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!!!”

  

 

 

 

 

ADOPTION!                                                                  March 2, 2015

     When my beloved and I married, we knew that we wanted to have children.  We understood that could not happen right away because he was still a student and I, a very wet behind the ears, social worker.  We needed to grow, mature and adjust to this business of living together.  We were however, enthusiastic, eager and earnest.  After two years we decided it was time; perhaps I should have added impatient to our character traits.  With delicious abandon I tossed my diaphragm onto the top shelf of my closet.  It was never to be used or seen again!

     We joined the many others who have “suffered” through the anguish of searching out the reason for infertility.  The process is lengthy, the tests are many; procedures are frequently painful as well.  That was a long time ago back in 1949; I know there have been positive changes.  The process of determining the exact nature of our brand of infertility took two years.  By the time we understood our problem we discovered there was no fix, we decided that we would adopt children.  Family life without kids to challenge and brighten our days was unthinkable, maybe even selfish.

     While we were still in Cincinnati where Erv was finishing his last year before ordination as a rabbi, we applied to the Family Service agency’s adoption unit.  They turned us down!  How dare they do that: rabbi and social worker were destined to be good parents, loving parents, and unselfish parents!  We were shocked and angry. They did not want one of their babies moved out of their reach during its first year.  Bad social work!  In graduate school I was taught that there is always the possibility of moving a “case” out of the state as long as it can be transferred and supervised by an appropriate agency. When we found the door closed in April, we knew we had another long wait; Erv had not even looked for a pulpit, he was concentrating on exams.

     I was not concerned, I knew he was already a fine rabbi, I was confident that we had a great future ahead and I believed we would have children.  As soon as we landed in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, I made phone calls and inquiries about agencies that had children for adoption.  The Family & Children’s Agency in Winston was delighted to help us.  Before we realized it we were interviewed, our histories were checked, our home was assessed and we got to know our social worker so well that soon we were drinking beer with her. In the fall of 1949, our paper work was completed and by January 1950, we were introduced to our son, several days later we brought Jeff home, where he was to grow up into a fine young man.  He was a delicious baby, content, happy, playful from the beginning.

     Before we had an opportunity to think about the subject of another child, our social worker came to us a year later, and said, “Now that Jeff’s papers are final, he is all yours, he needs a baby sister.   I was conflicted; I had reasons why he should have a sister and an equal number of reasons why he should have a baby brother.  “Well,” said our social worker, “I think he needs a baby sister!”  As it was her job to find his sister, we agreed.  We simply wanted a second child. I was sure I did not want to raise an only child.  I knew too many who were spoiled and demanding, without any understanding of how to share.

     We were in the process of building a house and in another city on vacation when the call came.  My Dad had a letter when we spoke on the phone.  “It looks important” he said, “from Family Service.”  Eagerly I had him open it, “Jeff’s sister is waiting, would you like to meet her?”  We were thrilled! This time we got to share with our small son and his excitement knew no boundaries.  We went straight home, but our home was not yet finished. 

     We discussed the dilemma with our social worker: as we had to stay in hotel while the house was completed, we wondered if we should move our new baby twice or leave her in the foster home that she had known since she was a month old.  The social worker decided it was best that she be moved only once.  She was a temperamental child and there was a big change coming, one move was enough.  In three weeks time we met our Judi, when I picked her up, my arms around her flew into the air, she was petite, tiny and adorable, a light weight compared to her big brother who was dancing around her with glee.

     Judi was not happy with the strangers who were trying desperately to show her some of the love she could expect. Tiny fists pounded on my chest, tears streamed down her beautiful face and finding her vocal chords, she clearly expressed her anguish.  Only when we arrived home and set her down on the couch did she show a sign that she had any idea that she was home.  The sobbing slowed, Jeff ran into the room, stood on his head and made a funny face for his sister and she giggled, sweet music to our ears.

     Judi and Jeff were completely different from one another, as they grew up to become adults, their differences were even clearer.  I look back in time, realize that my brother and I were exact opposites of each other in so many ways even though we shared the same sets of genes.  Judi and Jeff  had completely different genetics.  Their differences challenged and seduced us.  Our social worker had tried to match them physically, they were both blond babies, they had brown eyes, she was tiny, he was big. After their birth mothers signed papers when they were a month old, they spent the next seven months in the same foster home, at different times of course.

     As they grew, they each developed in their own way, Jeff was slow to talk, Judi spoke early.  She walked earlier than Jeff.  Judi was very independent; Jeff was laid back and was more dependent on our good will and approval.  Judi taught herself to ride the bike, while Jeff waited for our help.  As growing kids, Jeff was willing to engage in discussion with a demanding parent; Judi was more impatient and when she did not like a command or demand, she frequently picked up the dog, went into her room and slammed the door. I am sure our pup was a willing listener.  Judi loved Sugie very much.

     Never once during their growing years did we ever regret having adopted our children.  I cannot imagine a life, a married life without children.  They both grew into adults with goals and ideas about life that were opposite, one from the other.  I believe we gave them a home that allowed them to grow into their genetics, encouraged them to be the best that they could.  Jeff was gay, we tried and succeeded in supporting him and accepting the lifestyle that I would not have chosen for him.  When he drove a large truck across country, I asked him once if he was ever afraid, afraid that his homosexuality showed.  He answered that he was worried and scared every time he and his fellow driver entered a truck stop for a meal. Sadly our wonderful son died at age 43 from the AIDS virus.

     When we kept a promise to Judi and allowed her to go on a floating campus after high school without us as chaperons, we made a huge mistake.  She was a gorgeous girl, almost 18 year-old woman, inexperienced and vulnerable.  The trip around the world taught her all the things in life we had tried and failed to teach. Today, Judi is truly a beautiful woman who has become independent, thinks creatively and handles her life with good sense.  She has a troubled son whom she loves without boundaries.  That is how children should be loved and what we tried to accomplish with Judi and Jeff.

     Yes, to the readers’ question, they knew they were adopted, chosen even before they understood the words.  We all smiled when strangers would exclaim “he looks so much like his father!”  And if they would ask, “Whom does she look like?”  I would answer, “She is special,  looks like herself!”

    

 

 

 

 

    

I AM Grateful

I am grateful!                                                                                    February 28, 2015
   Around Thanksgiving time we look around seeking all the things and people we are thankful to call friends. What about the rest of the year? Can we be grateful, satisfied, fulfilled, yes, even happy and content when we do not have a delicious holiday to remind us? The recent issue of my Mayo Clinic newsletter has an article titled, “Fostering thankfulness”. It points out that practicing gratitude is good for us!

A study has indicated that those who have a predisposition toward thankfulness are less likely to be depressed, anxious, addicted to nicotine, alcohol and/or drugs. They are happier people. Why? Perhaps it is because they accept themselves, they do not react to peer pressure, instead, they learn to be content in the moment. This is another way to be open to mindfulness, another way to focus on living in the now.

A study of 400 people found that grateful people had less trouble falling asleep, slept better and stayed asleep. It certainly is true that when the mind is busy concentrating on those things and people, for whom we are grateful, it wanders into pleasant places, there is no room for negative thinking or anxiety.

When I have lonely moments, empty days that I have neglected to plan for, I think about the many wonderful moments, days and years I have experienced during my lifetime, I remember to be grateful. I am overwhelmed when I recall the good things in life that I have enjoyed. I grew up in a loving home even though peacefulness was often interrupted by childish disappointments and sibling disasters. When my parents were on the opposite sides of an issue, they kept their disagreements private. I do recall hearing, “not now, not in front of the children”. Instinctively I understood it was impossible for two people who lived together, to agree all the time. In fact, I learned early on that they were different; so I managed to make serious requests to the parent most likely to say “yes”.

I learned truth, flexibility and consistency from my Mom. She made it very clear when I was quite young, “If you lie to me, there will be harsh, severe punishment. If you tell the truth about something you did that was wrong, your punishment will be much less severe.” I learned that the hard way when “who spilled the perfume on my dresser” became an issue.

From my Dad I learned to love the outdoors, enjoy exercise, and the importance of integrity. Integrity is a major component of a good person. He used to quote Shakespeare so often that I learned the lines that Polonious spoke to his son, Laertes: “To thine own self be true, then it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.” This constituted my Dad’s definition of integrity.

I remember the evening he locked himself in the bathroom and cried. Dad found some print slugs that he believed Ben had stolen from the school’s newspaper office. The thought that his son might be a thief caused Dad’s tears. It frightened me to see my steady, dependable Dad weep. When my brother hastily explained that he had “borrowed” them to experiment with them, he planned to return them, Dad simply said “tomorrow”.

Just as grateful as I am, and always will be, for my parents so my gratitude escalates beyond Heaven when I begin to think about my beloved Erv. The day we found each other was extraordinary. I am seriously grateful for the 62 years plus that we shared. Last night I experimented with “thankfulness” and I had the best night’s sleep I have enjoyed in a long time. There is no reason to save our “thankfulness” for the holiday of Thanksgving!

A NEW WIDOW

A NEW WIDOW There is a new widow in my family. I am trying hard to figure out what exactly I can tell her to be helpful. Her journey en route to alone-ness will wind through side roads and detours. The truth of the matter is that after seven years alone, seven years without my beloved, I still find myself yelling at his picture, asking, “Where are you? How could you leave me with all this nonsense to figure out by myself? Don’t you remember we did this ‘stuff’ together?” How can I help Phyllis?

In the first place, it is important to know and accept the fact that there is no “right” way to grieve. Each of us grieves according to our own personality, our character, our own lifetime habit of handling sadness; each of us knows or learns what part of the togetherness was inherent in our personal happiness. If someone asked me today: what piece of our relationship do I miss the most, I have an answer. I miss the way Erv would grab me for no reason swing me around in a hug and shout to the world, “I love this girl!” His need to tell the world was never an embarrassment, it was a gift, I returned his hug, and we shared our joy, each time with a sense of renewal. I cherish the memory, it is far less painful than it was seven years ago.

The second thing I need to tell Phyllis, do not be impatient with you. Grieving and missing are not things that must be completed on deadline. I know that for years you built your relationship, your marriage; you added brick upon brick to your love, affection and respect for one another. You cannot cast it all off spontaneously, time will help you frame it, cherish it and learn to live with it. As there is no special way to grieve, so there is no time line to grief.

Love and togetherness are partners; the love never ends though the togetherness ends at death. Phyllis, that is the hardest part of my loss. Remember we all do this differently. In the last years, 25 years during Erv’s retirement we were attached, hip-to-hip. For so many years our jobs separated us from each other, things changed in those last years.

The reality of loss is not something that we slip into like a garment. There are times when all the milling, good-hearted people are more than we can handle. They mean to be helpful, but there are moments when we do not want the help. Feel free to slip away by yourself, take a moment to catch your breath and catch up with yourself. That is allowed. Follow your instincts, pamper yourself, take your time. Forgive yourself for your exhaustion, for an error in judgment, for not returning everyone’s gesture. Lee would want you to be good to yourself, give in to your feelings, be yourself. And remember our God is a forgiving God, He/She allows that rules are made to be broken, especially when you are winding your way through grief.

Death in the Family

 

Feb 21, 2015

 

Death is a fact of life.

If we understood that truth we might be less anxious.

Yes, death is a fact of life, why fear Heaven or Hell?

Damnation or punishment should not frighten us.

I am a non-believer in an after-life,

So they do not faze me.

When I was a child, 
I was punished in a non-punitive way,
Never hit or beaten, frequently deprived of treats.

Punishment never brought fear despite the spotlight’s bright gaze,

I learned not to be afraid.

My life was been tempered with moderation and good sense.

Oh my oh my, I sit here and write about death and suddenly

It slammed right into me.

A call came, a sweet voice said,

“Agnes Jane, this is cousin Janice.”

Of course, Lee’s daughter,

we married her to Steve many years ago.

My Dad has died!” she said.

I can hardly write it down.

Death is academic

until it slams right into us always with sad news:

Lee is dead! Just like that,

Lee is dead!

I studied his picture; it can’t be so.

He was optimism; he was family,

I remember when Lee was born.

I was a kid when he and cousin John made me a family elder.

I was five or six!

That long ago!

And now Lee is dead.

But I can still hear his voice…..