere gratitude.

   They bolster and support me, prove to me that my life still matters.  Because they care, I am able to reciprocate, when they call me, I call back.  Life is more than me, more than a single individual.  Life was meant to be lived among other human beings.  From the moment of birth we have interacted with others.  The infant’s cry of hunger or discomfort is a call to another person.  We need each other to remain healthy and well, to continue the aging process, to be lively, to give and take in life. We cannot fly solo and endure in health and joy.  Sometimes one other is enough, as time moves along, one is no longer enough.  It “take a village” (pardon my plagiarism, Hillary), to encourage and support the elderly and I am grateful that more than one village looks after me.

   Thanks everybody, I had a wonderful 93^rd birthday!!!

A Busy Month

January 16, 2015...A Busy Month,

   This month started with a bang, a good bang!  On December 31st I flew to Phoenix to attend and participate in the Annual Meeting of the National Association of Retired Reform (progressive) Rabbis, NAORRR.  This group of women and men are dear to my heart.  My beloved Erv and I rescued it in its infancy and led them to full membership in the community of Reform Rabbis for fourteen years.  I believe this month celebrates 32 years of service to the community of Retired Reform Rabbis.

   Of course I had the joy and satisfaction to connect with many old friends.  Some are elderly folks, as am I, others are younger colleagues.  Many sat at Erv's feet as they found their way to fulfillment and satisfaction.  I am indeed a lucky widow who enjoys the friendship and respect of so many warm and friendly women and men.  Because they come from around the country, we share different perspectives; it is always fun to disagree, argue a bit.  I stay in touch with many over the year, but others I only see and speak with every other year.  NAORRR meets alternately on West or East Coast for the Annual meeting.  I no longer go East.

   It is like a college reunion every time I go.  There is never enough time to catch up with everyone because the fun time is sandwiched in between didactic sessions.  Even the elderly are eager to learn something new, absorb and argue new ideas.  Then there also were a couple of practical sessions.  When Erv and I were in charge we were heavy on the practical.  This gave me the opportunity to add my experience and participate.  The Program Chair had asked (or maybe I volunteered) me to lead a widows’ group.  In the past Erv and I had a friend, a recent widow, we asked her to lead a group.  It was a failure because she talked too much about herself.  So I had a big challenge.  I knew I had to avoid a focus on me.

   At the last moment a light bulb went off in my head, I knew what to do. After introducing myself with a single sentence about Erv,  (We were seated in a circle and had a floating mike) I asked the first person on my left to tell us his name and why he chose this workshop.  Yes, men came; I had been warned they might not.  As we learned that afternoon, widowers also confront unbelievable sadness, loneliness and sorrow.

   In the circle, we were off and running.  I only needed to answer a few questions add to their own understanding, everyone had a chance to speak and they did.  It was honest interaction.  They asked each other questions, supplied answers.  I was simply the leader with a mission: “one person at a time please”.  I am so pleased that I went through the mess at the airport and suffered the cold on the plane.  The trip was worth every chill and delay.

   Now I round out this January 2015, with 2014 behind me, and face my 93^rd birthday stretching toward 94, 95….and on?