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Why I love my pillow!

8 Jun

I love my pillow. It is a big, fluffy feather pillow covered in a rose color bunting. When I rest my head I have the happiest dreams and most pleasant thoughts. I miss my pillow when I am not home, and have a difficult time sleeping.

I did not realize my sleep depended so much on this pillow till about a year ago. Over the first 33 years of my marriage, I had many pillows. But I never slept as well as I did when I went to visit my parents in New Jersey and slept with my pillow. I just thought that when I was home with my parents, I was not worrying about them. But I realized that was not the truth.

My pillow started out as part of my grandparents’ feather bed. I am like the little child in John Denver’s song, “Grandma’s Feather Bed.” This song always puts me in a great mood. I hear that song and I am immediately smiling and singing along. And I think back to my Grandma Thelma and Grandpa Nat.

When I was a little girl, I loved sleeping at my grandparents in the winter. First of all, Grandma always put a lightweight flannel sheet over the cold sheets. Second…was the feather bed (or duvet). I loved when she threw it over me and it cuddled around me. It was so soft and comfy. Filled with feathers and love. Grandma always slept with me when I was little and staying at her house. She would whisper to me and sing me Yiddish songs under the quilt.

I loved that feather bed. In the mornings, I would wake up and snuggle in the warmth of the blanket. My grandparents would be downstairs in their bakery in West New York, New Jersey. Once I was ready, I would get dressed and run down the stairs to be with them, have my breakfast and start my day in the bakery.

They took the feather bed with them when they moved up to Kauneonga Lake, in the Catskills for the full year. I loved our visits over winter break, because Grandma always let me sleep with the feather bed.

But it did not last for long. Eventually Grandma decided it was time for the featherbed to be washed and the feathers sorted. There were not enough good feathers to make a duvet again. So Grandma had it turned into several pillows.   All I know is that I got one: my beautiful rose-colored feather pillow.

It is true that many people cannot sleep with a feather pillow. They have allergies; they do not like how they sink in; they have issues. But for me…a feather pillow is heaven. My feather pillow is especially wonderful!

My pillow came to college with me and was home whenever I needed it.

But when I got married, my Mom kept my pillow. She had it in a plastic bag on a high shelf. No one used it but me. Whenever I came home for visit, the rose- colored pillow came out for my bed.

My children did not like it or want to sleep with it, better for me. They are the only ones I would have allowed to use my pillow.

However, at home in Kansas, with my husband, I searched for the perfect pillow for me. I cannot tell you how many pillows I bought over the first 33 years of our marriage. I never found a good pillow. I never got really comfortable. I used two pillows. I switch pillows. I tried everything. But I never really slept well. I could not understand why. It never occurred to me that I needed that one pillow.

When my Mom had her stroke, I flew out quickly to New Jersey. My pillow was there at my parent’s apartment. Once again it was the comforter of my tears. Even though I could barely sleep, I still felt better with my pillow. I knew my Mom had kept this pillow for all these years just for me.

My Mom died a week later in the middle of the December 2010 blizzard. I was with my Dad, trying to make all the arrangements. While I juggled three phones and a computer, I held my pillow on my lap and at times had it behind my back supporting me. It helped comfort me.

I left the pillow at my Dad’s apartment. I used it whenever I went to visit him. But nine months later my Dad passed away. I spent that first night alone in my parents’ apartment with just my pillow for comfort. Later people asked how I could stay there by myself. It really was not difficult. I had so many loving memories. I had my pillow filled with feathers and love. I was fine.

I still left my pillow there, after that visit.

But 18 months later, when we finally cleaned out my parent’s apartment, the time had come. I told my siblings, I am taking my pillow. I found a box and stuffed it in along with a few other things. And shipped my pillow home.

And for the past year, I have slept the most wonderful sleeps. I have had the most wonderful dreams. My family still does not understand.

My daughter says, “Mom that pillow probably needs to be cleaned.”

HA!

It was cleaned 45 years ago. The feathers are probably 90 years old.   Why would I clean it? When I put my head on that pillow I am a little girl whispering with my Grandma. When I put my head on that pillow I am a teenager in high school. When I put my head on that pillow I am a young woman in love waiting for my wedding the next day. When I put my head on that pillow, I am visiting my parents with my two children. When I put my head on that pillow I see my Mom and Dad getting it down off the shelf just for me.

My pillow that I love is filled with memories that I love.

 

 

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/johndenver/grandmasfeatherbed.html

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Finally Fixing and Focusing on my Succulents

5 Jun

Each May my Dad would begin to plan his summer plantings for my parent’s Catskills home. Over the years he had added gardens and flowers to the property that was once owned by my grandparents. Where my grandfather once had a large vegetable garden, something my Dad had helped with for years, my Dad decided to focus on flowers.

Some of my Dad's planters at the Catskills' house.

Some of my Dad’s planters at the Catskills’ house.

He loved to garden. In the spring and summer, it was at the Catskills property. My parents would drive into Monticello and go to a garden center and pick out the perfect annuals. These he would plant around the front of the house and in the now filled in koi pond. In the back of the house he always planted around the garden he put around the well. And all along the side of the house were more gardens. Of course he had plants on their screened-in porch as well.

He was always ‘puttering’ in the garden or with his plants. One year he was so upset with the deer eating his rhododendron, he went out and got hyena or coyote urine to keep them away.

When the summer was over, he would mulch his flowerbeds to be ready for the next year’s plantings.

My parent's large cactus plant!

My parent’s large cactus plant!

The rest of the year he focused on indoor plants. He had many succulents, including a beautiful flowering cactus and a large spiny cactus. He kept them in great shape. As well as many other plants that grew in their living room, kitchen and on their terrace.

My Mom and I had always joked about our winter ‘schlumbergera’ flowering cactuses (Also known as Christmas cactus). We fought over whose had more blooms. I will admit, my Mom and Dad won that battle.

His love of plants worked to my benefit, as twice a year my parents came to spend 10 to 14 days with my family in Kansas. They came every Passover and Thanksgiving, and since Dad needed to keep active, I kept a list of ‘chores’ for him to do. Which meant every spring, he and my husband worked on outside gardens. When we first bought our home, 29 years ago. It was brand new, with no gardens. Over the years we have put in massive gardens and plantings. My Dad helped to dig out the first gardens. And as the plants and gardens grew, Dad was in charge of mulching and weeding. He also helped in choosing the perfect new plantings each year.

A portion of my outside gardens.

A portion of my outside gardens.

When my Dad became unable to do heavy work, he would just do the mulching with my son. We hired a gardener for the other jobs.   And then when he could no longer even mulch, he would sit out on a chair and direct and chat with John the gardener. John and Dad had lots to talk about. Thanks to both of them I have wonderful outside gardens.

In autumn, Dad would focus on my inside garden. I had many succulents, both inside and outside. But it was my inside ones that Dad kept going. Every autumn he would repot those plants that needed the extra space. He would trim back dead areas, and keep my plants look wonderful.

When he was not here, I just watered and removed dead leaves. I waited for him for any repotting needs. I knew he loved to do it. When my children were little they always helped. It was a great bonding time for them.

It worked out just fine.

Then the unspeakable happened. My parents passed away nine months apart. It was a stressful time. My Dad did not come out in the autumn, as my Mom was ill. He did make it in the spring, but was unable to do his usual ‘chores’. When he fell truly ill, he ended up being in a hospital and then rehab for the last three months of his life.

My Aunt and Uncle and parents with the cactus planter my Aunt now keeps.

My Aunt and Uncle and parents with the cactus planter my Aunt now keeps.

At his shiva, it was obvious his lovely plants needed help. My Aunt Mickey took the planter with succulents that was on the coffee table. My brother took the living ivy and small plants. My sister took the giant cactus. Since I lived in Kansas, I did not take a plant. Dad would have been happy to know his plants were in good hands.

Over the past few years, since my parent’s deaths, I have not touched my succulents, except to water them.   Included in my plants is an aloe plant that is over 50 years old. It had been my husband’s Mom’s. It became mine when she passed away 30 years ago. It, along with my other plants, began to suffer. A friend of mine would occasionally cut back the dead leaves. At times she watered them when she came. But even with her care, some succulents did not survive. I would take the empty pots and put them away.

Eventually she told me that I had to re-pot and care for my plants. She was right. My Dad would have been very unhappy with me. Even though I was caring for the outside plants, I had ignored the inside ones.

For some reason, this May I finally got the inspiration to fix my plants. I bought seven new succulents for inside. I bought several new ceramic pots. On Memorial Day, after I went to a veterans’ memorial service, I repotted my plants and I planted the new succulents.

Just as my Dad always did, I put old newspapers on my counter. I got the potting soil and the new pots and plants. And for a good hour, I worked on my plants. Placing some of them on my kitchen garden window, and others in my planter. I planted so many that I ran out of room. So I put two on my cookbook shelf.

My kitchen window garden.

My kitchen window garden.

While I worked inside, my husband worked outside. He planted herbs and flowers in the flower boxes on our deck. He planted new yellow speckled lillies in one of our outside gardens. And we planted a beautiful new peach-colored rose bush, called ‘Cinco De Mayo,’ in our front gardens. I chose this rose bush in memory of my Mom. I plan to plant a blue hydrangea for my Dad. We have white ones, but he always wanted some colored ones in my yard.

As I finally fixed my indoor gardens and saw my planters filled with the life of new succulents, I felt a burden lift from my heart.

 

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The Beautiful, Yet Horrible Blue Flowered Dress

1 Jun

I close my eyes and I can still see the four dresses next to each other on the bed in my Grandma Esther’s spare bedroom at the apartment in the Bronx. Four identical blue dresses, with Peter Pan collars, bright yellow and red rickrack and springs of tiny flowers printed all over the gingham dress. The dress had a built-in sash and dirndl skirt. Each dress was a slightly different size: one each for my two first cousins, also sisters, as well as one each for my sister and I. I must have been about seven, my sister three, my cousins were about eight and ten.

My grandmother had an urge to buy us matching dresses. I don’t know if it was a special occasion, or she just saw them while coming home from working and decided to get them. I think there is a photograph somewhere of us all wearing the dress at the same time. But I do not know where it is, or if it was really taken. I have searched in my albums looking for some photo of these dresses. But they do not exist. (If a photo did exist, my sister probably destroyed it.)

All I know is that this was a wonderful gift. And we all said, “Thank you!” to Grandma Esther, who was very excited about getting these dresses for us.

The dresses came home.   I wore mine for school, occasionally, after the initial ‘for special occasion only’ wearing. In the early 1960s, girls always wore dresses to school. I had both school clothes and play clothes that I changed into as soon as I got home. So it was fine to have another dress to wear. But really this was to be my dressy dress, for special occasions.

I loved the dress. Blue is my favorite color, and my Mom often dressed me in red or pink because of my black hair. I do not like those colors. So I was happy to finally have a blue dress. I liked the rows of rickrack running along the bottom and bodice. I liked that it had some three-dimensional treatments. I loved the pretty flowers.   I wore it happily. And when I was handed down my oldest cousin’s dress, I was happy to wear that one as well. To me it was just the best blue dress ever!

Notice the generous amounts of rickrack not only on her costume, but also braided to make the headpiece.

Notice the generous amounts of rickrack not only on her costume, but also braided to make the headpiece.

Because of this dress I developed a love of rickrack. I do not remember having it on a dress before this special dress. I fell in love with the feel and texture of rickrack. I also loved to say the word! When I had a daughter, I often made her dresses and costumes with rickrack on them, using all different colors.

As for my cousins, they do not have the same memories of this dress. In fact, they do not remember this dress at all. My sister and I were telling one of our cousins about the dress once, and there was a blank look in her eye.   I think because they only wore the dresses for a short time, and did not have the extra dresses to wear, they did not have as strong an impression.

However, my sister will tell you a different story about the dress. She learned to hate it, even though I think was a pretty dress. But she does have a relatively good reason.

You see, as stated earlier, there were four dresses. She was the youngest. My cousins only wore the dress one year or two. But as each cousin outgrew the dress, it was passed down to the next child. Because one cousin was only nine months older than I was, I did not really get that dress to wear. But my sister did. She wore the same dress for years, as each one was passed down to her.

I should add, that my sister wore the last of the same dress for an extra long time. My Mom saved that dress. She even said to my sister, “That dress still fits you. It has a nice big hem.”

My Mom realized she could buy matching rickrack and lower the hem, then sew the rickrack along the crease where the hem had been.

Because they were dresses for a special occasion, they were not worn out. I think my sister wore some version of that blue dress till she was about 11 or 12…so at least eight long years.

When we talk about the blue dress, my sister gets a sort of pained look on her face and tightens up her body.   It is almost as if she is trying to get the memory of even wearing it out of her mind.

Her daughter did have a similar navy blue dress made by her paternal grandmother. But instead of flowers, it had the alphabet printed on it and apple appliqués. My sister had a difficult time even putting the dress on her daughter. She had a visual and visceral pain seeing her daughter in the dress. After that, her mother-in-law always let my sister help pick the fabric for dresses.

Because of the blue dress, my sister was against matching clothes for our daughters. Whereas some families get matching clothes for family photos, we never did this. We might mention a color theme, but NO matching clothes.

And when I think about it, I cannot remember seeing my sister wear navy blue dresses even today. The impact and memory of the beautiful, yet horrible blue dress lives with her forever.

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Remembering My College During Graduation Season

12 May

 

Walking through the balloon arch at Drew University graduation. This was in 2008.

Walking through the balloon arch at Drew University graduation. This was in 2008.

With the May graduation season, I always think of my own graduation. I graduated from college 37 years ago… I find that a bit frightening to admit. But it is true. I still remember the green and yellow balloons (In 1982 the colors turned to blue and green) that we walked under on our way to our seats. I still remember my excitement at graduating magna cum laude. I still remember that my grandparents and parents came to my graduation!

I loved my time at Drew University. It was the best place for me. A small liberal arts school, Drew is situated on the most beautiful campus. Large trees, quiet paths, lovely buildings, great professors all in one place, with easy access to New York City and an easy train ride home. I learned; I made friends; I found my place in life at Drew.

As an English major I had two professors in particular that had a major influence on me. Professor Joan Steiner and Professor Robert Chapman were my inspirations and both added much to my love of words.

Not only did I take Professor Chapman’s classes on literature, I also took classes on semantics and I was his paid assistant one year. He was working on revising his Dictionary of American Slang, and I helped. Dr. Chapman was well known for his dictionaries and thesaurus. He loved words and language. His excitement about words encouraged my love of language and words!

For the second edition of the Dictionary of American Slang, we had to find three references for each new word for it to be included in the dictionary. Each word was put on an index card…. no computers in those days. If we found a new word in a printed reference, we started a card with the referenced article. I had to do a lot of reading of popular publications: newspapers and magazines.

My biggest achievement was the word “carpool.” I will never forget the moment I found my third reference in Newsweek magazine. I was visiting my parents for the weekend. While reading my Dad’s Newsweek, I found it. I was beyond excited.

“Dad,” I said. “Read this page now. I have to take it back to school with me.” He didn’t even argue when I ripped the page from the magazine.

I remember racing to Prof. Chapman’s office in the Browne Hall with the page from the magazine in my hand on Monday. That was it. The word could now be added to the files for the second edition of the dictionary.   I then helped with writing the official definition of the word. I walked on air for days after that. The two of us were so excited. Carpool was officially a new word!

I know it sounds strange now. Carpool is such a common word. People use it all the time. Mothers and fathers plan carpools with friends in order to take their children to school and sports and afterschool activities. Co-workers organize carpools to work. But in the early 1970s it was a new word. And I helped define it for the dictionary.

I cannot remember the other words I helped uncover that year. It is the word carpool that forever stays in my memory. I get a moment of joy whenever I see the word in print or hear it used. “Carpool” is my word! And yes, carpooling is also my word!

Most important for me, however, was that Professor Chapman encouraged my love of words and added to my interest in language. His discussions on the leveling of language and how languages change stayed with me throughout my time in college, graduate school and in life.

Besides Professor Chapman’s support, I had the support of my advisor and mentor, Professor Joan Steiner. It was her encouragement throughout college that led me to become an English major. I had started my college career focusing on studying psychology. But after my first few literature classes, I realized that my love of literature was more important.

Joan Steiner and me graduation

With Joan Steiner as my advisor, I was able to focus on English during my last two years at Drew. But more important, she help me find what I really wanted to be, which was a writer. And with her help, I focused on journalism as a career and went on to earn my master’s degree in journalism.   I kept in touch with Professor Steiner for many years. Since I live in Kansas, our contacts were usually holiday greeting letters. But once my daughter also went to Drew for her undergraduate years, Professor Steiner and I had a bit more contact.

I miss her wonderful letters. And I feel blessed that she was part of my college life and that we had contact later in my life.

I so loved my time at Drew that when my daughter was a sophomore in high school, I took her to see the campus during one of our annual visits to my parents in New Jersey.   She fell in love with the campus as well. But not only the campus, the focus on political science and religion was important to her. (A Methodist seminary school is also situated on the Drew Campus.) When it was time to make her college choice, she chose Drew.

I am proud that my daughter graduated Drew 31 years after I did. She received her double major in Political Science and Religion. She participated in the semester at the United Nations through Drew and participated in many activities, although she did not follow my major and goals in college. I worked on the newspaper, the yearbook and was a member of the OC (Orientation Committee). She focused on political science organizations, mediation and policy. She even interned at the County Courthouse working with domestic abuse victims. But she walked the steps I walked and loved the school as much as I did.

Her graduation also included the blue and green balloon archway that led to the outside graduation behind Mead Hall. And she, also, graduated magna cum laude, wearing the cords from two honor societies. We did not have those when I graduated from Drew.

My parents were once again there, as was my entire family: siblings and their spouses, and all the cousins. My daughter, as the oldest grandchild, was the first to graduate college. And since my entire family lived in New Jersey, it seemed important that all be at her graduation.   Afterwards we had lunch with her then boyfriend’s family and friends. It was a wonderful celebration.

I love graduation. I love the transition to another stage of life. But for my daughter and I, I am so glad that we were able to experience college life at Drew. And share a graduation experience 31 years apart.

 

To see the beautiful campus go to : http://www.drew.edu/

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Why I thought An Iguana Urinating on Me Was Good Luck

27 Apr
The offending iguana before he was chased.

The offending iguana before he was chased.

I knew the moment the teen-aged boy chased the iguana that something was going to happen. The lizard had been happily sunning itself on a ledge about five feet above me and to the left just minding its’ own business and watching the ocean.

I was sitting on a little ledge below taking photos of my husband and a few others in a pool with two giant green turtles during a supervised turtle encounter. This was a preserve for all turtles on St. Thomas that were injured. Most were returned to the wild, these two were too badly injured to ever leave.

The shade and the breeze made sitting there perfect. While walking around the Coral World sea park, I had been warm and a bit uncomfortable. But here I was so comfortable that I put down my water bottle and focused on taking photos, until the iguana started running from the teen.

It went scurrying on the ledge above me. I looked up at the teen, and in my best mother voice said, sarcastically, “Thanks, that was really nice of you!” He got the message and left. The iguana did not leave. He was still, with his tail hanging over the ledge. I had nowhere to go, as I was sitting just above the pool in a restricted area on a small ledge. So I went back to taking photos.

My ledge.

My ledge.

Then I felt it.   A rain of urine fell on my arm and back, as well as landing all over my water bottle. I jumped up, luckily before the rest came out. I think I shrieked because everyone in the turtle pool looked at me, even the turtles. They actually swam over to where I was standing and popped their heads out of the water to look at me.

The turtles came to check me out after I screamed.

The turtles came to check me out after I screamed.

Sorry,” I said, “but an iguana just urinated on me.”

“I took some tissues out of my purse to clean off my arm. I could not reach my back. The biologist apologized. “For what?” I asked. “This is life. He didn’t do it on purpose. I was just startled. And my son is going to love this story.” We all laughed.

We always had lizards at home when my son was growing up: geckos, newts and snakes. He wanted a bearded lizard, but I ended that idea. So having an iguana urinate on me and defecate near me was not a big deal, just disgusting!

But the strange thing is being urinated on brought back a memory of my Mom. I was in college, but home for a vacation. My Mom and I went shopping on the Avenue in West New York. She was telling me about her days in college at the New Jersey College for Women, which was part of Rutgers. (Later it became Douglass
and then just Rutgers.)

In any case, she told me about the time she was walking to class and a bird pooped on her. She was so upset. She could not decide whether to go back to her room and shower again, or go to class. Class won out. When she told her mom, my grandma, her response was that when a bird poops on you it is good luck.

The best part of the story, as she told me, a bird pooped on my Mom, as we walked down the Avenue, all over her top. We were both so shocked and just started to laugh. We cleaned her off with tissues and continued on our way.  Later, when we told what happened to my Dad and siblings, we went inside. We were afraid if we told it outside, another bird would come along.

So when the iguana urinated on me, after I got over my shock, I wondered, “Good luck?” And I decided, “YES!” It brought my Mom alive for a minute as I remembered her bird encounters, which brought a smile to my mind.

And it provided me a wonderful story that I know my son (and daughter) will love!

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Becoming An Adult in Three Weeks My Senior Year of High School

22 Apr

When I was a senior in high school, and my sister a freshman, we were on our own for three weeks when my parents went to India. It was the trip of a lifetime for them, as my Dad was asked by the Indian government to help with the fledgling textile industry. Years later he would sometimes bemoan this trip as a foreshadowing of the death of the US textile industry, which lead to the demise of my Dad’s business.
But in 1973 it was an exotic trip. My Mom took a leave from her job teaching in West New York. She cooked and froze meals for weeks preparing for my sister and me. She worried that we would not eat.
My brother was on winter break from college but was already obligated to drive my maternal grandparents to Florida and spend several weeks with them. (They never went again. )
I had many emergency numbers to call. We had lots of family and friends to worry about us in my parents absence. My Mom had even made arrangements for a teacher friend, Lola, to call us each morning to be sure we would not be late for school.
The first night we were home we had 18 phone calls from people checking on us. 18 times we had to jump up and get the phone. There were no remote or cell phones then. Only the phones in the kitchen and my parent’s bedroom. My sister and I started fighting over who would answer the phone. We knew if we did not answer people would worry.
Each morning my Mom’s friend called. So did several others. It was almost impossible to get ready for school we spent do much time answering the phone. We finally asked them to STOP!
I was in charge of driving us to school each morning and be on time. We did fine!
And those prepared meals… We never touched them. We were invited out to dinner every night. By the end we did not want to go, but people were trying to be helpful so we went. We had lots of interesting conversations and meals, but we had lots of homework to do. When my parents came home jetlagged, my Mom did not have to cook for weeks. We just ate those meals.
Even the teachers at North Bergen High School were aware of our situation. My sister and I were good students, but Mrs Whitehouse spoke to me each day to be sure we were fine. And we were.
We did it. My sister and I kept up our school work, were always on Time, kept the house clean and the car running. Well one time I left the car lights on and a friend of my Dad’s helped us out.
My sister and I would laugh at a the backup emergency measures my Mom had put in place to keep us safe and fed. ( Much like the measures I would do for my children. We do become our mothers. )
When they came back from India they had many stories to tell. But so did we. Those three weeks turned me Into an adult. I knew from that point on that I could succeed in anything.

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The Joy of Jerry

13 Apr

Silly Uncle Jerry…as soon as my daughter could string three words together, this became her name for my sister’s husband. Silly Uncle Jerry could make her laugh by just entering the room. She anticipated that he would do something silly.

His booming baritone voice would vibrate through the room. Singing songs from Broadway shows, quoting lines from old movies, making references to obscure topics…that was Silly Uncle Jerry’s usual behavior. He used his wonderful voice for years volunteering to read books for the blind on a local New York radio station.

When he read books to the children they were entranced by the different voices he used. One time when they were stranded in an airport for hours, my brother-in-law pulled out a bunch of books to read to his own children, soon he had an audience of dozens of children and parents also stranded. He just kept reading.

Jerry in a calm Hawaiian shirt. Jerry in a calm Hawaiian shirt.

Jerry’s bright Hawaiian shirts echoed his bright and cheerful inside spirit. He had dozens of designs and colors to wear for any occasion. There really was no time that he was not comfortable in a Hawaiian shirt. (Okay, he did wear a suit to his wedding and all the bar/bat mitzvot.)

It was Silly Uncle Jerry who sat on the floor with my daughter and took a corner of her blankie and held it the way she did. It was Silly Uncle Jerry who called her Larabee, and would say, in the tone of a Maxwell Smart character, “Larabee….Get me the Chief!”

As more children arrived, including two of Silly Uncle Jerry and my sister, he became the ringleader for fun and excitement.   Raining in the Catskills with nothing to do? Wait, let’s put on swimsuits and run around in the rain. Wait, that is not enough, let’s play follow the leader in the rain.   Four little children under the age of eight running around in the rain with a giant bear of an Uncle having a great time!

 

Jerry and the children in Follow the leader. Jerry and the children in Follow the leader.

But then the leader, one of the little boys, decided he had to go potty….so he ran over to the woods, pulled down his suit and pees….and the other two did the same thing.   My daughter ran away and screamed as she came up to the porch and into the house. Silly Uncle Jerry fell to the ground laughing hysterically. It was perfect. But he got up and set a new follow the leader rule…”No Urinating when being the leader!” My daughter went back outside.

Jumping for joy in the rain. Jumping for joy in the rain.

It was Silly Uncle Jerry’s love of comic books that made him send comic books to my children for their birthdays. I wonder if he knew that reading comic books is what got his nephew to finally read. Eventually my son read manga and then regular books. Now he is studying computer animation. All this started with an uncle’s love of comic books.

When my daughter decided to go to New Jersey for college at Drew University, I knew she would be safe as my siblings and parents all lived no more than an hour away.

When she and a friend got stuck without a ride, after a program away from the university, in a horrible rain storm — the busses and trains stopped running — it was Silly Uncle Jerry to the rescue. He picked them up, drove them back to school and then home, skirting flooded and closed roads and spending hours to help. In the meantime, my sister was at home dealing with a flooded basement.

It was Jerry who could lighten up the spirit of a room, when people were feeling blue. He could make his eyes bulge out and run through a Marx Brothers’ or Laurel and Hardy routine.

Silly Uncle Jerry was not just family funny, he was a professionally funny man. Part of an improv comedy troupe, the Lunatic Fringe, he was perfect because of his quick thinking and tremendous sense of humor. Every once in a while Uncle Jerry and his comedy group would perform in Madison, NJ, area. My daughter would meet up with my sister, have dinner with them and then go to the show. She tried to see as many performances that Silly Uncle Jerry was in that she possibly could. He was in shows all around the New Jersey and New York City area, appearing in regional theater, like the Garage Theater, and off Broadway.

That was they way Silly Uncle Jerry lived. He was a big bear of a man, with a heart as big. He would do anything for his children and his nieces and nephews. His family and friends made his life complete. Most of all he loved to make life fun for his wife and children and sisters.

But it was he who left us way too young. And left a hole in the fabric of the joy of the world. April 18, he would have been 54.

We miss him.

But the joy of Jerry stayed with those who will always love him and the memory of him. Whenever I see someone in a Hawaiian shirt, I think of Jerry. And, in his memory, we — his family and friends — wear brightly colored Hawaiian shirts on his birthday to keep him with us on that day! And for a few hours he is here with us.

Lunatic Fringe:  https://sites.google.com/site/lunaticfringeimprov/home

Garage Theater: http://www.garagetheatre.org/

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My Mother’s Sunday Dinner Experiments

7 Apr

My Mother was a lovely wonderful woman, but she was not the best cook. She could make certain meals well and she made them over and over again. Her inability to cook was inherited from her mother. My Grandma T. was a horrible cook. Her hamburgers would sink to the bottom of your stomach and stay there. My Grandpa ate everything with ketchup in an effort to swallow. But she did have a few things that she made very well. And those, like her mushroom barley soup, were wonderful.

However, neither my Mom nor my Grandma were very interested in cooking. There were so many other things to do in life. So we learned to eat whatever was put in front of us, and not complain.

I think my Mom began to feel guilty. It was the 1960s. All moms cooked and stayed home. My Mom went back to work to teach elementary school. I think she felt badly that she was not home immediately after school and not doing what all the other moms did.

No matter the reason, one day my Mom made an announcement. Every Sunday from then on she was going to try a new recipe. A food she had never cooked before, and we were going to try it.

We had sukiyaki one Sunday. My Dad was a veteran of the Korean War and had spent time in Japan. He always spoke about eating sukiyaki. So Mom made it…once.

We had lasagna. It was a really hot day. And the kitchen was like an oven after she made the lasagna. So she decided we would eat it on paper plates, as she did not want to wash dishes afterwards. I will be honest, lasagna is not a food that should be served on paper plates. We ended up having to use three or four each to keep the lasagna from seeping through. Also, the paper kind of oozed into the lasagna.   Not our favorite.

There were a few casseroles she made that we did love. But these were old favorites like hot dog casserole and hamburger casserole. When she made these, we were happy. But these Sunday meals were becoming a blight on our lives.

Then came chicken with brussel sprouts.

Before I get to the meal itself, I will start my saying I had spent the weekend with my grandparents at their apartment and bakery in West New York. They also carried some grocery items. I wanted an O Henry candy bar for a snack. My grandmother said, “No,” because she knew I was going home for dinner. But to ease my sadness, she gave me an entire box of O Henry bars. I think there were 12 or 18 candy bars in the box. My brother might have been there that weekend as well. Because I see the two of us with the O Henry bars.

Back to Sunday dinner: I arrived home in North Bergen in time to set the table and help my Mom get ready for the big reveal. I still remember because on Sundays we ate dinner in the dining room and not in the kitchen. So we had to walk the food carefully from the kitchen to the dining room.

We knew immediately that this was going to be a disaster. The smell was horrendous. And the sauce was this ugly shade of puke green. We all looked at our plates in dread….even my Dad, who usually supported my Mom in her efforts.

My Mom came in, sat down, and said, “Everyone has to take one bite and swallow it.”

So we did. We each cut the smallest piece we possibly could, put it slowly in our mouths between gags, and ate the green chicken with brussel sprouts.

My Mom then stood up, went into the kitchen and returned with the garbage can. We all dumped the food from our plates into the trash. We were very quiet. No one said a word. No smiles of joy, nothing. My Mom had never thrown food away.

Mom then pulled out the box of O Henry bars and gave each of us two. Wow, O Henry bars for dinner! It was wonderful. (By the way, I have never, ever wanted to eat a brussel sprout.)

She turned to my Dad and said, “I am done. No more Sunday dinner experiments.”

We did not cheer, but I know I felt like I should.

You think I would have learned a lesson from my Mom’s experiment and this experience. But I guess until you do something yourself, you never learn. I am also not the most exciting cook. I have several meals that I make really well. And some that I have learned from friends that are easy to cook, and I make those.

But like my Mom, I felt that my children were not getting the experience they needed by tasting different foods. So I too, started Sunday dinner experiments. I actually went to a couple of cooking classes that two friends taught. (I got in trouble for talking, but really I was just trying to figure out what all those cooking terms meant.)

I made new recipes for about two months. Then I stopped. No one wanted to eat the new foods. They wanted the comfortable, family favorites.

My daughter, however, is a good cook. She makes all sorts of soups and interesting foods all the time. I think that came from her paternal great grandmother. My Grandma E served the most delicious meals and desserts.   So I am happy in believing that she will never try the Sunday Dinner Experiments when she starts a family.

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The Day My Sister Got Lost After School in North Bergen

1 Apr

The year I started fourth grade was extremely stressful.  We moved from our home on 85th Street and Third Avenue and away from my friends at Horace Mann Elementary School in North Bergen. We now lived on the other side of Hudson County Park, living on 78 Street and Boulevard East. I had to make new friends at Robert Fulton Elementary School.

Besides these two major changes, we also changed synagogues from Beth Abraham to Beth El. The only good thing about Beth El is that it was right across the street from the elementary school.  Added to all these changes, my Mom went back to work teaching full time in a West New York elementary school. She was no longer waiting for us at home after school!

All these stresses, but I am not done yet.  I was given a special responsibility.  My sister was only in first grade and could not be home alone till my mom arrived home from school.   My brother and I had religious school that started about 30 minutes after school let out. So I had a job. I was to walk my sister to a friend of my Mom’s, Dora, who watched my sister till my Mom came to get her.

I did this everyday Monday through Thursday before religious school started.  Every day, while my new friends played and snacked and had fun, I had to walk three blocks with my sister and return in time for class.

Image

Our journey was easy. We walked out of school on 74th Street and went across Hudson Street, then Broadway and finally got to Park Avenue.  I would cross the street with my sister. Then we would walk to 73rd Street. My sister would go down the hill to where Dora was waiting in front of her house. (An apartment building on the corner of 73rd and Boulevard East.) Then I would return to Beth El for my Hebrew School classes.

One day, in early autumn, my new friends said, “Come on…play with us just this one time. “  And I thought, why not?  I walked my sister just two blocks, all the way to 74th and Park Avenue.  And I said, “You just go one more block …just walk straight… then turn…and Dora will be there. “  I pointed out the way to go. And I left her and walked back to school, thinking everything would be just fine.

HA!

My sister and I remember things a bit differently about what happened.  But really, it does not matter, who remembers what. What does matter is that she did not make it to Dora. Instead, she started walking toward Guttenberg. She walked and walked and walked.  I am not sure if she made it to West New York.  But she finally sat on a street corner curb and cried.  A woman came up to her to find out what was going on.

“What is the matter little girl,” she said.  My sister said it was like a Shirley Temple movie, as she replied, crying,   “I’m lost.”  Then my sister told the kind lady the entire story. The woman wanted her to come home with her. But my sister had rules to follow.  You could not get into a car with a stranger, you could not walk to a stranger’s home and you cannot take food from a stranger. (You really shouldn’t talk to a stranger either, but my sister was scared.)

The kind woman called over a police car.  My sister would not get into the police car.  That was a stranger.

“I remember the policeman putting his hands over his eyes, when I told him I could not get into the police car with a stranger,” she told me.  “And then he just said, “Okay Sweetie.”

She could not tell them where we lived, because we had only moved there a few weeks before and she did not know the address.  She did not know Dora’s last name.  She did not know our phone number (but for days after we practice till she knew it perfectly).

However, she did know that I was at Beth El Synagogue and she knew that it was next to Robert Fulton.  So the kind woman walked my sister back to the synagogue, while the police car drove alongside.  When they got to the synagogue, they all entered.

In the meantime, my Mom and her friend, Dora, were frantic.  Where was she?  What had happened? They came up to the synagogue to find me.

And that is where they all came together.  The policeman, the kind woman, my Mom, Dora, my sister, Rabbi Nissenbaum and, of course, me. I remember walking into the Rabbi’s office with all these people in there!  My sister was crying.  My mother was between crying and yelling.

I knew I was in big trouble.

But it was not my fault!  My sister should have done exactly what I told her to do. She only had one block to go.  But was she in trouble.  NO!

I was.

Before you condemn me, you must know that I was just 9.  I was doing my best. I just wanted to play with some new friends. And I really could never understand how she got lost!

She always said she got confused.  I told her she just wanted to get me in trouble.   She told me that I wanted her to get lost.   My sister and I have argued over who was at fault for 50 years.  I still say it was her.  She still says it was me.  It really does not matter anymore.  The point is that we were both traumatized by the experience.

Looking back as an adult I am sure my Mom and Dora were traumatized as well, because I never had to walk her to Dora’s again. Thus the outcome was, in a way, good for me. But neither of us remember what happened, who walked her after this incident.

The one thing both of us will always remember is the day my sister got lost after school in North Bergen.

 

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It was a Small World at the New York City’s World’s Fair 1964/65

14 Mar

I remember it so well, even though it was almost 50 years ago: the World’s Fair in New York City.  My parents took my brother, sister and I there several times over the two summers it was open in 1964 and 1965.  We were all amazed by the rides and the excitement of being there.  Almost like being in Disneyland, but much closer to home.

Image At the World’s Fair. My brother took this photo. 🙂

My sister, who was 5 the summer of 1964, was in love…in love with one ride only ”It’s a Small World.”  She could have sat on that ride all day, every day.  The ride was the UNICEF exhibit, and later it would become a popular ride in both Disneyland and Magic Kingdom in Disneyworld. But in 1964 and 1965, it was only at the World’s Fair.

I am sure my sister was not the only person to fall in love with both the ride and the song.  And I am sure that my parents were not the only parents to buy the 45 record and bring it home for their child.  And I am also sure, like any other 5-year-old in the world, my sister was not the only child to play the record over and over and over again.

My brother, my parents and I were about to lose our minds. My sister not only played the record, she sang the song constantly, except when we were in school.  Then the record was silent and we all had peace.

My mother was still not working full time that year. She was a substitute teacher, who stayed home when we were at school. Cleaning, cooking, doing all the things a mom did in the 1960s.  So when we came home from school one day, it was not surprising to see our room extremely clean.

What was surprising?  The record was gone.  My sister searched and searched. She finally went to my Mom to ask.  And my Mom had a story of woe.  While she was cleaning she accidentally broke the record.  My sister could no longer play it. In fact it was in so many pieces, she had to throw it out because she did not want us to get hurt.

I was so happy.  I shared a room with my sister. And I had the worst of the song.  I loved my Mom’s cleaning at that moment.  To be honest, I did not even feel sad for my sister.  Just a sense of profound relief!

Fast forward about 10 years.  We were living in a different home on the other side of North Bergen.  And our house was robbed!!! A burglar had broken in and emptied everything out of my parent’s closet.  The room was a mess.  Papers and objects were thrown about, on the floor, on the bed, on the furniture.

And there, amid the mess, what did my sharp-eyed sister see.  YES, the record of  “It’s a Small World.”  It was not broken or thrown away.  The record had been hidden for years by my mother.  She had lied.   My sister was astounded.  “MOM,” she cried. “MY record.  How could you lie to me.”

My Mom said,  “it was driving us crazy.  I had to do something.”

I wish the story would end there.  But years later, I became a mother.  And I took my daughter to Magic Kingdom in Disneyworld, while my husband was at a meeting.  And yes, history does repeat itself.  My daughter, then almost three, fell in love with “It’s a Small World.” I went on that ride over and over and over again.  It was a drizzly day in November and not many people were there.  We could get off and get right back on again. And so we did!

But I had learned an important lesson.  I did not buy the record, CD or whatever music was available.  I could not, would not relive the pain of my childhood of listening to that song one hundred thousand times.  And I am not being over dramatic.

Each time we returned to Disneyworld, my daughter wanted to go to this ride first.  Even my son agreed once he arrived on the scene.  So I was doomed.  I actually began to like it. I was haunted by the song.

And then, almost 20 years after the first time my daughter experienced the ride, she got a taste of what, one day, will be her curse.  She was a senior at Drew University in New Jersey. For spring break, she and four friends did not go on a cruise or to Mexico.  No they spent a week at Disneyworld.  She, of course, wanted to go on “It’s a Small World” over and over and over again.  Her friends did not always want to go.  She tells this story.

It was their last night in Disneyworld. They were at the Magic Kingdom for the parade, and my daughter said,  “Hey, “It’s a Small World” is not busy.  Anyone want to go?”  And they said,  “NO. But you can go.  We will wait for you.”  So she did.  She walked down the long ramp by herself.  And suddenly a young girl came running down as well.

My daughter was surprised. The parents did not come.  They sent their daughter on, and looked  and  waved at my daughter.  My daughter was not sure what to do, but she said to the little girl, “Do you want to sit with me or by yourself?“ Oh she wanted to sit with my daughter. And she talked to her the entire ride.

My daughter was amazed that any parent in 2004 would let their child go alone a ride with a total stranger.  I was not totally surprised.

I figure, they were done. No more “It’s a Small World” for them.  And there was this nice young lady who would rather miss the parade than lose one last chance on their daughter’s favorite ride.  They deserved to be together. And they were.   At the end of the ride, the girl’s mother was waiting for her.  She ran off laughing and happy!  As was my daughter.

Oh the 45 record….my sister still has it.  Safe in her home.  A memory.  As for me, I have CDs of every Disney song…including “It’s A Small World.”

For your enjoyment:  https://disneyland.disney.go.com/attractions/disneyland/its-a-small-world/

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