tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89146266771770353942024-02-19T07:59:03.824-08:00little scraps of paperNicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-64969862391724881342015-09-09T11:41:00.000-07:002015-09-09T11:41:52.157-07:00All Roads Lead To Yankel<h2 class="ProfileHeaderCard-screenname u-inlineBlock u-dir" dir="ltr">
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOqF8s24RHu6oyan47R0ZCRcR2nNTktfKhrvQVd-rsElvxXehnru8QXVJFSJ56-Iutc_-EkrwjNcM2yiFxfDSsYiOxZZg0s2G8fbngUYN8eRJTKPnWn6dflXUdr_Qr9gM2-2WD1TWPmErQ/s1600/SignIn+Book+w+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOqF8s24RHu6oyan47R0ZCRcR2nNTktfKhrvQVd-rsElvxXehnru8QXVJFSJ56-Iutc_-EkrwjNcM2yiFxfDSsYiOxZZg0s2G8fbngUYN8eRJTKPnWn6dflXUdr_Qr9gM2-2WD1TWPmErQ/s200/SignIn+Book+w+tree.jpg" width="200" /></a>I should say that all branches start from Yankel, at least
that’s what I learned over Labor Day weekend when I attended a
Millman/Melman/Kravitz family reunion in Ewing (New Jersey). Yankel Melman was
my great, great, great grandfather. Yankel begot Hirsh, who begot Abraham, who
begot Isaac, who begot my father Meyer, who begot me—our own book of Genesis.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My middle name (Ina) is after my paternal grandfather
(Isaac) and grandmother (Ida). Until this past weekend, that’s about all I knew
about my father’s family. Well, that’s not quite true. I knew his sisters Mollie,
Katherine, and Dorothy, and his brother Robert. In fact, Russell is named after
my Uncle Robert. Robert was a sweet, gentle soul, mentally challenged, who
lived with my Aunt Dorothy’s family. He never married, and died too young. I
liked the idea of honoring him and my father by naming my firstborn after Uncle
Robert.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQi0Xq0_ZtsW-Of_RmXr4mQnVn4mIoyjHXWtUUpZ8Tx6sjbnXnk1XxoB4wPmturXnSE-HJ_-2ub_GiinsGdtF1yMW6zB_2a0gc9QXsv5ejtRo_ImjbKYZNYYnWHyVBKS1xv-Exxe8wuDV7/s1600/Abraham+Millman+Grave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQi0Xq0_ZtsW-Of_RmXr4mQnVn4mIoyjHXWtUUpZ8Tx6sjbnXnk1XxoB4wPmturXnSE-HJ_-2ub_GiinsGdtF1yMW6zB_2a0gc9QXsv5ejtRo_ImjbKYZNYYnWHyVBKS1xv-Exxe8wuDV7/s200/Abraham+Millman+Grave.jpg" width="111" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: #274e13;">Great Grandfather</span></b></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpx8dr9e9ZbVVHWupl5N8-rb4qiMzEFeCac4voLrRTTesbo4mq9d2nQljk8fededTnn7lfdcxBT70YFLukhZiTfXZjCAevwxEoeB1So48DYEJEEmDFJmc7NdJUUiYOopJz1388Kq74-Kzc/s1600/Lena+Millman+Great+Grandmother.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpx8dr9e9ZbVVHWupl5N8-rb4qiMzEFeCac4voLrRTTesbo4mq9d2nQljk8fededTnn7lfdcxBT70YFLukhZiTfXZjCAevwxEoeB1So48DYEJEEmDFJmc7NdJUUiYOopJz1388Kq74-Kzc/s200/Lena+Millman+Great+Grandmother.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: #274e13;">Great Grandmother</span></b></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When I was young, we traveled to south Jersey to visit
cousins about once a year. It wasn’t until I was a teenager and found my
parents’ wedding album, with a card signed “Love Your Brother Harry,” that I
even knew my father had another sibling. Harry, my mother told me, warning me not
to talk to my father about him, was the family black sheep, an itinerant who
died in a tenement fire that he apparently started while smoking in bed. In the
paperwork we found in the files after my mother died, I discovered that despite
everything, my father had paid for Harry’s funeral, and he is interred with the
much of the family in Trenton.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">For whatever reason, my father also never mentioned his
aunts and uncles, his cousins, or even talked at all about his parents. I have
found only one photo of them, which appears to have been taken at my father’s
college graduation. Truthfully, I never much thought about my father’s
relatives or why we didn’t know or hear of them, that is, until my mother died
two years ago.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPt27sE3bbdcgx17bQkU7tzmZo1L_8VBBsSaMEqCbAab28flXIduqP9d4LmltOmpYqn0EPVpByQgCniJZbSyY3-b792BfopGMjpp0P49E5q-P7BTSf2rWlNVNTa4JolTnZMBl8dhTJtYp3/s1600/Me+Beverly+David.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPt27sE3bbdcgx17bQkU7tzmZo1L_8VBBsSaMEqCbAab28flXIduqP9d4LmltOmpYqn0EPVpByQgCniJZbSyY3-b792BfopGMjpp0P49E5q-P7BTSf2rWlNVNTa4JolTnZMBl8dhTJtYp3/s200/Me+Beverly+David.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><b>Me, Beverly & David Weinstein</b></span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDzC-6YLfLHNtCnCRrWsKg_JNQlpy0T10LiDOViHWIWjR_l_V2CDwtU6pEF0cCu8JMBXY65BSH5NRjmM3S7-qL7k9MB2FXzxzhGTJlBiJ2ZSYfx-7mcdUkKcGQwEHYZxY2VVwTOYaazlB/s1600/EstherMelmanKravitzSamKravitzJosephMelman.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDzC-6YLfLHNtCnCRrWsKg_JNQlpy0T10LiDOViHWIWjR_l_V2CDwtU6pEF0cCu8JMBXY65BSH5NRjmM3S7-qL7k9MB2FXzxzhGTJlBiJ2ZSYfx-7mcdUkKcGQwEHYZxY2VVwTOYaazlB/s200/EstherMelmanKravitzSamKravitzJosephMelman.JPG" width="200" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><b>Esther Melman Kravitz (Great Aunt)<br />Samuel Kravitz (Esther's husband)<br />Joseph Melman (Great Uncle)</b></span><br /></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjralm8GWv-Tc1RCsO5uJSp_cUz4KHS78LwW2d5gu_pxYQJP30dXutG_8qaxQqObFybaFMvziZdkLr9u_mH6VafExermPMlf-CiU0E4xaA80y59nahzjsM6UPsLqR_30oMicRvuAxguUX85/s1600/momanddadarmy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjralm8GWv-Tc1RCsO5uJSp_cUz4KHS78LwW2d5gu_pxYQJP30dXutG_8qaxQqObFybaFMvziZdkLr9u_mH6VafExermPMlf-CiU0E4xaA80y59nahzjsM6UPsLqR_30oMicRvuAxguUX85/s200/momanddadarmy.jpg" width="149" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: #274e13;">My Parents <br />Garie & Meyer Millman</span></b></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That’s when Bruce and I discovered a letter from my father’s
first cousin—Nathan Melman—along with a family tree that Nathan had put
together, along with his daughter Beverly. Imagine our surprise to learn there
were many branches to that tree. Imagine our surprise when we learned that my
grandfather was the only one in the family to spell the last name as “Millman”
instead of “Melman.” Had he changed it, and if yes, why? Or had some official
misspelled it because of a heavy accent? We’ll never know.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fast forward to about a month ago, when I received an email
invitation from Beverly, inviting us to a reunion. Beverly had
continued the family tree compilation that her father had started, and thought it
would be a great idea to gather the leaves of that tree together. I’m so glad
she did.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">While many of the 50+ people who attended were distant
relatives at best, and none of them knew my grandparents or my parents (except
Beverly, who had met them at the cemetery), it was exciting
nevertheless.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYCMBTm7D6kJSbXmI0ZgHnCVou6dpYozkDBCXu7wURv8UvLlxV8ORzuo03u3kyU3AFU1ebBECtzd_CEqA6qkT1dNC2Bwp1jEbv8EC9tnL9Unvor_Iz4QoP40fcnVNrtcNa7OQ6kI4kaaZq/s1600/Benjamin+Melman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYCMBTm7D6kJSbXmI0ZgHnCVou6dpYozkDBCXu7wURv8UvLlxV8ORzuo03u3kyU3AFU1ebBECtzd_CEqA6qkT1dNC2Bwp1jEbv8EC9tnL9Unvor_Iz4QoP40fcnVNrtcNa7OQ6kI4kaaZq/s200/Benjamin+Melman.jpg" width="141" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><b>Benjamin Melman <br />(Great Uncle)</b></span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, what else did I learn? That my grandfather and one of
his brothers may have been the only Jews in the Cossack army. They
were selected because they were excellent horseman and excelled in the martial
arts, and were responsible for guarding the Czar’s train in Siberia. And me,
afraid of horses…not an inherited skill, I’m afraid.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I learned that Mollie, Robert, and Harry were born in
Russia, not in the United States as I thought. And, even more fascinating was
to learn that my grandparents also begot two girls before Robert, who I had
always thought was the eldest of my father’s siblings. They died before the family emigrated from Russia. Wow!</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Best yet, I ran into an older first cousin, Miriam, at the
reunion, who said she had some pictures of our grandparents that she could send
me. I wonder if I look into their faces if I will see my father, or even
myself. While I’ll never know who they were, it’ll be nice to know what they
look like.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Note to self: Share all the family stories (both good and
bad), histories, and pictures with my children. It has made us who we are, and,
indeed, them who they are. What a great thing to be able to pass along.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><h2 class="ProfileHeaderCard-screenname u-inlineBlock u-dir" dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="FollowStatus"></span></span></span></h2>
Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-58864330596488762062015-07-28T14:52:00.001-07:002015-07-28T14:52:01.075-07:00In Memory of My Mother-in-Law Matilda<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ5ShLisqUUYi4owQXt7uWs7rk59W9N1u4qmXK5r4JtrlZ2oQ68LGYRv3x9jYi3dr50FDih_TBHDvBKWLdCJa_rHlH_YA8eaBjTxeXGvnJmE9HtpxyUxVNTk3JBIQ1HS7-Zf24mA4Yhmcx/s1600/DSC_0083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ5ShLisqUUYi4owQXt7uWs7rk59W9N1u4qmXK5r4JtrlZ2oQ68LGYRv3x9jYi3dr50FDih_TBHDvBKWLdCJa_rHlH_YA8eaBjTxeXGvnJmE9HtpxyUxVNTk3JBIQ1HS7-Zf24mA4Yhmcx/s200/DSC_0083.JPG" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #274e13;">Matilda looked great in red!</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have been thinking a lot about death lately. Not in the morbid sense (well, perhaps a little), but in the OMG, I can't believe how many family and friends have died in the last two years. And naturally, one begins to think about the time limits we all have. I used to think I had all the time in the world to do all the things I dreamed about—writing that book; becoming a choreographer; learning how to draw/paint; traveling the world; watching my children get married and have their own families. Now I am more realistic. I know my time is limited, and honestly, that makes me very sad because I'm not ready. Yeah, I know; nobody is.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQW6lm-GYS_uxiTaIC_NpUnXQU3kVXKdCtKcqXZyKQuqpqyqqrovWNGB9g6Kt0M9EIeirbHXvSTW4aDfzDZtHGaOV32CVZGat52qB6SugK2MeC-4Kj0WHy7D5JXSddCM6-by1BiwZnT8jN/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQW6lm-GYS_uxiTaIC_NpUnXQU3kVXKdCtKcqXZyKQuqpqyqqrovWNGB9g6Kt0M9EIeirbHXvSTW4aDfzDZtHGaOV32CVZGat52qB6SugK2MeC-4Kj0WHy7D5JXSddCM6-by1BiwZnT8jN/s200/photo.JPG" width="146" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><b>August 1953 with Doug</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This Sunday, we will have an unveiling for my mother-in-law Matilda. I miss her. Several pictures of her are in my office. I take great comfort in surrounding myself with my loved ones, and I confess, when work throws me a question, I look at one of those pictures and start talking to it. (None has answered—yet!)<br />
<br />
I miss the messages she would leave on our answering machine. Unlike my mother's "Hello; it's your mother" (as if I would not know her voice?), my mother-in-law never identified herself. Her message always began with "Are you people there?" For some reason, she always referred to Doug and me as "you people." I wasn't sure if it was because she saw us as a unit, a huge mass, or if she wasn't quite sure which one of us she wanted to talk to, so she lumped us together. Of course, she did that in person as well. "What did you people do this weekend?"<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtheXlKrwmxwsammZkJrFcg1XB-IF4Rl4VKasuZ0p8mLxkypioUx4AKL8AZG53c_7WExPZ5aP3WFM_P-6hMcwJGu5zTTrpspAFtc2sHlOnNpBan2Gzl3vyR3oKc8Yyk-fXyNH7umterB4v/s1600/photo-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtheXlKrwmxwsammZkJrFcg1XB-IF4Rl4VKasuZ0p8mLxkypioUx4AKL8AZG53c_7WExPZ5aP3WFM_P-6hMcwJGu5zTTrpspAFtc2sHlOnNpBan2Gzl3vyR3oKc8Yyk-fXyNH7umterB4v/s200/photo-1.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><b>Reading with Russell</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I miss her knowledge of politics and world events. She loved to watch CNN and CSPAN and read Time and Newsweek. She was always up-to-date on who was who and what they were doing. While I didn't always agree with her opinions (and yes, as demure as she seemed, she had some very strong ones), I always admired that she had them. She was not shy about letting us know what politicos she thought were doing a lousy job.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUnSMMPr8HB6FZydYFF35s9TR3mOzXFUBDa0nELw4xW68-gWJQCK3GDxzkrKQOoK-tffqrbw1IrOk0xshk5z1lmRMObFWRXWzOk7kCn-cDQ8grMlip0ZWmBFc3TbD27VlmLM6XNFXAMvkt/s1600/DSC_0035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUnSMMPr8HB6FZydYFF35s9TR3mOzXFUBDa0nELw4xW68-gWJQCK3GDxzkrKQOoK-tffqrbw1IrOk0xshk5z1lmRMObFWRXWzOk7kCn-cDQ8grMlip0ZWmBFc3TbD27VlmLM6XNFXAMvkt/s200/DSC_0035.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><b>Visiting with Perri at MICA</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I miss her sense of humor. It's hard to believe that this petite proper lady loved watching old Marx Brothers movies. But she did, and her laugh was infectious. That she shared that love with Perri makes it even more special. There were many sleepovers at Grandma Matilda's where after a dinner out, they'd be in their pajamas watching A Day at the Races or a Night at the Opera.<br />
<br />
I miss her cooking. Doug and his sisters did not grow up on canned string beans like Bruce and I did (probably why I have such an aversion to them to this day). Nope. Matilda cooked real vegetables, and they tasted great. Her lentil soup, her creamed spinach, her artichokes, and yes, even her string beans were the best. I'm honored that she even shared a few of her recipes with me.<br />
<br />
I miss our conversations. She shared stories about her parents and growing up in Paterson; she conveyed her worries about her daughters; she expressed pride in Doug and, indeed, all her children; she talked about movies, and politics, and (my favorite) her grandchildren. We shared many tears and many smiles together.<br />
<br />
So this Sunday at her unveiling, instead of thinking about death, I will think about her life, about her accomplishments, and about the greatest joy she gave me—her son.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-16591257661718756682015-02-21T12:19:00.000-08:002015-02-21T12:19:30.868-08:00Piled Higher and DeeperTwo weeks into construction, and there is not a spot of clean in our house. Oy! But I can now see that the vision that Doug and I had when we started this project is slowly coming into being, and that is very exciting.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7DPcCn6qsilXqRTK5JDtnQvQlidwk7RKyqLm4EbXDij_3PXWPMTy5Oabyx5IP4T2WCd6VXARsNLYRRnJI7myv_bVjl01rjfPJ82ivaVSKkfGw2OvwgYfFbo-Yu9_1t0TqY07oT53s1IFA/s1600/photo+2-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7DPcCn6qsilXqRTK5JDtnQvQlidwk7RKyqLm4EbXDij_3PXWPMTy5Oabyx5IP4T2WCd6VXARsNLYRRnJI7myv_bVjl01rjfPJ82ivaVSKkfGw2OvwgYfFbo-Yu9_1t0TqY07oT53s1IFA/s1600/photo+2-1.JPG" height="200" width="149" /></a>The laundry room, front hall, and den tiles have been laid and grouted, as has the kitchen floor. We have a new sliding back door to our porch, with a lock that actually works (no more bars in the track to keep out intruders) And no more stickies on the door to prevent someone from accidentally walking through the glass; there's no mistaking there's a door here. A new storage closet in the den has been framed out.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi6AY6x4VVOLjpq8KIN9Bf8EURwUi_awThTEEv_0ooGWGpSu6Yp6XYDYme_mGwll-OhVqaiaF7CtdO449b6TXTEwg1bho3b2H5qLurdgUVJFG9lvhMZ6t0bWnorOUSMk9qHd1fXMHahEzq/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi6AY6x4VVOLjpq8KIN9Bf8EURwUi_awThTEEv_0ooGWGpSu6Yp6XYDYme_mGwll-OhVqaiaF7CtdO449b6TXTEwg1bho3b2H5qLurdgUVJFG9lvhMZ6t0bWnorOUSMk9qHd1fXMHahEzq/s1600/photo+3.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyBPkhuE3dFi2U5pcaH8hOZLpMObOt_wptVhp92sa1caJt14BG3QZAbzL5f5SCb8Qs1zbIZ1fGmaNSGaPhV416GU8BiRO8cjk8-tS5fMneBg1eKErw8la4pW6Ot87iWSM66XT2pJfqgQRI/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyBPkhuE3dFi2U5pcaH8hOZLpMObOt_wptVhp92sa1caJt14BG3QZAbzL5f5SCb8Qs1zbIZ1fGmaNSGaPhV416GU8BiRO8cjk8-tS5fMneBg1eKErw8la4pW6Ot87iWSM66XT2pJfqgQRI/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a>A pocket door is in the works to hold a stained glass door that we took from my mother's and father's house. When closed, the door will separate the front hall from the den. Years ago, my mother commissioned an artist to do a door in grays and white, with a red cardinal—my father's favorite bird. The door led from our dining room to an enclosed porch. I could not bear to leave it behind when we sold their house, and now it will become an integral part of my own!<br />
<br />
The bathtub has been installed (complete with dirty rug inside); there's new insulation in the bathroom, kitchen, and den. Leaky pipes in the den have been fixed. An electrical upgrade is in the works, lights and light switches have been moved, and yesterday we passed our initial plumbing and electric inspections.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b>Lessons Learned</b></span><br />
What I've learned (actually, it's just reinforced what I already knew about myself) through all this is that I, indeed, can be flexible.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I can live with constant noise and block it out if I have to. I do realize, however, that I love the quiet and relish 4:00, when the banging stops, the radio is shut off (country music, no less!), and the constant chattering ceases. </li>
<li>I've learned to live with the toilet seat constantly up, though honestly, I'd prefer not to. When Doug and I were first married, I used to charge him a nickel a pop if he left the seat up (it only took one time of falling into the bowl in the middle of the night to institute that policy). I did the same with Russell, but charged him only a penny; he was a child, after all.</li>
<li>I've learned to live in very limited space, though this, too, is something I'd prefer not to. I never realized before how much I roamed the house in between completion of my work assignments. Now, there is no place to go; it's basement or bedroom for me. And it's too cold to just walk around the block.</li>
<li>I've learned there are solutions to most problems. There are two contractors working on the project. Each brings a different specialty to the job. One is an expert tile layer, while the other is a master carpenter. One is quiet and planning, while the other loves to talk and go with the flow. But both are great problem solvers. They love figuring things out. They love finding a solution to whatever quirks this old house (or I) throw at them.</li>
<li>Most importantly, I've learned dreams do come true.</li>
</ul>
<div>
Note to self: Keep dreaming!</div>
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-35xElzULX3Q%2FVOjhOwkWOWI%2FAAAAAAAAASg%2FyLLnwKtkGrQ%2Fs1600%2Fphoto%252B1.JPG&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyBPkhuE3dFi2U5pcaH8hOZLpMObOt_wptVhp92sa1caJt14BG3QZAbzL5f5SCb8Qs1zbIZ1fGmaNSGaPhV416GU8BiRO8cjk8-tS5fMneBg1eKErw8la4pW6Ot87iWSM66XT2pJfqgQRI/s1600/photo+1.JPG" -->Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-27354359587196248092015-02-11T10:24:00.000-08:002015-02-11T10:24:46.739-08:00Total Chaos<br />It is bittersweet that the construction that I have been dreaming about for years (at least 15!) of a new kitchen, bath, and den has now begun, and the only way it was made possible was through my mother's death. I know that she would be very happy that some of the monies she left to me are going to fix up the house. Whenever she gave us money as a gift, she wanted it to be used on something that she could see, not be added to the general operating budget to pay the mortgage.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ1WhTPFa8_3zwLxjf2TpaOxjkmJmXc1MYwkXu80DdY98doEvK6x05rQ14OPHRQuuD3rtaQb2iETDEZUU7HZ__cfz1W-iYGcoySYIsRTCOAhgzQScQW40oU6ROqvZmQWVnFxY97NUGskET/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ1WhTPFa8_3zwLxjf2TpaOxjkmJmXc1MYwkXu80DdY98doEvK6x05rQ14OPHRQuuD3rtaQb2iETDEZUU7HZ__cfz1W-iYGcoySYIsRTCOAhgzQScQW40oU6ROqvZmQWVnFxY97NUGskET/s1600/photo.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a>To prepare for the construction, we had to move everything out of the three rooms and into others. Over the last few months, Doug and I have slowly been going through everything we own to see what we need and what we really want to keep. It's amazing that despite the amount we have donated, trashed, gifted to our children (Russell keeps asking why every time he comes home now he leaves with more than he came with!), there is still so much left.<br />
<br />
What is left has now been moved into the basement where I work (making an already messy space even messier; no clients are reading this, I hope), the porch, the garage, the kids' rooms, and our room. Even Perri's goldfish (his/her story of perseverance is a tale for another day) had to find a new home for a few months.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1auWA7B9PNK9_jiYCW4y05dI6s0dWUbHg-RC1wjEuE_13ArcbNirHqiCSrCenqxbLivVXItR4sL9R-uYbpg-s-1Wk67Z2eU9dALHehaIUQVavCLTA5ziSfrT_GyO7U8aZgYIKev3ZKeb/s1600/IMG_2966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1auWA7B9PNK9_jiYCW4y05dI6s0dWUbHg-RC1wjEuE_13ArcbNirHqiCSrCenqxbLivVXItR4sL9R-uYbpg-s-1Wk67Z2eU9dALHehaIUQVavCLTA5ziSfrT_GyO7U8aZgYIKev3ZKeb/s1600/IMG_2966.JPG" height="149" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #274e13;">The den is now the cleanest room<br />in the house!</span></b></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm not a neatnik by any means. But there is not one room in the house that is not loaded with relocated furniture, dishes, pictures, linens, and stuff.<br />
<br />
Like most things, you need to tear down before you can build up (hmmm, a life lesson for my scrap of paper?). So yesterday began the tear down. Walls, floors, ceilings, tiles are now in a dumpster sitting in our driveway. Added to the chaos of stuff all over the place is dust all over the place. One of the crew said I should get used to living in dirt for a few months. Really?<br />
<br />
Friends who have gone through home renovations had warned me, but I really had no idea how much chaos we'd be living in.<br />
<br />
Note to self: What were you thinking?Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-59309182292580980492015-01-26T12:38:00.001-08:002015-01-26T12:38:21.704-08:00In Loving Memory of Meyer Millman<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwmOiGqdWtDo-LNWGMw6f9IpzafwfRmYz8GMzIJ74lgO9pfw-6XvJk6if4Mw6E781yc_Z5LKgxSRiQojEWFHvZfwls3MuHJVD4nYNoMfPUWWTXU70kLUgCt2eBrahqnCLPDhNAPZQKFK-i/s1600/dad+army.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwmOiGqdWtDo-LNWGMw6f9IpzafwfRmYz8GMzIJ74lgO9pfw-6XvJk6if4Mw6E781yc_Z5LKgxSRiQojEWFHvZfwls3MuHJVD4nYNoMfPUWWTXU70kLUgCt2eBrahqnCLPDhNAPZQKFK-i/s1600/dad+army.JPG" height="200" width="130" /></a>Today marks the 17th anniversary of my father's death. Serendipitous that my brother Bruce was over yesterday to look through the boxes of army memorabilia that Dad had saved. Sifting through the boxes of photos and postcards from every city he served in, letters (in triplicate) of every order he received or authorized, army-issued books and maps, and even telegrams to our mother, gave us a glimpse of the man he was and the father he was to become.<br />
<br />
Coincidently, two days ago I also came across the eulogy I had given at his funeral. I am proud to remember him here, again with those words:<br />
<br />
<i>Though a communicator by profession, how hard it is for me to stand up here and convey to you my love for my father and what made him a very special person.</i><br />
<br />
<i>The consummate educator, he taught me many things that have guided and shaped my life and how, hopefully, shape the lives of his grandchildren.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He taught me to be passionate about work, for he truly put his heart and soul into his job. He was dedicated to his students, to his teachers, and to his building.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>An honorable man, he taught me right from wrong. His ethics were grounded in his Jewish background and his love of Judaism—which he passed along to me.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He taught me that family comes first. There was always time for us, even after a long day's fight with the district office.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He also taught me that:</i><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><i>Money doesn't grown on trees;</i></li>
<li><i>We don't own the utility company;</i></li>
<li><i>I wasn't born in a barn;</i></li>
<li><i>If something is worth doing, it's worth doing right;</i></li>
<li><i>I could be anything I wanted...though he advised me against being a teacher...but I have to work hard to get what I wanted.</i></li>
</ul>
<div>
<i>I would like to read from Psalm 15, which describes the character of a man worthy to come into the presence of God. I think my father was such.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Adonai, who shall sojourn in thy tabernacle?</i></div>
<div>
<i>Who shall dwell upon thy holy mountain?</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>He that walks uprightly, and works righteousness,</i></div>
<div>
<i>And speaks truth in his heart.</i></div>
<div>
<i>That has no slander upon his tongue,</i></div>
<div>
<i>Nor does evil to his fellow,</i></div>
<div>
<i>Nor makes a false charge against his neighbor.</i></div>
<div>
<i>In whose eyes a vile person is despised,</i></div>
<div>
<i>But he honors them that fear Adonai.</i></div>
<div>
<i>He keeps his promise at all costs, and changes not.</i></div>
<div>
<i>He that lends not his money on interest,</i></div>
<div>
<i>Nor takes a bribe to injure the innocent.</i></div>
<div>
<i>He that does these things shall never be moved.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He was a supportive and good husband; a loving father and grandfather. I still miss his calm demeanor, his warm embrace, and his wry (and sometimes dirty) sense of humor. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Pops, I love you.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-89343273133921380052015-01-03T14:35:00.000-08:002015-01-03T14:35:17.458-08:00Looking Forward to The New Year<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaumSsyM9oSm6aJ94cjY017j0t2Vj28VhYSfelGdM1nYCQs7Tlr55jgO8WawjpJjp2LzwjTJ7ZWHlaMbMG5EdBwQxciK-NvDXyoe2OvztQBanK1gdixyiqMhrL47oQm8Kh3UQb0VTLKLlk/s1600/Group+DSCN1802.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaumSsyM9oSm6aJ94cjY017j0t2Vj28VhYSfelGdM1nYCQs7Tlr55jgO8WawjpJjp2LzwjTJ7ZWHlaMbMG5EdBwQxciK-NvDXyoe2OvztQBanK1gdixyiqMhrL47oQm8Kh3UQb0VTLKLlk/s1600/Group+DSCN1802.jpg" height="228" width="320" /></a>Doug and I were fortunate to usher in 2015 singing and dancing with friends at Maggianos—a different experience, to be sure, which hopefully augurs a different and promising new year.<br />
<br />
The last few years we have been focused on taking care of parents, on illness, on death and mourning. We've experienced a lot of losses, including both our mothers, one of our dearest friends, and a childhood home. As we've closed out our parents' estates, we've had to get rid of objects that bring back many memories of better times; the good news is that we've also learned that a lot of those "things" are merely that—just stuff. I don't think either of us ever truly appreciated the value of our temple's bazaar, Goodwill, and Craig's list prior to this last year. And how wonderful that our children are now of an age to have apartments of their own; it's quite liberating to get rid of our "crap" and pass it along to them!<br />
<br />
Sadly during the last few years, we've had to neglect some of our friends, our home and yard, and even ourselves. There are friends who have taken us off of speed dial, if not deleted us completely from their devices. Perhaps our deletion felt as liberating to them as our getting rid of stuff was to us! I can only hope so. We do, however, regret that we are no longer part of their lives. It's easy to let go of things, not so much people.<br />
<br />
Hobbies over the last few years have gone by the wayside. While Doug has continued to play tennis, and I have continued with my book club (thank you my dear ladies for keeping me sane!), I think we both have misplaced some of our passions about other interests.<br />
<br />
So as we start 2015, I think we are both ready to shred our shrouds and don brighter colors and, more importantly, refocus on those areas of our lives we have neglected. As a friend (depressingly) reminded me on New Year's Eve, we only 20-40 years left. So, we'd better make each day count.<br />
<br />
I'm not big on new year's resolutions (mostly because I seem to break them and/or forget about them by day 2), but I am big about thinking about what my future might look like and what changes need to be made to get closer to that dream.<br />
<br />
As a first step, we are changing our environment. Those who know me well know that I have been talking about renovating our kitchen for at least 10 years. We learned (from the same wise friend who reminded me on New Year's Eve about living in the moment) that when you renovate you should work from the top down. If you've been to our house, you also know that our lovely pink bathroom (original to our 1960s home), which is right over our kitchen, is in desperate need of a redo. And, as long as we have a contractor coming in, we might as well fix the den...right?...which has cracked floor tiles held together with clear packing tape, sliding doors with gel leaves on them so no one walks through the glass, and early American-style built-in bookcases (UGLY).<br />
<br />
The most exciting part of the renovation will be the installation of a pocket door that will contain a stained glass door from my mother's house. That door holds a lot of memories, and I am happy that our entire family (and friends) will be able to continue enjoying it.<br />
<br />
More changes to come—outward and inward. I am, indeed, looking forward to 2015!Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-856421099297924692014-08-18T14:42:00.004-07:002014-08-18T14:42:52.545-07:00Jacob Set a Pillar Upon Rachel's Grave: Genesis 35:20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikEgTJuUZt_9fX1W3TAVrtAGnJlgshKI6-id3rhxP4lKOvcmjB8IqaiC456fRCOvlNHwYOdwv6FleLX1qEYkL3zIIz1OG2k0g58fcZ2Hm4m_jct04re82V-kNXNQ_q17hzDD1uBQFV4x7f/s1600/momstone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikEgTJuUZt_9fX1W3TAVrtAGnJlgshKI6-id3rhxP4lKOvcmjB8IqaiC456fRCOvlNHwYOdwv6FleLX1qEYkL3zIIz1OG2k0g58fcZ2Hm4m_jct04re82V-kNXNQ_q17hzDD1uBQFV4x7f/s1600/momstone.jpg" height="231" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Yesterday was my mother's unveiling. While it <i>should</i> have been done before her first <i>yarzheit</i>, I delayed. I jokingly (well, not totally) told my sister-in-law Lorrie that I was still holding out hope that mom would suddenly reappear. But alas, she did not. At least not in her physical form.<br />
<br />
She appears daily, however, in my memories. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of her, though my thoughts are less focused on the last year of her life and the difficulties she had and are more focused on better times. I remember her lessons and advice, some as unwanted as I'm sure my own is to my children. Others more welcome as I struggled with something that I knew she would have the solution to.<br />
<br />
I remember her singing, especially <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QwOU3bnuU0k" target="_blank">I Just Called To Say I Love You </a>by Stevie Wonder, which she would sing every time she called and spoke to Russell. I had wanted to play it at the unveiling, but Bruce thought it was hokey. So, couldn't resist here.<br />
<br />
And I remember one of her last pieces of advice...which came in the form of a poem she brought home a few years ago from a friend's funeral. Apparently the poem has been shared at many a funeral, since a Google search turns up more than 2 million results for it. She told me she liked the message: that the living should go on living.<br />
<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">I'm Free</span></b><br />
Don't grieve for me, from pain I'm free<br />
I'm following the path<br />
God has laid you see.<br />
I took his hand when I heard his call,<br />
I turned around and left it all.<br />
I could not stay for another day,<br />
To laugh, to love, to work, or play.<br />
Task left undone must stay that way<br />
I found peace on a sunny day.<br />
<i>If my parting has left a void</i><br />
<i>Then veil it now with remembered joys.</i><br />
<i>A family shared, a laugh, a kiss</i><br />
<i>Oh yes, these things I too will miss.</i><br />
<i>Be not burdened with times of sorrow.</i><br />
<i>I wish for you sunshine of tomorrow.</i><br />
<i>My life's been full; I savored much</i><br />
<i>Good family, good times</i><br />
<i>A loved one's touch.</i><br />
<i>Perhaps my time seemed all too brief</i><br />
<i>Don't lengthen it now with undue grief.</i><br />
Lift up your hearts and peace to thee<br />
God wanted me now<br />
From pain I'm free.<br />
<br />
So yesterday, we dedicated a footstone in honor of my mother, Garie Solomon Millman.<br />
<br />
May we think of her tenderly and revere her memory. May we devote ourselves wholeheartedly to our chosen tasks for her sake. Thus will our beloved mother, grandmother, sister, aunt, friend, be recalled...and live every day.<br />
<br />
And even though she has left our midst, we know she will never leave our hearts, where her memory will endure as a blessing forever.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-92146353398782657192013-10-02T07:03:00.001-07:002013-10-02T07:03:10.567-07:00Words of Love...Though Not the Last
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My beloved mother passed away three months today. I go back over events of the last year...the last months... and ask myself if I could have done anything better? Could I have prevented/delayed what happened? Could I have made her last months and days any easier? Did I tell her enough that I love her? In my head, I know I did all these things. In my heart, I still ask the questions. And while I still cry, every day it's a little less.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
I was quite moved by the outpouring of love and support from family, friends, and clients. Their notes and phone calls were comforting and reassuring. I was baffled by friends and family, even clergy, I never heard from. My mother would not have been surprised and would have excused them and moved on; she would forgive, but she would not forget. I try to mirror her behavior. I was even more touched, however, by the outreach from strangers. Their kind words have touched me, and in a short period of time have changed my own behavior towards others.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
Several of us spoke at my mother's funeral. It was interesting that while Russell, Noemi, and Avi (three of her four grandchildren) remembered different things about their grandmother, the underlying theme was the same...she was a proud and independent spirit, who wanted them to be the same. Here's what I said at her funeral.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b>*****</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
My
mother would be so pleased with all the people here in her honor today. Just as
she touched your lives, you all touched hers. If the funeral home had let us,
we would have passed around some whiskey sours and toasted her in Garie style.
Instead, we will toast her 93 years with words only.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It’s
difficult to sum up my mother because she lived life to the fullest. In many
ways, she was a Renaissance woman. She was a science teacher who could dissect
a frog, but would scream for my father if a spider or bug were in the house.
She was an artist who didn’t like the colors orange and brown. She played the
violin, she danced, and she sang…all the time. She was an athlete who excelled
at volleyball and swimming and was the shortest member of her high school
basketball team. She was a financier, who helped the economy of our country
with her endless shopping. And despite the rumors, it’s only a coincidence that
the economy tanked four years ago when she got ill.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">A teacher, my mother has taught me my
whole life. Even in these last few years of her decline, she taught me much
about living. I had started a blog to capture those lessons. Here are excerpts
from one entry, which stands out more than the others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">I remember many trips to shopping malls,
antique stores, and flea markets as a youngster. My mother once told me that
she liked to acquire “stuff,” because as a child she didn't have much. She
talked about a doll that she and her two sisters had to share, making its bed
in a shoebox with clothes fashioned out of scraps of material that my grandfather,
a tailor, brought home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">But in all her acquisitions, I only remember
a few things that she actually searched out—a white wicker rocker, a glass and
silver match striker, and an antique cranberry glass pitcher. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">For many years, she used that pitcher at
holiday dinners, putting milk in for the coffee drinkers. When I was about 15,
she delegated the task of filling the pitcher to me. The memory is still vivid.
As I poured the milk into the pitcher, I heard a noise, and then noticed a huge
crack near its bottom. I was devastated. She had searched many years for that antique;
it was one of her joys; and in one instant, I had destroyed it.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Though upset herself, she tried very hard to
console me, claiming blame for the crack. “I am a science teacher,” she said.
“I should know that if you pour cold milk into a warm pitcher, the glass will
expand...and crack.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Then the teaching moment:
“Besides,” she added, “things aren't that important; people are important.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">And THAT is her
legacy—that people are more important than things. She made friends everywhere
she went, as witnessed by all of you in this room. She loved talking to people
and being with people. She was a devoted daughter to my grandmother, a loving
wife to my father. Her sisters Miriam and Helen were her friends, and her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">machatunim</i> Marilyn and Matilda were her
sisters. My brother and I were not her only children. As soon as Bruce married
Lorrie, and I married Doug, she would say “I have two sons and two daughters.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">When rummaging
through her drawers the other day, Bruce and I came across a sealed envelope,
which she had put together in 1967 before a trip to Mexico. It would be her
second time on an airplane, and apparently she was worried that it might go
down. She left several sealed envelopes—one each for her two sisters, one for
her dear friends Edythe and Sig, and one for Bruce and me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Here is her
final lesson:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Dear Children:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Remember to have
a good sense of humor and to be honest and courageous. Remember to love each
other and to always keep close, even though you will raise beautiful families
of your own. Remember ALL the family and try to patch up any misunderstandings.
Remember that we tried to do our best and that we both love you very much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">She certainly
did her best.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-39092846722463978482013-04-26T09:24:00.000-07:002013-04-26T09:24:12.119-07:00I Ran Away From Home and Joined the Navy
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<br />
<div class="Body1">
While in
Florida for spring break with Perri, we visited my Aunt Helen for lunch. Three
years younger than my mother and now a spry 90-year-old, she still complains
about being the middle child and the "abuse" she suffered as a
youngster at the hands of my mother (the eldest) and her youngest sister,
Miriam.</div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKSeTuIgy797g2oARsxVGB1Na9QoRsDInGOqS1Q2BEPCUZG40torMH4je5ZJsNtOvp-TvpWIr_5YDe-m1-uG3JBicWnzm7Db5_b6sCflmjHcYh_QbQKR9zvIGTp2UxEkBbw7TFRIngf-L7/s1600/IMG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKSeTuIgy797g2oARsxVGB1Na9QoRsDInGOqS1Q2BEPCUZG40torMH4je5ZJsNtOvp-TvpWIr_5YDe-m1-uG3JBicWnzm7Db5_b6sCflmjHcYh_QbQKR9zvIGTp2UxEkBbw7TFRIngf-L7/s200/IMG.jpg" width="139" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunt Helen, 1943<br />Pensacola, Florida</td></tr>
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<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">"I
had a terrible temper when I was younger," she told me and Perri. She
relayed the story about being teased by the other two while they were all
cleaning the house. "I got so angry at them that I threw a chair and broke
the leg. Of course, Garie told on me and I got in trouble."</span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">As the
eldest, my mother (Garie) was the only one who got the opportunity to go to
college. Aunt Helen decided she had enough of being picked on. "I decided
to run away from home and join the Navy. When I told my parents, they said I
couldn't do that, but I told them I was 21 and I could. Nana said they would
never take me because I had crooked teeth." But after a physical exam, she
was, indeed, accepted and was stationed in Pensacola, Florida.</span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">"I
was trained to work with the pilots who photographed strategic positions during
the war. I also did secretarial work and wrote training manuals. One time, my
boss brought another officer into the room to show him how fast I could type.
The other officer said that when I finished my tour with the Navy that I should
contact him, that he had a job for me. It turned out he was a professor at
Princeton. But when I got out, I never contacted him. I wonder what would have
happened. Maybe my life would have been different."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYLnL7xdcDeQcyuKTm3Y-PkppEODYHrdbsOQZPBazgYIFyJZItFR6fLSzKu7eY33amdGQogbxF5y-TWX9KpI_MP6u-N7RBrp8P-d9rD-RJKSM0u9jBk7SqtcgVpfGwycKKw6zYxGTNKVNA/s1600/IMG_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYLnL7xdcDeQcyuKTm3Y-PkppEODYHrdbsOQZPBazgYIFyJZItFR6fLSzKu7eY33amdGQogbxF5y-TWX9KpI_MP6u-N7RBrp8P-d9rD-RJKSM0u9jBk7SqtcgVpfGwycKKw6zYxGTNKVNA/s200/IMG_0001.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunt Helen in her dress blues, 1943</td></tr>
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<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">"Do
you still have your uniform?" Perri and I asked. "No, when we got out
I was so glad to get rid of it and not have to wear it again." She told us
of wearing her dress blues for special occasions, while most of the other girls
wore dress whites. "I couldn't afford the whites," she said. "My
parents saw a picture of me in the blues, while almost everyone else was in
whites, and asked why I wasn't in white. I told them that I couldn't afford the
whites."</span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">A few
weeks later, she said, a package arrived from up North. In it was a white
uniform that her father (a tailor) sewed. "He did all that for me without
even having me there to measure anything out," she reminisced. "I was
very close to my father."</span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Aunt
Helen always wanted to go to college, but thought she never could because she
didn't have the high school language and science requirements. "Because I was a veteran, however, they accepted me," she said. Unfortunately, she
didn't enjoy her first round of classes so stopped. "I wonder what would
have happened had I tried a different class, if I hadn't given in so quickly," she said. "Maybe my
life would have been different."</span><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Throughout the afternoon as Aunt Helen reminisced, she ended each story with "maybe my life would have been different if..." She's probably right; her life would have been different...if she had followed her passion, if she had not played it safe, it she had not chosen the path of least resistance, if....</span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">So, the lesson here is to have no regrets. We can't go back and have do-overs. We can, however, choose to be daring, choose to try the road less travelled, choose to dream and go for it, choose to be happy with our paths in life.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-88821265770045653512013-04-04T13:57:00.000-07:002013-04-04T13:57:53.311-07:00Creating An Age-Friendly America<br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I just received this press release and thought it worth sharing. We're all going in that direction. Hopefully when we get there, enough resources will be in place to help the growing aging population.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">With America’s population aging fast, most communities still have work to do to become<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"> <a href="http://www.giaging.org/programs-events/community-agenda/about-community-agenda/" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">age-friendly</span></a></span> – that is, great places to grow up and grow old. To accelerate efforts underway in five communities and to encourage others across the country, Community AGEnda, an initiative of <a href="http://www.giaging.org/" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">Grantmakers In Aging (GIA)</span></a> supported by the Pfizer Foundation, today released a set of important tools and resources to inform and inspire planners, philanthropies, and others seeking to build a more age-friendly future. These materials are available free online at <a href="http://www.GIAging.org/programs-events/community-agenda/community-agenda-resources" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">www.GIAging.org/programs-events/community-agenda/community-agenda-resources</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRAHHwdgeVqM5l03Fpz4q6XKOBuLdS5pSUVa7WvG_gTdqCX86Ua8Uhnn3-izaW1ilRnRNZuncHU1BYil43MH0NR3HZne7eb-pd5imGkAPa28T7n0burZYfWluAYVntOKVLjGE1sefd1HB/s1600/gia-logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRAHHwdgeVqM5l03Fpz4q6XKOBuLdS5pSUVa7WvG_gTdqCX86Ua8Uhnn3-izaW1ilRnRNZuncHU1BYil43MH0NR3HZne7eb-pd5imGkAPa28T7n0burZYfWluAYVntOKVLjGE1sefd1HB/s1600/gia-logo.png" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The tools include <a href="http://www.giaging.org/programs-events/community-agenda/community-agenda-database/" style="text-decoration: underline;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">Age-friendly America</span></i></a><i>, </i>a searchable online database with contact information and background on more than 200 age-friendly projects; <a href="http://www.giaging.org/documents/130402_GIA_AFC_Primer.pdf" style="text-decoration: underline;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">Age-Friendly Communities: The movement to create great places to grow up and grow old in America: An introduction for private and public funders</span></i></a><i>, </i>an overview of the goals and accomplishments in the field to date; and <a href="http://www.giaging.org/documents/130402_GIA_AFC_Toolkit.pdf" style="text-decoration: underline;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">Aging Power Tools: A curated selection of resources to promote stronger, age-friendly communities</span></i></a>, a robust collection of tools from top practitioners. <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">Age-friendly communities: the value proposition</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“We think that every community in America could benefit from this forward-looking approach,” said John Feather, PhD, CEO of <a href="http://www.giaging.org/" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">Grantmakers In Aging</span></a>. “For foundations and other funders looking for maximum long-term impact, it’s hard to beat <a href="http://www.giaging.org/programs-events/community-agenda/community-agenda-sites/" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">age-friendly community developmen</span></a><a href="http://www.giaging.org/programs-events/community-agenda/community-agenda-sites/" style="color: blue; text-decoration: underline;">t</a>, which is highly collaborative, adaptable to diverse communities, and offers benefits for residents of all ages.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“The aging of America represents a profound societal change that we’re living through right now,” said Caroline Roan, president of the Pfizer Foundation. “We believe it can present a great opportunity if we work together, take steps to become more age-friendly, and re-imagine how our communities can help us grow old with dignity, in the places we care about.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">What makes a community age-friendly?</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Age-friendly initiatives take various forms but all share the goal of creating better options for people to age in place and continue contributing to their communities. This may involve improvements to the built environment, from planning and building safe outdoor spaces to creating affordable, accessible housing; or improving infrastructure, such as more walkable town centers or more accessible public transportation. Other age-friendly initiatives tackle social needs, creating engaging cultural and outdoor activities, services, and volunteering options.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">With Americans living longer and 10,000 Boomers turning 65 every day, those over age 65 will make up 20 percent of the American population by the year 2030, making age-friendly innovation more needed than ever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">Community AGEnda sites and activities</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In its first year, Community AGEnda supported five programs with grants of $150,000, requiring each grantee to raise matching funds of one-third or more of the value of the grant. Their <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><a href="http://www.giaging.org/programs-events/community-agenda/community-agenda-news/" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">age-friendly activities</span></a> </span>include:<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px;">In Miami-Dade County, Florida: collaborating with the county parks to serve older adults better, conducting a walkability study in East Little Havana, preparing the area’s employers to hire and retain more older adults, and working with Miami-Dade County to review and modify planning policies related to transportation, housing, land use, and community design;</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px;">In four communities and two counties in the Atlanta metropolitan area: supporting community gardens, establishing a health and wellness promotion plan, conducting a walkability assessment, and hosting workshops about the need to create age-friendly communities;</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px;">In Maricopa County, Arizona: planning and implementing pilot programs using the Village model of membership-driven services and volunteerism to promote aging in community, producing a video on aging in place, and creating a new website to help “younger” older adults (ages 55-70) find the resources to age in place comfortably, safely, and affordably.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px;">In Bloomington, Indiana: discussing development incentives to create an age- and ability-friendly Lifetime Community District; in Indianapolis, creating a conceptual illustration for the Martindale-Brightwood neighborhood to highlight potential development opportunities; and in Huntington, Indiana, engaging stakeholders to focus on housing, transportation, and accessibility issues; and</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">In the greater Kansas City area: working to improve transportation and mobility options for older people in urban and surrounding suburban areas, raising awareness of caregiving issues and the need to tap into the expertise of older adults as community resources, and working with the First Suburbs Coalition to produce a toolkit to assist elected officials and planners in developing the capacity to assess and plan for an increased older adult population. </span></span></li>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For more information on the new Community AGEnda tools and resources, individual grantees, their projects, and their local funders, please visit <a href="http://www.giaging.org/programs-events/community-agenda/community-agenda-sites/" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">GIAging.org/CommunityAGEnda</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">About Grantmakers In Aging<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Grantmakers In Aging (GIA) is an inclusive and responsive membership organization that is a national catalyst for philanthropy, with a common dedication to improving the experience of aging. GIA members have a shared recognition that a society that is better for older adults is a society that is better for people of all ages. For more information, please visit <a href="http://www.GIAging.org/" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b>www.GIAging.org</b></span></a>.</span></span></div>
Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-64558475477731233482013-03-26T09:30:00.000-07:002013-03-26T09:30:37.914-07:00Learn To Fly
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The
journey begins...my second mother/daughter vacation with Perri, but oddly to my
mother's condo in Florida. I wonder what wisdom will seep from the apartment
walls from my mom to me to Perri. I hope that when Perri (and Russell) gets to be my age she will
remember whatever lessons I am trying to impart, just as I now try to remember
the multitude of dos and don'ts that my parents gave to me over the years.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZqE5esOBfpHhWPoE5Egqg1rVadXPV-GC1AH6UVNG6IKh7k-oAfMA908PA4nOcs_VqgUYSbIvbYXlJJYM97NnUbb9NeY-Je3f4qJpQczlvb-Ws3W9ACgBBL0F07Ny6ljw2aUe9hs0YFsK/s1600/IMG_7289.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZqE5esOBfpHhWPoE5Egqg1rVadXPV-GC1AH6UVNG6IKh7k-oAfMA908PA4nOcs_VqgUYSbIvbYXlJJYM97NnUbb9NeY-Je3f4qJpQczlvb-Ws3W9ACgBBL0F07Ny6ljw2aUe9hs0YFsK/s200/IMG_7289.jpg" width="149" /></a><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Perri was
on an earlier flight to Florida, flying solo from Boston, where we will meet up
in West Palm Beach. Yet we insisted she keep in touch during critical steps of her journey. And so she did, texting to let us know the cabhad arrived (first text, 5:15 a.m.), that she
arrived at the airport and was waiting to check her luggage (5:35 a.m.), that
she made it through security and she bought a Starbucks ice caramel macchiato
(6:19 a.m.), that she doesn't have (or forgot to pack) ankle socks for her
sneakers (6:21 a.m.), that she's enjoying the sunrise view at the gate (6:33
a.m.), that she boarded her plane (7:20 a.m.), that she was turning her phone
off (7:29 a.m.). Whew!</span></div>
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<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">So how
did my parents handle my flying solo to Israel in 1973 following the Yom Kippur War to volunteer on a kibbutz during my junior year of college? No cell phones,
pay phones too expensive except for one collect call when I arrived in Lod
Airport. I'm sure they were just as concerned about my safety, if not more
so; it was right after a war, after all. Yet they freely let me go. The
lesson: Let her fly! Literally and figuratively. And so I did. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I arrived
at the bus station in Jerusalem just as the public transportation system was
shutting down for Shabbat. I had no idea how to get to a high school friend's
apartment (he, along with a few others I knew were there for junior year
abroad). I had befriended a father and daughter on the bus (or rather, they
befriended me), and they offered me a ride to the apartment, with a warning
about stairway lights that go on only if you push the button at the bottom of
the stairs (of course, they never told me about how to find the button in the
dark!).</span></div>
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Somehow I
managed. I managed (with the help from another friend, also there for her
junior year abroad) to get from the volunteer office in Tel Aviv to the kibbutz
in the Negev where I had been assigned for the month. I managed to survive the
10 p.m. to 6 a.m. shift in the Styrofoam factory, inspecting and packing coffee
cups. I managed to take trips to Beersheba, to drink Turkish coffee while
playing chess, to try smoking--ugh (part of our pay was a pack of cigarettes
and 2 chocolate bars each week; smart me, I traded the cigarettes for extra
chocolates, and my hips are paying till this day). I managed to get back to
Jerusalem for a few days sightseeing staying in a hotel near the Arab quarter
because I asked the taxi driver to take me to a cheap hotel...and he did. I
managed all this without checking in with my parents every step of the way.</span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">My parents taught me a valuable lesson, one which I now pass along to Perri and to Russell—learn to fly solo and enjoy the adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Try new things; make smart choices; and when you need to, call (or text) home.</span><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment-->Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-69202053939984485262013-03-15T12:09:00.000-07:002013-03-15T14:16:30.757-07:00People Are More Important Than Things<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="Body1">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I
remember many trips to shopping malls, antique stores, and flea markets as a
youngster. My mother once told me that she liked to acquire “stuff,” because as a child she didn't
have much. She talked about a doll that she and her two sisters had to share,
making its bed in a shoebox with clothes fashioned out of scraps of material
that my grandfather, a tailor, brought home. Though if you talk to my two
aunts, they will tell you a different story—that my mother (the eldest)
somehow didn't share as much as they did.</span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body1">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ltbRkwdvaen2d-QodA9mQifEIn1mJry15gOPVPzSAugQbOcGBFJdlZFEl3VpGeFdAJIP7xJKqgBWaO5VtuGpFu8R2rdFeG62iIhp2keYtSpVZpsXl_YU-Pw8mrnYhWa84duk7PJFVOXm/s1600/glass.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ltbRkwdvaen2d-QodA9mQifEIn1mJry15gOPVPzSAugQbOcGBFJdlZFEl3VpGeFdAJIP7xJKqgBWaO5VtuGpFu8R2rdFeG62iIhp2keYtSpVZpsXl_YU-Pw8mrnYhWa84duk7PJFVOXm/s200/glass.JPG" width="148" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">But in
all her acquisitions, I only remember a few things that she actually searched
out</span>—<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">a
white wicker rocker, a glass and silver match striker, and a cranberry glass
pitcher. Cranberry glass is a decorative (not mass produced) glass whose
shimmer is achieved by adding gold chloride to the molten glass.</span></span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">For many
years, she used that pitcher at holiday dinners at dessert time, putting in
milk for the coffee drinkers. When I was about 15, she delegated that task</span>—<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">filling the pitcher</span>—<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">to me. The memory is vivid so
many years later. As I poured the cold milk into the pitcher, I heard a noise,
and then noticed a crack near its bottom. I shriveled up; I was devastated. She
had searched many years for that pitcher; it was one of her joys; and in one
instant, I had destroyed it.</span></span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Though
upset herself, she tried very hard to console me, claiming blame for the crack.
</span>“<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I am a science teacher,</span>”<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"> she said. </span>“<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I should know that if you pour
cold milk into a warm pitcher, the glass will expand...and crack.</span>”</span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">And then
the learning moment. </span>“<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Besides,</span>”<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"> she added, </span>“<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">things aren't that important; people are important.</span>”<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"> </span></span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJcKp5Weh11iBsnLra0_YQgNYLIXWytWF0vsWc4EqqH0A8Bxsc598X9FrwNvepiyf2XyCDTbVcsmrB6JWqHvj-wkxRx3SxOMP0fm2x_h3vyMvh6pCwJl18eUlncPtvmAfoC3doz_0x-2zb/s1600/CAR.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJcKp5Weh11iBsnLra0_YQgNYLIXWytWF0vsWc4EqqH0A8Bxsc598X9FrwNvepiyf2XyCDTbVcsmrB6JWqHvj-wkxRx3SxOMP0fm2x_h3vyMvh6pCwJl18eUlncPtvmAfoC3doz_0x-2zb/s320/CAR.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Her words
echoed in my head recently when Doug was in a car accident. Airbags deployed,
our new car (only two months old) severely damaged, he emerged without a physical
scratch. He was and is still shaken by that experience. Nearly $14,000 later (the final repairs on the loose transmission bolts completed
today), he and I are very grateful for our insurance policy with Allstate!</span></span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">More
importantly, I am grateful that he is alive. It's something I</span>’<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">ve reminded him about in the
six weeks since the accident: </span>“<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">It's a car; it</span>’<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">s money; it</span>’<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">s upsetting, but it</span>’<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">s not that important. You are important.</span>”</span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body1">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Sometimes
in the hubbub of our daily lives, in the rush of work and the race to acquire
more things, we forget the basics: </span>“<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Things aren't that important; people are important.</span>”</span></div>
<div class="Body1">
<br /></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As I age,
my note to myself is to always keep that in mind. I want to always be
appreciative of the people in my life—my
clients, my girlfriends, my brother and his wife, my family, my children, and
my Doug. I love you all now and know that I always will.</span><!--EndFragment-->Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-85403623043263273232013-01-01T09:59:00.000-08:002013-01-02T06:24:08.586-08:00Happy New YearJanuary 1, 2013<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhreNh83K5XB91JXFyd3j4NCzwSOFyXk4skj1tvpqsR39yR_eRTQcddvX7yz1DVnf3RcIZR9MoFN7alXRhWArPioLAvsH78ilP5DErnOsu1gM6cThORBCZ1yZTvzXunGLpt9RDQHDQ7SSWu/s1600/happy+new+year.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhreNh83K5XB91JXFyd3j4NCzwSOFyXk4skj1tvpqsR39yR_eRTQcddvX7yz1DVnf3RcIZR9MoFN7alXRhWArPioLAvsH78ilP5DErnOsu1gM6cThORBCZ1yZTvzXunGLpt9RDQHDQ7SSWu/s1600/happy+new+year.jpg" height="200" width="154" /></a></div>
In years past, a few minutes after the ball dropped in New York City's Time Square I called my mom to wish her a happy new year. Last night was the first time in 55+ years that I have been unable to do so. All those wishes we shared for each other at 12:05 (after kissing our husbands and whatever friends we were partying with at the time) are now just memories. I have so much I still want to say to her but am unable to express.<br />
<br />
In years past, I wished her another year of good health. While she has a strong will, each week that I visit I notice she is fading a little more, that muscles that once helped her sit up straight can no longer support her shoulders, that muscles that helped her smile are causing her mouth to droop. Thank goodness she can still express herself through her big, bright blue eyes. They light up when her grandchildren enter her room. They go large when there's something she agrees with, unable to voice the words. They cringe when she's in discomfort or doesn't like what she's being fed. I'm realistic enough to know that wishing her good health is fruitless; her health will not improve. But I wish her comfort and painlessness. I do not wish to see her suffer as she makes this final journey.<br />
<br />
If my mother could speak, she would be wishing me good health as well. She would caution me about those extra pounds, about what I eat, about my much too sedentary lifestyle. So in her honor, I will try to be more mindful about my health, though red wine (supposedly good for the heart) will remain on my list!<br />
<br />
In years past, I wished her another year of happiness. It was easy to make my mother happy—shopping, a visit with friends, an art show or trip to the museum, eating out or take-in Chinese, Scrabble games with anyone who would play with her (but especially with Marilyn), calls from her grandchildren, a good movie on tv, visits from her children, talking on the telephone with her friends, going to Florida in the winter, a whiskey sour. Unfortunately, her options are very limited these days. Partially deaf, bed bound and unable to speak, move, or eat anything but pureed food, she can't take pleasure in much. I know that she still enjoys hearing about the accomplishments of her children and grandchildren; she was always happy when we were happy. And I can bring her a whiskey sour the next time I visit!<br />
<br />
If my mother could speak, she would be wishing me a year of happiness as well. She would tell me to look at the bright side and treasure the moment—the here-and-now. She would tell me to make more time for family and friends and to enjoy all the earthly things I can because our time here is so limited. She would tell me to travel, to read a good book, to go to a museum or ballet. So in her honor, I will live in the moment, cherish the rain as much as the sun, and even share that whiskey sour with her.<br />
<br />
In years past, I wished her another year of dreams. My mother always said that being alive meant dreaming. It meant having a wish, a goal, something to strive for. It's what kept her going. A few years ago she shared some of her dreams—she wanted to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade from the viewing stands and she wanted to go to a fancy cocktail party on a yacht. More recently, it was to drive again. My brother understood that and insisted on keeping her car in her driveway after her brain surgery three years ago because he knew that it gave her a goal, something to strive for. He knew that it gave her hope.<br />
<br />
If my mother could speak, she would be wishing me a year of dreams. She would tell me to aim big, to do something different that I hadn't done before. She would also tell me to enjoy the small stuff, because it is those moments that daydreams emerge. So in her honor, I will dream large and in multi-color...including orange.<br />
<br />
In her honor, I wish you a year of health, happiness and dreams!Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-50803278572170018922012-10-09T13:54:00.000-07:002012-10-09T14:14:59.828-07:00Find a Creative Outlet<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZjSA2ZpLPiL4Oy6iiR6aS0s6RE6aF8WKjAoMAJz4qAk4jags-S1uF7-v5uJraAyet-E0VR2QNf2tTB8x7UuT2ZVNmHgjD7jwmh5TlT47VYxdDuxsw1emhilQ3Mg90o0AU9VW2yEGZhtUC/s1600/IMG_0789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZjSA2ZpLPiL4Oy6iiR6aS0s6RE6aF8WKjAoMAJz4qAk4jags-S1uF7-v5uJraAyet-E0VR2QNf2tTB8x7UuT2ZVNmHgjD7jwmh5TlT47VYxdDuxsw1emhilQ3Mg90o0AU9VW2yEGZhtUC/s200/IMG_0789.JPG" width="148" /></a>Throughout
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She began
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her jewelry—bringing her sketches to Tudor Jewelers on Linden Boulevard in
Elmont. There are countless Garie originals, from necklaces and earrings, to
pins and rings. On one of my trips to Israel, I asked what she would like from
the Promised Land. “Eilat stones,” was her reply. I made my way to a souk and
they found their way into pins and bracelets.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13m2aYc1-BnjwLOBncr5xIKHJksSQBicsfTdFbkEFUzoR1jd4_w-U0LFRxAwDINeF6dRjgwwvCgn5nfgjgkmkK1fJywKTOxI7265yUQjRE5iNrpWUeyY1JESEXAd1MtxZxcs4wzoloP4p/s1600/photo+orange.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13m2aYc1-BnjwLOBncr5xIKHJksSQBicsfTdFbkEFUzoR1jd4_w-U0LFRxAwDINeF6dRjgwwvCgn5nfgjgkmkK1fJywKTOxI7265yUQjRE5iNrpWUeyY1JESEXAd1MtxZxcs4wzoloP4p/s200/photo+orange.JPG" width="200" /></a>She
continued her art at Hofstra University, where she audited oil and acrylic
classes for many years enjoying the “senior” rate. She proudly brought home her
work, eagerly showing them to us, much as a young child asking for our praise.
Instead of hanging the latest on the refrigerator with a magnet, she would
notice the ones we particularly liked and during the next visit, it was
presented to us framed…with a flourish. I have several of her pieces on my
kitchen and living room walls. When Russell favored animals, a framed pastel of
a penguin appeared. When she and Perri entered their orange gift exchange,
Perri became the proud owner of …what else? A still life of oranges. It sits in
our entryway. For Doug, it was a bird, framed and now hanging over the piano in
the living room. And me…what was I thinking when I said I liked her attempts to
imitate Georgia O’Keefe. Her gifted picture hangs outside the bathroom, though
perhaps it should be inside. Well, take a look for yourself. It’s supposed to
be a close-up of a flower and its petals. But every time I look at it, I see…a
vulva. Oy, Mom!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Really, what do you see? An eagle? or a Flower?</span></b></td></tr>
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When she and
my dad became snowbirds, travelling to Florida every winter for 30+ years, she
insisted he needed to get out of the apartment and find an outlet. You guessed
it. Pottery classes. The entire family has been the recipient of free-form
plates, bowls, pencil holders and even toilet scrub brush holders, as well as molded
and poured lidded birds, soap dishes, and pitchers—blues and reds for Bruce and
Lorrie; purples, pinks, and greens for Doug and me. We even have a painted
rabbi (thanks, Dad), which we bring out on selected Jewish holidays. Where I
once thought of these attempts at “art” as an amusement, I now view all these
creative gifts as acts of love. They both wanted to share their expressive
selves with only those who were nearest and dearest to them.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcEG54vTHHpFBT2VEtcqC9Vd5bH-4X2k-Evmlj9U7pVo77Ds23hitOXrwC0nKwrwLutBWn-bjgEpG9xsG2n7R2_lBwCWclwzrh8GJ5ODSgBo7Xf1V4YpbIs4QnQxQEoqiRzUjNgeNh9B4N/s1600/IMG_0464_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcEG54vTHHpFBT2VEtcqC9Vd5bH-4X2k-Evmlj9U7pVo77Ds23hitOXrwC0nKwrwLutBWn-bjgEpG9xsG2n7R2_lBwCWclwzrh8GJ5ODSgBo7Xf1V4YpbIs4QnQxQEoqiRzUjNgeNh9B4N/s200/IMG_0464_2.JPG" width="140" /></a>Over the
years, I, too, have had that need to express myself creatively and have also
dabbled—pottery, stamping, beading, crocheting, photography, collages, and my
latest—art journaling. It allows me to combine it all with my love of writing.
I’m embarrassed to admit I have a closet full of paper, paints, stamps, torn
sheets of magazines and newspaper, ribbons and beads, broken jewelry, glue, watercolors,
and colored pencils, not to mention boxes of broken knickknacks. On vacations,
I have been known to travel with one small black rolling suitcase filled with
such stuff. You never know when that creative urge will strike!</div>
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And like my
parents, I have bestowed my creative gifts on the ones I love. I hope that
those recipients also will be wowed by my immense talent (not!) and view them
as expressions of love that I want to share, and not as “Oh, oh. Mom’s at it
again!”</div>
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As recently
as two years after her surgery, Mom was still trying her hand at sketching.
Pictures of her aides, self-portraits, and her grandchildren are in a pad I
found in her kitchen. Her desire to express still there. Now, bedbound and
barely able to speak or move, I’m sure she’d love to be able to have one
last<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> chance to let us know what she's thinking and feeling.</span></div>
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So, note to
my older self: Don’t stop expressing yourself. Whether that creative outlet is
through art or dance or music or even a beautifully set table, let your voice
be heard…because you never know when you will lose it.</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-18086157990649990122012-03-07T05:39:00.001-08:002012-03-07T05:39:07.683-08:00Thinking About the Future TodaySometimes I'm so busy worrying about how I want to age, what I want to remember, what I want to jot down on my scraps of paper, that I loose track of the here-and-now.<br />
<br />
The other night, I learned that joy is being taken away from a friend, who recently learned he has early onset Alzheimer's.<br />
<br />
According to the Alzheimer's Association (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;">www.alz.org</span>), nearly four percent (about 200,000 people) of the 5.4 million Americans with Alzheimer's have early onset. Here are 10 warning signs offered by the association:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Memory loss that disrupts daily life.</li>
<li>Challenges in planning or solving problems.</li>
<li>Difficulty completing familiar tasks at home, at work, or at leisure.</li>
<li>Confusion with time or place.</li>
<li>Trouble understanding visual images and spacial relationships.</li>
<li>New problems with words in speaking or writing.</li>
<li>Misplacing things and losing the ability to retrace steps.</li>
<li>Decreased or poor judgment.</li>
<li>Withdrawal from work or social activities.</li>
<li>Changes in mood and personality.</li>
</ol>
<br />
<br />
My friend and his wife (also a dear friend!) have filled their lives with good times. They are worldwide travelers and have collected memories and memorabilia from wherever they have gone. They go to plays and museums. They open their home to friends and strangers at holidays and throughout the year. Just passing through? They have a spare bed and are eager to offer you a place to stay; and while you're here, they are happy to show you the local sites. Their calendar and their hearts are full.<br />
<br />
Lack of funds has never deterred them from taking in the world. Doug and I are always concerned about saving for that proverbial rainy day that we often forgo doing things in order to save just a little bit more (this habit long drilled into me by my Depression Era father). I once asked her about this.<br />
<br />
"My mother always had a to-do list," she explained. "Places she wanted to go, things she wanted to accomplish, and then she died unexpectedly at age 59." My friend vowed that, since she never knew when her own time would be up, she would pack as much into life as she could. She didn't want to have regrets about not doing, not seeing, not using the good china so many of us keep in the closet waiting for a special occasion. And now, even facing tough times ahead, my friends continue to pack living into their lives.<br />
<br />
I so admire them, and my scrap of paper is a note to myself on how to live my life from this day forward. I vow to live my life in the moment, to pack as much joy and experience into the now, to make time for those hobbies, people, travel I have been saving for, and to tackle the wish list now.<br />
<br />
I, too, don't want to have regrets. I vow to open my home and heart to friends and strangers—just like my dear friends.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-56785092188297051652012-02-14T07:18:00.000-08:002012-02-14T07:18:13.666-08:00An Interview with Grandma Garie<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">No postings since July...life has a way of getting in the way! But lots to think about during these many months that will surface in future posts. Today's entry is brought to you by Perri, who conducted an interview with my mother for one of her classes this past fall. When I'm old, I hope I remember as many details!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZMXAMrP6-ZgzwZRfIygBG3NwMjBuDNVuBuQu4gK1HSJUM9cRM23MnNmgbm-26CEeK31UB-bMGyM9u0qoQ6bCiOxnSVhOc-dTH2nHDEmQd_FXOxEAoo3hTebaf01E3cRLjT8TFkYxjdNeh/s1600/DSC_0085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZMXAMrP6-ZgzwZRfIygBG3NwMjBuDNVuBuQu4gK1HSJUM9cRM23MnNmgbm-26CEeK31UB-bMGyM9u0qoQ6bCiOxnSVhOc-dTH2nHDEmQd_FXOxEAoo3hTebaf01E3cRLjT8TFkYxjdNeh/s200/DSC_0085.JPG" width="200" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Oh, and happy Valentines Day to all my loves.</span><br /><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My Grandma Garie, 92 years old</span></b><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Where were you born?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I
was born in New York City, in the Harlem hospital on December 19, 1919.</span><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH6jEY54d9zvgxQFkWR6pgD4sPM93tHWWPkoZN3BblRlmZXiOzzaSihGOBAnZmElaaR6plMAnJ62Am3-PtwIn7PgoB9YpRYCwgJCznLLRYp_qTPJa0DcCZnOICuPtNvbqfrNViQt27nHc2/s1600/DSC_0088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH6jEY54d9zvgxQFkWR6pgD4sPM93tHWWPkoZN3BblRlmZXiOzzaSihGOBAnZmElaaR6plMAnJ62Am3-PtwIn7PgoB9YpRYCwgJCznLLRYp_qTPJa0DcCZnOICuPtNvbqfrNViQt27nHc2/s200/DSC_0088.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8YdWx9_xA_Vu3KiFGxxVElZFzWGSij6CalKkSFT_0BNEwd6OS02DJZVy-e2PPxzA630c3qY-CkXqgB50bmJe1_RZaSw2h2_2QrLXvHgfoVtvqgLV1l8n7rRPO-qE10nE0_0RmOCwBUPw/s1600/DSC_0089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8YdWx9_xA_Vu3KiFGxxVElZFzWGSij6CalKkSFT_0BNEwd6OS02DJZVy-e2PPxzA630c3qY-CkXqgB50bmJe1_RZaSw2h2_2QrLXvHgfoVtvqgLV1l8n7rRPO-qE10nE0_0RmOCwBUPw/s200/DSC_0089.JPG" width="200" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What responsibilities did you have as a
teenager to help with the family?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I
had quite a few. My sisters and I had to be upstairs by 3:30 to 4:00 pm. We
lived on the top floor of a five-story building because my mom did not like the
idea of people walking on our heads.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My sisters and I peeled the potatoes and washed our hands.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We rotated each week who would set the
table, take off from the table, and swept the floor. If my parents were not
home yet, I would start my homework. Every week we all changed our linens. We
cleaned the closets every season, and for holidays we polished the silverware.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVPp2jau7Hd1kKlNhCxSFnFvmzj6O9QdLbSjtegH6QWGJDXqlBuF1q7K5GPA8wNXq_3IoEpxBZlPEsoXcun6o3MobRYFf7breUBHurAVL3azFT6Ndk0ej5Yq-9-l5NBRiuVFSZERidi2HE/s1600/DSC_0090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVPp2jau7Hd1kKlNhCxSFnFvmzj6O9QdLbSjtegH6QWGJDXqlBuF1q7K5GPA8wNXq_3IoEpxBZlPEsoXcun6o3MobRYFf7breUBHurAVL3azFT6Ndk0ej5Yq-9-l5NBRiuVFSZERidi2HE/s200/DSC_0090.JPG" width="200" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Describe your family.</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My
father was a tailor, and my mother was a finisher in the garment industry. I
was the oldest child and had two sisters. Helen is l to 2 years younger than
me, and Miriam is 4 to 5 years younger than me. My grandma had 12 children when
she was young. My uncles were married. I had an Aunt Lily who worked for the
Hershey factory, where I helped package.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What kind of educational experiences did you and
your siblings have?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I
went to high school, college and graduate school. My sisters and I were in
advanced classes. My sisters trained in schools for commercial subjects. When I
went to Hunter College, I did not have to pay for anything except for the
books. I was a science major who then taught science.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My sister Miriam went to college when she was older and had
night classes.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">How did you get to school?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I
went to high school by trolley car. If I spent my trolley money, I had to walk.
I commuted to college by train.</span><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Any favorite teacher or subjects in school?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Oh
yes. My gym teacher Ms. Pearl Satlien. She encouraged me to participate in as
many activities as possible. On weekends, she took some of us to concerts,
Broadway shows and dance groups and she paid. I got a very rounded background
in Physical Education. I then majored in science because there was no Phys. Ed.
major. I was also a gym teacher.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Science
and music were my favorite subjects. My favorite science was biology. I loved
singing and choir.</span><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Did an historical event/situation change the
structure within the family?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After
my grandparents and father died, we celebrated holidays by my grandmas. But
when my grandparents passed away, our family broke off into little groups to
celebrate in different ways.</span><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What was dating/courtship like?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Some
levels were very difficult for me. The boys that I liked didn’t like me back.
On the block I lived on, I liked Marty, but Marty didn’t like me, but his
younger brother Julie liked me, so I liked him back. Seymour Weisberg worked
for the New York Aquarium. It was my favorite date because he took me behind
the scenes to show me what working at the aquarium was like.</span><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Do you remember your first date? Where did
you go? How did you get there?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Not
really. I was a tomboy, so I wasn’t asked out on dates a lot. Instead the boys asked
me to play sports and the girls asked me to play jump rope. The date with
Seymour Weisberg was one of my first dates. We took the train to the aquarium.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What language was spoken in your home?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">English.
My mother and father spoke Yiddish when they didn’t want us to know what they
were talking about. But we started to understand some of it.</span><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What type of clothes did you wear when you
were little?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My
father was a tailor so he made us coats or something special to wear. In the
Bronx Junior High School in the 1930s, we wore white middie blouse, a black
tie, black skirt, and black stockings. No other junior high school wore this in
New York City. We didn’t wear shorts to school, so we wore black bloomers under
our skirts. We would also wear the bloomers for gym.</span><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What were some of your favorite toys or
activities?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I
played jump rope, double Dutch rope, and the high lo rope game held by two people.
The game was played by elevating the rope. We played ball games such as
handball. The rhyme one two three O’Leary game was played with a ball. Clapsy
was part of the one two three O’Leary game, where you clapped hands, or stomped
your feet for stampsy clapsy. I played hide and go seek and box ball. We played
potsy games with chalk. There were two variations: piece of folded can top or
piece of class or a rock that was yours to use for the whole game. Potsy was the
thing you threw.</span><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">How strict were your parents?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Very
strict because they were both working. After school, we put our books upstairs
and had a glass of milk and cookies and then we could go downstairs and play
the previous games. We had to be back up in the house by 4:30 and wash our
hands and set the table for supper. When I was older, I had to peel so many
potatoes and put them in the water. I had to practice for one hour on the
violin. There were no strict rules because we were doing things all the time
and there was always homework.</span><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Did your family go on any trips every year?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My
father’s older sister and her family owned a farm in Fitchville, Connecticut. We
would go there for two weeks and stay in Tanta Sadie’s facilities and work on her
farm. We swam in the Connecticut River, hiked, picked wild strawberries, and
watched the cows get milked. My mother and father had a house in Coney Island
for about three years, and we went to school there. I went on the boardwalk and
swam in the ocean. Also we went to Manhattan to visit Bubba on 98</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><sup>th</sup></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">
street and Park Avenue.</span><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">How religious was your family?</span></b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My
grandparents were very religious, and my father and mother were religious. We went
to temple for the holidays. Momma lit the candles for shabbas. I didn’t really
have any non-Jewish friends.</span>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-89993234166621139212011-07-10T15:08:00.000-07:002011-07-10T15:19:13.495-07:00Color Me Orange<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Who told you that one paints with colors? One makes use of colors, but one paints with emotions.” —</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Jean-Baptiste-Simeon Chardin, 18</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> century French painter</span></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I grew up with a variety of colors—a pink room, a red front door, a grey carpet in the living room, a yellow kitchen, a green buffet—or so I thought. There was never any brown (“I hate brown,” said my mother.); never any blue (“Blue is so sad,” she said.); and most definitely never any orange (“I don’t like orange!”).</span></span></p><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-lZSik6EFPIH7aQu6T_4R2e6-yozA3WdGQAoczfBmrpJCSXGAF6hrdirqMa5Sel1UPGABW-8EtY3cske-SrYvdG1arQkYNwy6AqhmuWaltCSAxW5Myag9h0SZRCMVzpUMNAXlxFCuyqit/s200/IMG_0204.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627849795239605602" /> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yet, in addition to being a teacher, my mother was an artist. An artist who doesn’t like colors?</span></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dale Chihuly would disapprove. “I never met a color I didn't like,” he is quoted as saying.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’m sure she never would have labeled herself as an “artist.” That term was reserved for the elite who made their living from their art. Yet, for as far back as I can remember, she was either sketching, painting, doing pottery, or making jewelry. After she retired, she took a silver jewelry-making class through her local community school; she audited painting classes at Hofstra; she took pottery classes in Florida. Doug and I have several of her works of art framed on the walls </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">of our home.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But throughout it all, she continued to “hate” orange. That was all to change, thanks to her granddaughter. When Perri was small, we spent a week visiting my mother at her place in Florida. Preparing for our visit, my mother went shopping for gifts—naturally. She picked out turquoise leggings and a matching t-shirt for Perri. Alas, the outfit did not fit, so mom took us to the store to exchange it.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“You can just get a larger size or pick out anything from this display you like better,” my mom said to Perri.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Wrong words. Even then, Perri was an independent thinker, especially when it came to clothes, color, and art. She picked out bright orange leggings and a matching orange and hot pink t-shirt.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I don’t like orange,” said my mother.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I do, Grandma,” replied the cutest five-year-old you’ve ever seen.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Guess who won</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">? “</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Orange is the happiest color.”</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">—Frank Sinatra</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></i></p><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4U3VcurQMJZGxqj5nrO8NUnD3thf_HJ-W2twZkvXmSZmjU6aB4LjPSH-Y8c29LfZxGqbXhLkA11KFf4DJTNw6bfIT_nAollctloHaS7HdD8nyskqewr98UCkuSo1AYmjm1ZsTI_6-uoQs/s200/IMG_0458.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627850928650401042" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That began a 12-year exchange of orange presents, which continues to this day. Orange vases, cl</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ocks, sponges, candy, rubber gloves, necklace for mom. Orange crayons, containers, sweatshirt, hangers, hat, jewelry for Perri. My mother even painted Perri a picture—of oranges! It greets us as we walk in the door each day.</span></span><p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Orange is red brought nearer to humanity by yellow.”—</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Wassily Kandinsky</span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Color makes me happy. As I age, I want to remember to not only paint with the colors, but feel them—all of them, even orange.</span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-37560238316963166952011-06-30T13:42:00.000-07:002011-06-30T15:18:53.345-07:00A Day Without Shopping<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia">I think the thing mom misses most is being able to get in her car and go shopping. Shopping was her joy, her entertainment, her therapy. Unfortunately, she has now delegated that task to me. It is not something I relish.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia">Shopping wasn't really about spending money because she could be just as happy in the Dollar Store as she was in Lord & Taylor. I think it was the thrill of the buy, the acquisition. I mean, why would someone need more than 30 pairs of white pants in addition to at least 5 pairs of white culottes (and what bright mind designed that fashion statement?). </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia">As a youngster, I loved going shopping with her. It was always an adventure, not to mention she usually bought me something as well. Who could resist a gift, even if it was a package of underwear. If she had a tough day at school, she’d hop in the car and run to the store. Most Saturdays we spent strolling the stores at Green Acres. There were antique stores, and flea markets, and garage sales. You never know where you might find a bargain.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; ">She was easily swayed in her purchases. I remember walking through Abraham & Straus one day, when we passed a new department—wigs. She was intrigued and started trying some on. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia">"You look great," I said. "Why don't you buy one?" </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia">"I don't need a wig. What would I do with a wig?" she asked.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia">"Well, it'd be a lot of fun," I replied. (What did I know? I was a kid.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia">"Why not?" she retorted, and promptly bought the wig.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia">My brother is probably reading this and saying, "Wig? What wig? I never knew she bought a wig." I can't blame him for being dubious. My mother has short hair; the wig had short hair. In fact, it was exactly the same beehive style, with bangs, that she sported then. She wore it once and relegated it to the basement closet. I’m hoping it made its way into a garage sale because I’d hate to think of what has been nesting in it these past 40 years.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia">My mother was, and still is, very generous with her purchases, and each new addition to the family, was another opportunity to shop. First Lorrie, then Doug, then grandchildren, cousins and their spouses and children, in-laws, neighbors, friends. Shopping for other people is her way of expressing her love. It lets other people know she’s thinking of them. Even in her sometimes befuddled state, she still thinking of others. “Did I remember Maya’s graduation?” “When is Noemi’s birthday?” “What can I buy Marilyn to thank her?” “Who did I miss?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia">Now, she has lost interest in most of her things, though she loves to be surrounded by them as they bring back memories of trips to the store with her children; vacations with the family; sweet tokens from my father; and gifts from her friends Sylvia, Edith, and Alva. Her house is now riddled with stuff—purchases and acquisitions made over a lifetime…a lifetime of memories (Though writing this, I couldn’t help but think of <a href="http://youtu.be/MvgN5gCuLac">George Carlin’s routine on “stuff.”</a> We <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">do</i> need a little levity here.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia">In between the comfort, however, she is filled with worry. “I’m leaving you and Bruce with a mess to clean up and deal with.” She’s concerned that we’ll argue over jewelry; that fights will break out over china. I’ve tried to assure her that won’t happen. I try to joke with her: “We each have our own china; we have no interest in yours.” But she’s still agitated.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia">So as I age, I want to remember that when I shop with abandon, do it for others. Things should be triggers of joy and good memories, not of worries for my myself or my children. I want to remember that it is, indeed, only stuff. Acquisitions add to a life, but they do not make it a rich one. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-62249448113383570272011-06-20T14:02:00.000-07:002011-06-20T15:20:17.061-07:00Remembering Dad<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiZVhJd2rPIm-Ixj5acqOvbyk3gHKdmMzbbEkTxZF7O6DIRHs1YubVFu1RGfgqLdQfQfYuz5NPErVw8G058SA1vicC4fXZsXokl1od94Dt8PoNPAr9nO_CCyTT41hWY10v_TrBPx37wip/s1600/Dad.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 313px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiZVhJd2rPIm-Ixj5acqOvbyk3gHKdmMzbbEkTxZF7O6DIRHs1YubVFu1RGfgqLdQfQfYuz5NPErVw8G058SA1vicC4fXZsXokl1od94Dt8PoNPAr9nO_CCyTT41hWY10v_TrBPx37wip/s320/Dad.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620410476614789714" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Yesterday's celebration of Father's Day was bittersweet. It was wonderful to be with the family to salute my husband and brother. Both have been active fathers in their children's lives and incredible nurturers, role models, mentors, and supporters of their families. I love them both. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But it was sad as I thought about my own father, dead these past 14 years, and my father-in-law, who I knew way too briefly, dead for nearly 23 years. They, too, were both </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; ">incredible nurturers, role models, mentors, and supporters of their families. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; ">My father, a junior high school principal, was a teacher throughout his life—not just to his students and faculty, but to my brother and to me. He certainly was the first one to teach me to write things down. As I mentioned in an earlier post, he was known for his lists, all written in his scratchy handwriting on index cards that were in every pocket of every suit he owned. His lists guided him in his daily and weekly chores and helped organize his thinking. I know that my own lists—written daily on the nearest scrap of paper—help keep focused as well.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; ">My father taught me to be punctual. He valued people's time and wanted to make sure it was spent wisely. I don't know if he was always that way or if it was something he learned as a captain in the army, but it was certainly a trait that stayed with him until he died. A 3:30 staff meeting meant you started precisely at 3:30, not a second later. He was known for locking the door to his office to bar latecomers from entering and disrupting the session. He rewarded the people who were on time, not the people who were tardy. At a memorial service for him, many of his faculty came up to me and repeated the same words: "I didn't want to disappoint him. After I was locked out the first time, I was never late again." Family occasions, too, called for promptness. He left early to allow for any unforeseen traffic or an accident, so if an invitation called for noon, we would leave the house after breakfast, generally arriving at 11:00 (or earlier!). That either meant sitting in the car for an hour waiting or ringing the bell and startling the not-yet-ready host. There were many times that Doug and I were caught dripping wet from the shower as my parents walked in the door, early for yet another family gathering. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; ">My father taught me to make my own decisions. Unlike my mother (sorry mom), who always gave direction and told me what to do (not that I always listened and obeyed), my father let me choose what action to take. He would outline the options and knowing that he had taught me right from wrong expected I would make the correct choice. Like his faculty, I didn't want to disappoint him. When I erred, he never retorted with an "I told you so" or "Why didn't you." Instead, he let me face the consequences of my actions and then gently guided me to the better choice. (I wish I were more like my father and less like my mother; unfortunately, I, too, like to be in control. I'm sure my children wish it too!)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; ">My father taught me to apologize, even if I was not wrong. What kind of lesson was that, you ask? It taught me that life is about teamwork; you don't go through it alone. Whether the other member of your team is your parent, your spouse, your children, your co-workers, sometimes to move past an impasse, you say you're sorry; you admit to a mistake you did not make; you let others shine and take credit for your idea; you learn to compromise; you give and take.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My father taught me when to let go. This was the hardest lesson, because it was taught on his deathbed. He had been in and out of the hospital with complications since his quadruple bypass surgery. During his last stay, the nurses kept putting in a breathing tube, which he kept pulling out. He had made his decision; enough was enough. He waited until my brother, mother, and I were all in the room with him. He appeared to be in and out of consciousness. We talked about his options; he appeared agitated. We started to reminisce about better times together; we laughed; we joked; he let go.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So, note to my older self: Be proud of </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; ">the family I've built and nurtured, of the friendships I've made, of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; ">the things I've accomplished and created, but when it's time, have the courage to let go.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; ">I love you and miss you Daddy. Happy Father's Day, forever.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-23898243141352551852011-06-13T06:54:00.000-07:002011-06-13T07:40:31.477-07:00Hear the MusicI was surrounded by music growing up. My parent's collection of old 78s, both opera and classical albums, are still in the den. There were holidays, with my mother and her sister's belting out one Yiddush tune (Bim Bam...Bim Bam...Bim Bam) after another. Somehow, the singing got louder after the first glass of Manischewitz....hmmm. I once tried recording them, but learned you had to put the cassette in the tape recorder in order for it to work...duh.<div><br /></div><div>My Uncle Bob had a deep voice and led Passover seders like the chazans of old, and I'm told there was an opera singer in the family, but don't know if that's myth or reality. I had a pink plastic radio in my room; my friends and I played jacks to the Beatles and Lovin' Spoonfuls. And who could forget the transistors we all brought to the beach, each blasting songs picked out by Cousin Brucie, Cousin Brucie, Cousin Bruuuuucie.<div><br /></div><div>But my strongest memories of music have to be of my mother singing. She had a beautiful soprano voice and loved to sing. Hers was the voice that stood out in temple, even when the choir soloist was singing. Hers was the voice that interrupted my father as he began leading the seders. "Is it time for a song?" she asked. He voiced annoyance, but after a while he just gave in. It was who she was; it is who she is. It's something my brother and husband are now adjusting to as they lead the seder, and she interrupts: "Is it time for a song?"</div><div><br /></div><div>She still loves to sing, even if no longer in tune. I remember that on an eight-hour car ride to Maine, she managed to sing for three of them. You said a word, she had a song with that word in it, and promptly began to sing. If there is music in the air, she is singing along. If there is no music, she makes her own. And while the words to the songs are not all there, the music is still in her heart.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuVibst75BBDgipxMWXIKK6JN39CH5wKli0bNR-teeNRprxfyYx77sJhwkYvTCb_jyF0tQmrSZXPplIL9bB6Nuiu582BGbB6-nR-13X67Jx1c60MY1AqHu5MSfhnjoj0ZaDpEbeS74IdUe/s320/IMG_0014.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617707798368318514" /><div>This past Valentine's Day she had a wonderful treat arranged by the president of her temple. Some volunteers from Sweet Adelines (they're the ones dressed in red; mom's in blue), came to the house, red rose in hand to serenade her with love songs. They sang two songs, which brought tears to her eyes, which brought tears to my eyes. She asked them to repeat them so she could join in; my brother arrived, and she asked them to sing again, so he could hear. It was very touching, but also very typical of my mother. Hear the music; embrace the music; be the music.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I was a child, her bursting into song would make me run for cover; I've seen the underside of many a table. And I have to admit that there are times that I still cringe. But now that I am older and sing and dance to the music in the department stores (to the extreme embarrassment of my own daughter...Moooommm...), I get it. I understand the joy, the pleasure, the happiness when one is singing.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I age, I want to remember to keep the songs in my head and in my heart. I want to keep singing, even though I'm off key and sound the best in the shower (TMI, Perri would say). I want my favorite songs playing, even if I know longer remember the words. I want to hear the music.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-30005456282829097642011-06-06T11:23:00.000-07:002011-06-06T12:23:21.995-07:00Make A List; Do It; Cross It Off<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; ">It's good to know that those of us who make lists are in such elite company. Beginning June 3, an exhibition (<i>To-dos, Illustrated Inventories, Collected Thoughts, and Other Artists' Enumerations from the Smithsonian's Archives of American Art)</i> at The Morgan Library & Museum in New York City celebrates this most common form of documentation by presenting an array of lists made by a range of artists, from Pablo Picasso and Alexander Calder to H. L. Mencken, Eero Saarinen, Elaine de Kooning, and Lee Krasner.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; ">The tip-off to my mother's brain tumor should have been the lists we started to find all over the house—on backs of envelopes, on junk mail, on the windowsill in the kitchen (I don't be "on" the top of the sill, I mean written on the furniture!). After the operation, while trying to make order of her house, we found them tucked into pocketbooks, in boxes in the den, in the piles of papers that littered her home. The lists apparently went back a number of years. It was her attempt to compensate for a memory that was being impinged by the growing tumor; we thought it was just a sign of aging.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; ">My memory of my father is intertwined with lists. I see his scratchy handwriting on index cards, where he kept lists of chores to be done on the weekend; things he wanted to remember to do at school (he was a junior high school principal); what to pack when going on vacation; all of our names and birthdays; his investments; etc. Every suit he owned had a blank index card or two in it, always at the ready to start a list. After he died, we found those index cards, now yellowed since he'd been retired for many years, still in his jacket pockets.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal; font-size: 16px; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; ">My mother's list-making should have been a warning, however, because she never made lists. She remembered birthdays and anniversaries of her children, grandchildren, relatives, and friends. She had stacks of greeting cards ready to go. If she needed something at the store, she ran out immediately to buy it (more on her shopping habits in another post). When she wanted something in the house done, she relegated it to my father...so he would put it on his list. But never did I see her write something down for later use. Until recently.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; ">But now her list-making has become a frenetic habit. It's as scattered as her thinking. My brother bought her a daybook, hoping she'd organize her thoughts in a logical way, recording the lists by day/date, then crossing items off so they'd be out of her mind. But brain trauma doesn't work in an orderly fashion. It has a life of its own, and so do her lists. Now, when it's on her mind, it goes on the list. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; ">Last fall, she added "apple juice" to her shopping list. Why? She had seen a newscast on tv that said apple juice was a good source of antioxidants. Cleaning out her cabinets this spring, she saw the apple juice. "Why is this here?" she asked me. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; ">"It was on your list," I told her. "Take it home; I don't like apple juice," she replied. So much for lists.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; ">I have always been a list-maker and take joy in crossing things off. It makes me feel like I've accomplished something, though sometimes as I add yet another task to be done, it makes me feel overwhelmed. So I wonder, what will be the tip-off to my own children that something is amiss? A list-less home?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div></span></span></span></div>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-13805074519799121362011-06-01T05:07:00.000-07:002011-06-01T05:42:37.104-07:00Remember To LaughI think what has impressed me most about my mother's ordeal is that she has maintained her sense of humor throughout. There were endless forms to fill out before the surgery. Check the box: married, single, divorced, widow. After checking "widow," she was asked: Since when? She wrote: "Since my husband died." Well, it was funny at the time; the two of us had a fit of the giggles that lasted into the examination.<div><br /></div><div>Even now (after another operation this past year for a melanoma), she tries to find the bright side. She called me recently after eating one of the meals—grilled tuna—Doug had prepared for her to heat up. We put put labels on all the food containers we leave in the refrigerator. Usually they are specific—talapia with grilled vegetables, turkey meatballs with spaghetti and sauce. This one I had labeled "fish." Why? Because the only kind of tuna she likes comes out of a can. </div><div><br /></div><div>"This fish was good," she said. "It wasn't labeled. What did I eat?" she asked. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Tuna," I replied.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Do I like tuna?" she asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"No," I told her.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, then it's a good thing that I lost my memory," she quipped.</div><div><br /></div><div>My mother was always the first one on the dance floor at a wedding or Bar Mitzvah. She was the first to volunteer, the first to sing, the first to laugh. She clipped cartoons that made her smile and put them in a binder in the bathroom. (As I said, she could find the humor almost anywhere.) As a child, I didn't appreciate those qualities. I was too busy being embarrassed, as kids are wont to do. Now I recognize what an amazing gift she was trying to give me.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to remember to grow old with humor. I want to share funny times with my children, my family, my friends. I want to keep laughing until I shut my eyes for the final time. </div>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914626677177035394.post-22354034723102765932011-05-31T07:34:00.000-07:002011-05-31T07:55:43.754-07:00Why little scraps of paper?The last two years has involved an incredible personal and family journey, as my 91-year-old mother (and we) have adjusted to the results of her being operated on (at age 89) for a brain tumor. The good news is that she is still with us, humor in tact. The bad news is that she has lost her short-term memory. She is surrounded by little scraps of paper, reminders of what to do, when, who phoned, what she ate—all things she is trying to remember. In addition to the scraps of paper, I have become her institutional memory. She has asked me about things that happened to her before I was born, as well as the daily date, month, and year, as she tries to organize thoughts in her mind, only to be lost again.<div><br /></div><div>A retired middle school science teacher, my mother has taught me my whole life—even now. She has taught me about aging. She has taught me to be graceful and grateful. She has taught me to maintain one's sense of humor, even in the grimmest of times. She has taught me to appreciate the love of friends and family. She has taught me that when you grow old, you still want your dignity. You still want to be valued. You still want to be loved and appreciated for who you are, for the essence of you.</div><div><br /></div><div>When my grandmother was in her nineties, I remember my mother saying to me, "If I ever become like Nana...." I now find myself repeating the phrase to my own children: "If I ever become like Grandma...."</div><div><br /></div><div>But there are some moments, when I'm feeling overwhelmed by the daily phone calls and weekly visits to maintain my mother's home (including handling her mail, her finances, her food shopping, her cooking, etc.) and be her memory that I realize this might be an unfair burden to ask my children...to be my memory, that is, to remind me of how I want to grow old.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, as my brother, sister-in-law, husband, and our children, have tried to help my mother adjust to her new normal, I have started jotting down things I want to remember as I age. Technology has allowed my little scraps of paper to be digital. Nevertheless, this blog will serve as those notes to my older self.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772951654999394287noreply@blogger.com0