A Cab Ride to Forget                                                       August 2015

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

   The Men in My Life              8/12/15

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

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

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

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

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

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

    

  “Ready Set No”!                                                                 August 8, 2015

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

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

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

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

Okey-Dokey

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

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

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

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

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

Rachel Visits

 Rachel  Visits---- July 30, 201

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

A Piece of My Mind               

July 10, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

kvetching ( complaining), just swap challenges!

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

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

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

kvetching is not in my nature.

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

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

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

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

  

 

 

Trip to LA

A trip to LA……June 30, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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