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Take Mom to Work Day, at The Peres Center for Peace in Jaffa, Israel

1 Dec

My visit to Israel would not be complete without the ability to kvell about my daughter and her job. So I was excited when she told me that she would take me to work with her for a few hours to see her office and meet the people she works with at the Peres Center for Peace in Jaffa, Israel.

Situated in a unique glass and concrete building, the Peres Center for Peace is the vision of Shimon Peres, former president and prime minister of Israel and the recipient of the Noble Peace Prize. Now that he is retired from any political roles, and past the age of 90, he works each day at the Center, where he hopes that ideas and programs will help to create lasting peace between Israel and its Arab neighbors.

My daughter began working at the Center earlier this month, just a few weeks before I arrived. But it is her dream employment. With her master’s degrees in both Middle East Studies and the Politics of Conflict from Ben Gurion University in the Negev, she has wanted to devote her life to working for a world of peace.   In her previous job she did have a opportunity to work with non-profits that focused on community building, which gave her some satisfaction. But, now she has an opportunity to contribute. Yes it is in a small way, but she has a start. What mother would not kvell in delight and pride? So I will and I am.

A private tour through the building with my daughter was one of the highlights. It included a walk through the lovely auditorium, which faces the Mediterranean Sea. Just last week I saw pictures posted on the Center’s Facebook page of Peres meeting with a group in this very room. And in the back of the photo, I saw my daughter! Now I am walking down the stairs of the empty room and standing near the podium on the stage where Peres sat a few days ago!

Walls of concrete and glass reach to the sky around the bookcases.

Walls of concrete and glass reach to the sky around the bookcases.

We also visited the library, which one day will be open to the public. The library is an amazing space with ceilings that seem to reach to the sky, surrounded by walls made in alternating waves of glass and concrete.

Then we walked through the offices, where I met some of the people she works with each day. I enjoyed meeting every person, because now I have a face and a voice and a place for the people she had told me about. They are no longer just names floating in the internet cyberspace between the USA and Israel. Now they are real people who had the foresight to hire my daughter to join their important team.

Another highlight was to listen to her field a phone call from a potential volunteer who wants to help at the Center. My daughter (among other duties) is in charge of all volunteers and interns who want to also be a part of the Center and its work towards peace.

And it is okay that I did not meet Shimon Peres, I did not expect to. However, I looked through the frosted glass into the area where his office is located. And I saw the outlines of the people who were meeting with him. Again I kvell thinking that my daughter is working on the same floor as Peres. She told me the first time she saw him was on the elevator. How cool is that?

The view of Jaffa and the Sea from my daughter's office

The view of Jaffa and the Sea from my daughter’s office

As I sat in my daughter’s office, I looked out the window to Jaffa, and then to the Sea. I am looking at the view that she sees each work day. I look at this extremely modern building and it’s concrete floors, glass walls and wave like structures. I imagine my daughter working here for years as she lives her dream. But most important is the smile on her face and the joyful gleam in her eyes when she talks about her job!

On Facebook: The Peres Center For Peace. The one with over 16,000 likes. The other one is not it.

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Thanksgiving in Israel, a Time of Blessed Rain

27 Nov

Garden Israel

For three days I have been in a rainy, stormy Israel. It is damp and torrents of rain and wind have left large puddles of water everywhere. Walking the streets of Tel Aviv is difficult as the gutters cannot take in the tremendous flows of rain water.

But my Israeli friends and relatives are happy. ‘Welcome to this time of blessed rain,” they say. Because in Israel rain is a blessing even as it caves in roads and causes minor flooding. The rain has been as far south as the Negev and as far north as the Golan.

But this morning is Thanksgiving. I have journeyed almost around the world to be here with my daughter and her boyfriend for this holiday. A trip to India with my husband turned into an adventure. Instead of returning home with him I traveled from Delhi, India, to Istanbul to Israel. All to spend a week here.

I am thankful that I arrived safely here as my husband journeyed safely to Kansas to be with our son. I am thankful that I can see where my daughter lives and works. I am thankful for the plans to see my relatives and friends while here. Even with the rain!

I am thankful for sunshine on Thanksgiving morning. And I am thankful for the blessed rain that has turned the ground damp and moist and the trees green and glowing in the sun.

After ten days in India where pollution and smog have turned the trees grey with soot and the buildings filthy, I also see the rain as blessed. After days of breathing in a film of pollutants and losing my voice to the irritants in the air, I wish blessed rain for Northern India. I hope its people and government can come together to clean the air and water. While I was in India I read daily articles about the pollution. But one of our cab drivers told us that when the rains come the trees sparkle green and the air freshens. Rain is a blessing in India as well.

Celebrating Thanksgiving in Israel divides our family as our daughter has lived here for several years. But though I am separated from my husband and son I feel the blessings of thanks and the joy of the blessed rain. I see how rain is vital as it provides moisture to the land and freshens the air.

I wish all a happy Thanksgiving and a time of blessed rain.

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How the Royals World Series Run Inspired Me to Finish my Mother’s Projects

30 Oct

I have a sense of completion. A sense of a burden lifted from my shoulders.   An empty container sits in my spare room. It held the pieces of an afghan that my Mom began knitting for my niece over seven years ago. This blue and white afghan made in Penn State colors was supposed to be used at college. That never happened.

But thanks to the Royals, I completed this afghan! Their drive to succeed and never give up gave me the inspiration to finish projects that my Mom had started years before she passed away.

My Mom started two afghans at the same time; a blue one for my niece and a green one for my son. She knitted large panels, completing five for both my niece’s and my son’s afghans.. She even started crocheting borders around the panels of blue that would one day become my niece’s afghan and green for my son’s.

But my Mom never finished either project.

My Mom working on the afghan for my son. My Mom working on the afghan for my son.

She could make the panels, but she never put them together. I have my opinions as to why she could not finish.   Partly I think because she had the pieces in two separate homes. Some she worked on in their apartment in New Jersey. Other pieces were completed at their home in the Catskills.

Any discussions of the afghans became a ‘tease.’ “Grandma, are you ever going to get them done?” She would nod her head and say she was working on them.

But she did not finish them.

My Mom died suddenly.  The afghans were left undone. But we were not thinking about them. We were trying to deal with life without a wonderful Mom and Grandma.

Nine months after my Mom died, my Dad died.

There were even more unexpected sorrows. My siblings and I left our parent’s homes untouched. The apartment and the house stood empty. We could not deal with the memories that awaited us. The afghans waited, forgotten.

In May of 2013, we began to clean my parent’s apartment. It had been almost two years since my Dad passed away.

While we cleaned, I found a container with some pieces of the afghans and some yarn, but not enough to finish the project. Since I am the only child who knits and crochets, I decided to send the pieces to my home in Kansas. Perhaps I could do something with them. But I knew she had completed more pieces. I just was not sure where they were.

In July of 2013 my brother and I went up to the home in the Catskills. I found the rest of the completed sections of the two afghans along with extra yarn, her crochet hooks and knitting needles, and the instructions she was using to make the afghans. My brother shipped these to my home as well.

I left the boxes in my spare room for a year, packed and untouched. I could not bring myself to open the boxes. I knew what was in them. I knew I needed to do something with them. But I just did not know if I could actually complete them.

But this summer, I finally tackled the boxes. A neighbor, a young woman I have known since she was in preschool, was raising money for the Lymphoma and Leukemia Society by helping people organized.   Although I am usually organized, I needed help for this project. For my donation to the charity, I received five hours of help.

We went through all the boxes. We unpacked all the yarn, thread and instructions. We placed the pieces of the two separate afghans into two separate containers. I could see what needed to be done to complete the afghans. But I still was not quite ready to work on them.

I was not quite ready to pick up the pieces that my Mom had started so long ago. I was not ready to touch the afghans she had worked on so lovingly. My son and my niece both celebrated birthdays this month. Both are October babies. And with the Royals in the Pennant Race, I began to think more and more about the afghans. I felt that she wanted me to finished them this year. I could not give up on this project, just as the Royals would not give up on their October quest!

Game four of the World Series, Royals versus Giants. Since we live in the Kansas City metropolitan area, this is a very big event. My husband was out of town.   I was home alone, watching the game by myself. And I decided it was time. I could work on an afghan as I watched.

My niece's afghan, what my Mom had completed. My niece’s afghan, what my Mom had completed.

I brought now the tub that had my niece’s afghan. I put the pieces on the floor. I could see that my Mom had completed white borders around two of the panels, and started the borders around two others.   I set myself the goal of completing the borders while I watched the game. COMPLETED!

I then examined the pieces. My Mom had made each panel a slightly different size. I think this might be why she did not put them together. She did not know what to do.   I did not want to change these panels. I had three long ones (one very long) and two short ones. So I made a design using the shorter panels to go above and below the longer panels.

I began to sew them together, gathering as needed. I put the longest panel to the outside. And I finished that during Game 5! Then I began a border around the entire afghan. First I did a row of single crochet in white; then a row of double crochet in white. I knew my Mom would never leave a white border. So I added a single crochet of blue, and then a double crochet row of blue. It still did not look right. I then added a scallop. Perfect.

My niece's afghan completed during game 6. My niece’s afghan completed during game 6.

I finished it the day before my niece’s birthday, during Game 6. Yes even during all that excitement, I was able to crochet.  I mailed it to her on her birthday, in the afternoon before Game 7.

I thought finishing the projects my Mom started would be too painful to accomplish. But I was wrong. I felt a burden lift from my shoulders as I began to crochet. I think my Mom would be happy to know what I was doing!

The pieces my Mom finished of my sons afghna. The pieces my Mom finished of my sons afghna.

Before Game 7 of the World’s Series, I brought the container that held my son’s afghan into my family room. I took out the five pieces and decided what I needed to do. This border was different than the one my Mom had put around my niece’s afghan.   I began to crochet.

Sometimes my mind wandered to my Mom. I thought about her knitting and crocheting these panels. My stitches have a slightly different tension than hers. But it does not matter. When I crochet, I feel close to my Mom.

The Royals lost the game, but they showed so much vitality and good sportsmanship. Even when our catcher was hit hard in the leg with a pitch, he battled through the pain. I felt for him!

He never gave up.

Finishing my Mom’s projects during the World’s Series seemed like the perfect project to accomplish.   Soon my son’s afghan will be completed as well. Thank you to the Royals for a great October and for giving me the inspiration to succeed in a project as well.

 

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A Night in the Hospital Used To Be a Nightmare for Children

26 Oct

 

My actual Candy Striper Hat from the early 1970s. I had to wear it at the hospital.

My actual Candy Striper Hat from the early 1970s. I had to wear it at the hospital.

When I was a sophomore at North Bergen High School I volunteered as a Candy Striper at North Hudson Hospital on Park Avenue, in Weehawken, New Jersey. For about a year I went once or twice a week after school or on the weekend to work mainly in the children’s wing, doing whatever the nursing staff requested. I also made origami animals for the children in the wards.

In those days there were strict visiting hours. Parents could not spend the day, much less the night with their children. And children were often lonely and scared. Since I was allowed there at times other than visiting hours, I could visit with the children. Making the origami figures cheered them up. I always gave my creations to the children when I was done. I worked enough hours to earn my 100-hour pin and more.

My volunteering came about because of my sister and my own experience in the hospital. When I was six, I had tonsillitis. For months I had tests and blood tests. They told my parents I had leukemia, which then was a death sentence. It turned out that I only had tonsillitis. What a relief! But I needed my tonsils out!

I remember my Dad taking me to the hospital in the morning and promising to be with me all the way. But after the nurses took me on the gurney to the elevator, my Dad was left behind when the elevator doors closed. I remember screaming for him all the way to the operating room.

I was traumatized. So was my Dad. He told me years later that he would hear the sound of my screaming in his dreams.

Because of this horrible experience, when my own daughter needed surgery when she was six, I looked for options.   Things had changed over the years, but most important I am married to a pediatrician.   We knew the surgeon and the anesthesiologist. My husband was allowed to scrub in and go with our daughter into the operating room. Once she was under the anesthesia he had to leave. But at least she was not alone, like I was so many years before.

It was not only this event that made me want to be a Candy Striper. I was hospitalized several times as a child for bronchitis, which I found out later in my life, was asthma. Those few days alone in the hospital without my parents, except for short visits were horrible. Scared and alone, I would often cry.

But the worst was my sister. When she was in elementary school she had an emergency appendectomy.   The surgery went fine, but they put her in a room with other children and she developed all sorts of diseases: strep throat, a staph infection and more. She was in the hospital for over two weeks.

It was a horrible time for my family. I remember my parents crying and worrying. They were only allowed in the hospital for a short period two or three times a day. Traveling back and forth was difficult. My parents were both working. My brother and I were not allowed to see her, as children were not allowed in the hospital.   I remember going there one time and sitting in the car in the parking lot. My Mom went upstairs and my sister waved to us from the window, we got out of the car and waved back.

My sister finally came home. But she was home from school for another two weeks. We were a totally stressed out family by this point. Everyone was on edge and scared. That two-week period is nothing compared to what other families faced. Not being able to be there made it so much worse!

Life is so much better now that parents able to visit their sick child in the hospital whenever they like, even to spend the night with them. Not that anyone should get sick. But at least if they are sick, parents are allowed all the access they need and want. Children’s hospitals do all they can to make hospitalizations as easy as possible. Bright colors and decorations make the hospital look cheerful. The scary old look of hospitals is eliminated as much as possible in today’s children’s hospitals.

Another change is the limited time spent in the hospital. When I had my tonsils out in 1961, I spent two nights in the hospital. When my daughter had her surgery she was sent home that evening, partly because my husband would be home in case of an emergency. But even if she stayed, it would have been for less than 24 hours. (I will admit that I spent the night on the floor of our daughter’s bedroom.)

Part of the reason for the limited hospital stay is exactly what happened to my sister. Patients in the hospital have infectious and contagious diseases. It is best not to be around them. Now children have private rooms with space for the parents to stay. Then my sister was in a room with at least one other child at all times. There was no room for parents. And the other occupant could spread disease.

So with this history, as soon as I was of the right age, I volunteered at the North Hudson Hospital to help children. I had a great time for about a year. Then something happened. All I knew is that I was in the office of the head of volunteering and my Dad came to get me.   I honestly did not remember what happened, except that I was sick to my stomach.

I never went back to the hospital after that. And I decided I never wanted to be a nurse or a doctor. (I still think it is strange that I married a doctor.) But I kept my Candy Striper hat because I was proud of what I had done.

Years later, I was telling my daughter about being a Candy Striper and how I loved being with the children. She asked why I stopped. I told her I really did not know. My Dad happened to be with us during this conversation. He said, “You don’t remember? You went into the wrong room. A man had, who had been in a car accident, died, and you passed out.”

No wonder why I have always hated the sight of blood and disliked going to the hospital. It all made sense. But I am glad I volunteered for the time I did.

Luckily for me, my children never had to spend the night at a hospital. But over the years, many of my friends’ children have had surgeries or have had to spend a night. I am so glad their experiences are so much better than they were in the 1960s! I am so glad that parents and family can visit and give the children the love and support that they need. I am glad that it no longer is a nightmare for children who are sick to spend the night in the hospital.

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The Ghost In The Basement: A True Ghost Story

23 Oct

When I was 9, my family moved from one side of North Bergen to the other side, to a house on 78th Street and Boulevard East. It was a great house with a wonderful backyard on a street with lots of children and fine neighbors.

Next door, our neighbor grew peaches and when they ripened he would give us some. There were two other girls my age, plus children for my brother and sister to play with. Up the hill at the other corner lived James Braddock, yes Cinderella Man, the great boxer.  We were one block from the park and could easily look across the Hudson River to New York City. There was so much to do and so many places to explore!

I loved my street. We had great games of stickball, played at each other’s homes, and wandered over to the park. And we even had the Grandma of one of my friends watch over us when our Mom was still at school; Mom was a teacher. It was a wonderful community.

As for my house, I loved it sort of…well…. except for the ghost in the basement. From the moment we moved in, I knew he was there. I would see him or feel him in certain areas of the basement. But my parents did not believe there was actually a ghost. They thought I just wanted to avoid chores. When we first moved there, I was really scared. I would confront my parents and cry to them, “There is a ghost in the basement! Really. There is really a ghost. I am not making it up!!”

But nothing ever changed their mind. I still had to go help with the laundry and do chores. I eventually just came to accept the ghost. He never hurt me or really did anything spooky. He was just there, in the basement and on the back stairs. He just became part of my life. I stopped talking about him.

I set up a little house in the basement for my dolls, doll furniture and me. And I would often play there. I put down scraps of linoleum to mark the outlines of my house. I felt safe there, within my ‘house.’ I always felt a sense of warmth when I sat in my area. But at night, when it was dark, or on rainy days, I would get a different vibe from our basement dweller. And I did not want to go down the basement then.

When I got older, I dreamt about the ghost. I knew, in my heart, that he was from the Revolutionary War, and I knew he died in battle. But it did not make sense because even though my area of New Jersey was part of the original settlements. The battles around Ft. Lee were several miles from my home. I could not understand how a dying soldier could make it that far along the Hudson River and the cliffs of the Palisades. But I knew he was a soldier. I just did not know about any battles close to home.

Then recently, on the “Town of North Bergen” Facebook page, some one posted a link to a booklet: “North Bergen Yesterday” by Michael K. Kruglinski and others, published in 1997. And right on the cover it says “May 27, 1780, Patriots Attack British Blockhouse at the Top of Bull’s Ferry Road.” Oh My Goodness! Bull’s Ferry Road, the scariest road in North Bergen, is easy walking distance from my childhood home!!! There was a Revolutionary War battle right where I walked many times. So close to my home!

This was it! I remembered back to my childhood haunting, and thought, The Ghost is explained!”

Now before you think I am totally crazy, I am really not the only one who saw the ghost. He never came into to our kitchen. He haunted the basement and would come up the basement stairs to the landing to the back door off the kitchen and stand there. He never went outside. He never entered our living areas. He just liked standing in the entranceway, watching.

One day, when I was a freshman or sophomore at North Bergen High School, I had some friends over. We were sitting in the kitchen having a snack, when one of them started to scream. “There is a man standing there.”   She was looking behind me towards the steps. I knew exactly what she saw.

“No,” I said, “Don’t worry, that is just the ghost from the basement..”

My statement did not go over very well.

My two friends started screaming and headed for the front door to run out. Oh no! My brother had just arrived home. He was coming in the front door and popped his head into the window on the door to look in before he entered. He startled them! My friends really started screaming then. As he opened the front door, they ran out!!!

A high school senior, my brother thought we were all insane. I really never was scared of the ghost once I got older. But when my friends started screaming, I did as well. They did not want to go back into my house, so instead we walked around the corner to one friend’s apartment. Once we got there, and they had calmed down, I told them all about the ghost in the basement.

We all saw the same thing.   A young man standing against the wall in the doorway. He had long brownish hair in a ponytail and was wearing a dark/black ‘turtleneck’ type shirt…or so it seemed, and a long jacket. He always wore the same thing.

I told them that he was safe. Not to worry.

That evening at dinner my brother told my parents the story of my crazy friends running out of the house. None of them believed that the ghost existed.   My Dad said my friends were being ridiculous that I probably told them about it, so they thought they saw him. It was just a matter of suggestion!

“But Dad, “ I insisted. “I never told them about the ghost. I never told anyone about him. They saw something and mentioned it first; they started screaming, before I told them.”

He did not really believe me. But it was the truth.

My sister was home during the great ghost sighting, although she did not see him. She actually never saw him, although she admits that “the basement was creepy!”

However, I believe other friends saw my ghost over the years. He would just stand there, always watching. I never spoke about him outside of the house, except with friends who had seen him.

In fact over the years, I stopped thinking about him. Once in a while I would remember the day my friends got so scared, but that was secondary to my ghost.

So seeing this book and this sentence about a Revolutionary War battle so close to my home brought it all back, just in time for Halloween. I hope he has found peace and is no longer haunting my childhood basement and stairs. It has been 234 years. I think he deserves some peace.

But I do wonder if the people who live in my childhood home ever feel the presence of the ghost in the basement?

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Voting Is Your Obligation! Not Just Your Right!

20 Oct

I vote! Since I moved to Kansas and settled, I have voted in almost every election including primaries. I say almost, because for a long time I did not affiliate with either party. And as an independent, you cannot vote in primaries. But living in Kansas, I realized that being a registered Republican was the way to go, as that is the party where the most important primaries are held.

When I first got the right to vote, I remember my parents telling me that voting was not just a right, it was my obligation. If I did not like how the government ran, but I did not vote, then I had no grounds to complain. And then they pointed out that in Germany of the early 1930s if more ‘sane’ people had voted, perhaps there would not have been a Nazi Germany.   In fact the silent majority should never be silent. Their voices must be heard. And the ballot is a good place to be heard.

In college I studied politics as my minor. It was a good background for understanding the political process. Not one that is very pleasant right now, but I do understand it.

So for each and every election, I read. In the past it was just newspapers and articles in magazines. Interviews on television helped. But now with the internet, I do lots of research. In Kansas we even re-elect judges. There used to be a website to see how judges were rated. I went there as well. Now it is a little more difficult, but there is one to review the major judges.

Over the years I would keep a list of those candidates I wanted to vote for so that on Election Day I easily be able to cast my ballot. And I always listed the issues and the vote for those as well. At first my husband and I had separate views on voting, but over the years he slowly moved to my point of view. I vote for the person I think will do the best job whether they be democrat or republican. I have had signs for candidates from both parties on my lawn at the same time.

Eventually he just asked me for my list. We used to joke that I control his vote. But this led to conflict with our daughter.

When my daughter was a senior in high school, she took American Government as one of her classes. It is a class that all students need to take in Kansas, perhaps in other parts of the country as well.

It was early November. Not a big election, just local. We were at the dinner table when my husband asked me for the list, as he was going to vote early in the morning.   I had it ready. And as I gave it to him, I also explained the topics/issues that were going to be voted on, besides electing officials. I explained that for one a Yes vote really meant No and he should vote No, even though we were for a yes decision.

As we were discussing the list, my daughter started ranting.   “I cannot believe you are telling Dad who to vote for!! Don’t you know that in this country people do not have to tell who they are voting for?! It is private. Dad should be able to vote for and how he wants without you telling him!”

My husband and I looked at each other. And calmly, my husband responded, “Your Mom reads everything. She researches. She analyzes and she thinks about who and what will be the best vote for her. I respect your Mom’s opinion. And I do not have the time to do the research she does. She is not telling me who to vote for.   I am asking her.”

I thought it was great. Our daughter stomped to her room. And we continued the conversation.

2012 election, a long line to vote!

2012 election, a long line to vote early!

In Kansas we can vote early, so that Election Day is not so crazy.   And it helps especially for those who work long hours. I often go with a good friend and neighbor. We laugh because we know that we are cancelling out each other’s votes for most of the candidates. I think her husband thinks we are crazy. But we enjoy standing on line to vote.   Since my children vote I have been doing this more often with them.

Back to my daughter: that winter she turned 18. At her high school she could register to vote, which she did. I gave her the same speech my Dad gave me. In the fall she would be able to vote in her first election. It was a big one. President, senator, congressman, state and local officials were all up for election.

She sent away for her absentee ballot as she was in college in New Jersey. The ballot came back filled with names and issues.

The phone rang. It was my daughter.   “Mom,” she said contritely, “ could you email me the list?”

“What list?” I asked politely.

“You know what list. The list of whom you are voting for!” She said a little strongly.

“Nope. I cannot send you the list. I don’t want to tell you who to vote for. In the USA everyone gets to decide for themselves.” I thought telling her what she had yelled at us the previous year would make my point.

“OK, I understand what Dad was saying. There are so many people and issues on this ballot. I don’t know who to vote for. May I please have the list,” she responded. (I know these are not the exact words, but they are very close.)

So I emailed it to her. I now provide information for three voters. Since she lives out of the USA and does all her voting by absentee ballot. Since she does not know what is happening locally, I send her my list every year for her to fill her ballot. We do discuss the issues and the candidates. She can vote for whomever she wants to. But my list is the starting point.

As for my son, he is much more agreeable at times. And for voting, he never argued. He turned 18 one month before the 2008 election.   He was excited. He registered to vote immediately. In Kansas we don’t have primaries for presidential candidates; instead, we have a caucus. My son went with his Dad to the Democrat caucus. They allowed young people to come and caucus even if they were not registered Democrats. It was a great experience for him. The school was packed! What a wonderful lesson for everyone of democracy at work.

I was at the Republican caucus with my friend. We of course voted for different Republicans for president. But it was still an important part of the democratic process. And I am glad I participated.

When election time came in November, there was no discussion.   My son and I went early to vote. We stood on line together. I took a photo of him standing on line for his first election. A friend of mine is one of the election workers, and she was the one to sign him in for his first vote.   We were all excited. Voting is so important. I was glad my son let me go with!   I did not get to do this with my daughter, so I was excited to do it with my son.

He took his copy of the list and I took my copy of the list and we both went into separate voting booths and voted. I now advise four voters, myself included.

Voting is an obligation. Being an informed voter is also an obligation. Do not just go into the voting booth and push buttons. Know the issues. Know the candidates. Then vote! Yes my family takes my list. But I discuss every decision I have made with them. They have a choice. Once they are in their voting booth they can vote for whomever they want. I just provide information.

Remember now you have to bring identification to vote in Kansas. Do not miss your chance to have your voice heard.

Election Day is coming. VOTE!

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Hidden Memories, They Do Exist!

10 Oct

Lately in the Kansas City area we are hearing much about ‘recovered’ memories due to a trial concerning the Catholic Church and a man who alleges he was sexually abused by a priest when he was a child. The man says he repressed that memory until he was an adult and a friend told him about another child who was abused.

And I believe him, because about three years, I had a similar event. Memories that I had repressed and forgotten were uncovered because of a conversation.

It started simply enough. My husband and I were meeting a friend of ours for lunch and then we were going to the movies. My husband was going to a movie he wanted to see, and my friend and I were going to a ‘chick flick.’ But that is not what ended up happening.

When we met for lunch, my friend told us that she would not go to the movies, because another friend called and needed help with a party. My husband was annoyed. He said, “Well that takes care of that. No movie today.”

“Why not?” My friend asked. “You can still go to the movies.”

“No,” my husband responded. “Ellen does not go to the movies by herself.”

“You don’t!” My friend was surprised. “Why not?”

This is when I entered the conversation. I had never really thought about the fact that I never went to the movies by myself. I know lots of people who do, but I never ever went into a movie by myself.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just don’t go to the movies by myself.”

My friend wanted answers, but I had none for her at that moment. But

as we ate lunch my brain kept thinking about it. Why don’t I go to the movies? There are many movies I want to see. When I go out of town, my husband always goes to the movies he wants to see that he knows I won’t go to. But I never do that. I have friends who go on their own in the afternoon. But I never do that. I wait till my husband or a friend will go with me. Why don’t I go to the movies by myself. It was really beginning to bother me.

Suddenly, I had a memory from my childhood, from a Saturday afternoon at the Embassy Theater in North Bergen. I remembered a bad thing.

“I think something happened in a theater when I was little,” I said. “I need to speak to my brother. He would know, because he was there.”

And that is where it ended. After lunch we went home because I really do not go to the movies by myself.

A few weeks later I flew to New Jersey to see my Dad. My brother picked me up at the airport. As he drove, I told him the story about not going to the movies alone and my memory of a man in the dark movie theater, sitting next to me, doing something nasty.

“Yes,” my brother told me. “It happened. “ And for the very first time that I remember, we talked about that day.

When we lived on Third Avenue, we went to the movies almost every weekend. There was an older boy, someone’s brother, who would take a group of us to the movies. About 8 to 10 of us would go each week. Sometimes we walked to the Embassy Theater and sometimes the fathers drove us. The older boy, a teenager, would sit in the middle of the group. My brother said the older boy was about 14; the rest of us ranged in age from about 7 to 10.

This one time, I had to go to the bathroom before the movie. My brother waited for me in the lobby. And then we went in. Because we were late, instead of sitting next to my girlfriend in the middle, I was sitting on the far left side. My brother was to my right next to the group. There was an empty seat to my left. When the movie started a man sat down next to me. He never touched me, but he exposed himself and touched himself.

I grabbed my brother on the arm. I was too scared to talk. I was about 7 or 8. At first he tried to push me off. But then he looked over and saw what was happening. My brother took my hand and pulled me to the older boy in the middle. He whispered in his ear. Everyone moved down and I was put next to the older boy.

I do not remember if he got the manager. I do not remember ever telling my parents what happened. I honestly did not remember the incident in my active brain at all. All I knew is that I do not go to the movies by myself. And I NEVER, EVER allowed my children to go alone to the movies until they were teens and driving, I always went to the movies with them. Even to movies I did not want to see!

When I go to the movies, I always sit to the right of my husband. So when I look to the left he is there. There is never a stranger next to me on the left. And I try to keep anyone I do not know from sitting next to me on the right.

My brother told me it was time to get over it, when he finished telling me what he remembered. Perhaps my brother is right. Perhaps it is the time to get over it.

But I do know that memories can remain uncover for years. That it is possible to forget something but still be impacted by actions that occurred when we were young.   And I know that an event or a converstaion can trigger the memory.

To be honest for a while I thought perhaps I was imagining it. Did this really happen to me? I did not want to ask my brother over the phone, because I thought he would laugh at me. I wanted to ask in person. I was lucky that my brother could confirm the memory. He was there. It did happen. I had a legitimate reason to be afraid.

Has my habits changed in the three years since I found out what happened? NO. I still cannot go to the movies by myself.

 

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Traditions Survive Across Generations

4 Oct

My grandfather was a Cohen. Born in Poland, he took this role seriously. Cohanim lead off the aliyot at synagogue; they have to be present at a “pinyon ha ben,” the ceremony for the redemption of the first born. They cannot marry a divorced woman. They do not go to the cemetery or funeral except for a very close relative. And for me the most intriguing, they lead the dukhanen on the high holidays

When I was a little girl I loved to go sit with Grandpa in shul. He had a large tallit ( prayer shawl) and would wrap me into it as I sat next to him. Whenever the Shema was said, he would lift his tallit so it covered his head and face. “Why do you do that?” I asked. Most of the other men just kept their tallit on their shoulders.

“When I say the Shema I speak to G-d,” he told me. “When you say the Shema you have to cover your eyes, ” he told me, “and think about the prayer .” To this day whenever I say the Shema I put my right thumb on one eyelid and my forefinger on my other eyelid to keep my eyes closed, just as Grandpa taught me. And I think about the words I am saying. I taught this to my children.

Because Grandpa was a Cohen on special holy days he would perform the priest prayer, the dukhanen, with other Cohanim descendants. They would be dressed in white kittals, robes, over which they wore their tallit. When they entered the sanctuary they stood at the front if the congregation and covered their heads with their tallit.

At this point my Mom told me to look away. “When the Cohanim chant this prayer they speak to G-d and his light comes. If you look once, you will go blind in one eye. If you look twice you will go blind. If you look the third time you will die,” she said.

How can you possibly die if you are already blind? Okay she admitted you cannot die, but still you must turn your face away and not watch. To this day I do turn away. I still cover my eyes. But sometimes I sneak a peek. And I said the same thing to my children.

Many congregations no longer do the dukhanen , but my congregation continues this tradition. At Rosh Hashannah this year, as I watched the Cohanim walk in and prepare for their chant I remembered my grandfather. In my mind I could see him walking to the front of the room.

My father was not a Cohen. As an Israelite, he had no special role, but he loved his Judaism and his congregation. My Dad was president of his synagogue for 11 years. A record I am sure. He worked to pass his love of Judaism to his grandchildren. Before each of my children’s bar/bat mitzvah, my parents came to stay with me. My Dad studied with them each day for the week before the service, listening to them chant Torah, helping. He was so proud as each of his six grandchildren reached this important day.

Grandpa kissing his tallit after touching the Torah.

Grandpa kissing his tallit after touching the Torah.

As the Torah comes through the aisles before being returned to its resting place behind the curtains and the doors, beneath the everlasting light,  I touch it with my siddur.  My Mother taught me to do this, as I watch the men touch it with the fringe of their tallit.  This I also taught to my children.

When I go to shul, I am never alone. Even if my husband is not with me, in my mind I see my grandparents and parents. When I chant the Amidah, standing with my feet together, I gently sway back and forth, Schukling. My children would sway with me when they were little. Sometimes my children would lose my rhythm and sway into me. Now just my husband is with me. And he sways into me sometimes with a lilt in his eye.

My husband is a Levi.  Although he does not participate in the dukanen itself, he is called out before it to help the Cohanim prepare.   Many times, he does not have to do anything, because there are more Levi than Cohanim. But he goes, he says for the exercise.  But I know that it is a tradition that remains.

When we daven together, I feel the bond lasts across the generations.
As I recently stood to say Yahrzeit for my Dad, my son was with me. He now wears my Dad’s tallit. On his head was one of my Dad’s caps. As I stood, he lean my Dad’s hat against my hand. When I sat, he turned and said,” I thought you would want Grandpa near to you.” And I did.

But when I am in shul they are always with me. Their voices swirl among the other voices chanting.

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Misty Lakes and Cold Mornings Were Wonderful In The Summertime

1 Oct

Those who think climate change is not a reality did not spend their summers in the Catskills during the late 1950s and 1960s! Those brisk summer mornings made waking up and getting out of bed a little difficult at times. The summer mornings do not seem as cold now!

We slept under feather beds and quilts, and always put our clothing under our pillows to warm them up during the night. Sometimes your nose would be so cold that you would put the covers over your head as well. And everyone wore ‘footsie’ pajamas!

In the mornings we would all get dressed while still lying under our blankets. First came layer one, underwear; then layer two, shorts and t-shirt; then layer three, jeans and a long sleeve shirt. Socks went on as well. And with no heat, those bungalows were cold! . You could sometimes see your breath in the mornings, so dressing while still in bed made sense!

My sister and I would wait to see who could hold their bladder the longest. No one wanted to be the first to sit on the cold toilet seat. My brother was lucky; he could stand up!!! But finally one would have to jump out of bed and start the day.

Mom would be making breakfast for us. And soon she would shoo us out of the bungalow. But first we had to put on sweaters or lightweight jackets.

When we looked across the street form our bungalow, we could see Kauneonga Lake. In the early morning the mist would rise from the warm water into the cool air of the July or August day. It was the most beautiful view.

The lake water was much warmer than the outside air. Some early mornings, my grandmother would take me to the lake. I would have my bathing suit on and a large towel wrapped around me. We would slip into the lake from our dock and settle into the warm water. She would wash my hair and her hair with ivory soap. She had very long hair that she usually kept braided on the top of her head. But these mornings, she would have it hanging down.

Grandma grew up in Poland. She told that lake water was the best to wash your hair. She would tell me stories about washing her hair in the water near her house when she was a little girl.

Sometimes through the mist we could see rowboats and fishermen. That was before everyone had motorboats and the lake water had gasoline and oil in it.

The water felt so warm and wonderful, until it was time to get out. Grandma would make me sit on the steps while she got out and dried off. Then, as I – shivering – exited the water, she would wrap me in the towels. We would return to the bungalows as quickly as possible to get into warm, dry clothes. This was a special treat.

Usually, after breakfast my sibling and I would go outside to play with all the other children.   There was a fence around the colony that was to keep us inside. We knew better than to go beyond the perimeter without a mother’s permission.

My family and friends in Kauneonga Lake.

My family and friends in Kauneonga Lake.

As the day went on and it warmed up, we would slowly shed clothes. First off the sweater, then the long –sleeved shirt, and finally the jeans.   At lunch time we would start begging, “Can we swim today? Can we? Is this a good day?” I think the Moms decided as a group. We had to wait at least an hour till the food digested. (What I now know was a bubbameister, we really did not need to wait.) Then around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, if the weather was nice, we changed into our bathing suits and went swimming in the lake: all the moms, grandmas and children. On the weekends the dads were there as well!

We would all go to the dock with our towels, carefully crossing the street under our Moms’ observant eyes. The older children holding the hands of the younger, we would run to the dock.

The lake water was wonderful in the afternoon. I liked to stay where the bottom was sandy, where most people usually went. To either side was mush, or as we called it the gush, …seaweeds. And hidden in the mush were fish that nibbled your feet and snapping turtles. Sometimes, like always, the older boys tried to push the younger children into the mush. The screaming would begin. But nothing really bad ever happened because all the Moms and Grandmas were watching. We would spend a wonderful hour or two swimming and playing, until the Moms said, “Done. Get out of the water, Now.”   We hated that. But eventually we would all return to the dock and dry off.

We would clean up after swimming and before dinner. It was too cold after dinner to shower and clean up. And to be honest, if we went swimming we were considered clean enough. There was no need to take a bath!!!

As the day ended, the reverse would occur. Soon the jeans went back on, then the long-sleeved shirt and finally a sweater. Sometimes after dinner we would just put our pajamas on and stay in the bungalow. Other times we would all sit outside and just visit. It was quiet time, and it was the Moms time. Several nights each week, a different mom would host the gin rummy or mah jong game in her bungalow.

There were three ‘grandpas’ at the colony (two were mine), as well as at least one dad. Each week a different dad would take his vacation and spend time with all the families. And while the Moms played their games at night, the grandpas were always on bungalow control. They would walk from bungalow to bungalow to make sure all the children were asleep and everyone was safe.

One year one my sister started sleepwalking. The first time it happened my grandpa was so upset when he saw her running around the front lawn. After that they put a clothespin in the door to make it more difficult to get out. But we still could get out in an emergency.

Those cool summer nights and morning were so delightful. It was a time before air conditioning, and the City was hot and dirty. Misty lakes and cold mornings were wonderful summertime gifts from our parents.

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“We Have a Bingo!” The Happiest Words at Bingo Night!

26 Sep

Although my grandparent’s bungalow colony was quite small, we were able to take advantage of many of the amenities provided by other Kauneonga Lake institutions.   One of my favorites was Bingo Night at the White Lake Estate homes.

Deep in the middle of the homes, between Hilltop Road and West Shore Drive, was the large round clubhouse, sitting next to a pool. The only time I usually walked by it was when we had to walk past it to get to Amber Lake.   We loved walking around Amber Lake. Before Donnefeld Drive was built up, it was a great place to find salamanders. But after houses were built there, Amber Lake was the place to go to discover all sorts of amphibians.

However, once a week was Bingo Night!!!   Anyone could go to the clubhouse to play. Or I assume so. But it might also have been the fact that my grandparents had many friends who lived in White Lake Estates homes. And now that I think of it, we usually sat near them when we went to play.

We walked along West Shore Road to Donnefeld Drive to West Shore Drive on our way to pay bingo. It was daylight when we walked there, but on the way home it was a very dark journey. At the time there were barely any homes on Donnefeld Drive, so we walked carrying flashlights to help on the way home. That was part of the adventure!

My brother often told us scary stories, as we walked, ones he had heard at Boy Scout camp. The scariest was about Cropsey. Oh my! He set my sister and I up for fear. He told us one day that Cropsey always came to get you after you saw a can swinging in a tree branch. Then, one day before we left for the bingo game, he hung a can on a tree on our path to bingo! As we passed the swinging can on our way, he pointed it out to us, to tell us it was a sign that Cropsey would come! That night when we got home and went to bed, he jumped up at our window with a mask and ax, screaming. I still cannot look outside into a dark night. I do not think I slept for a week!

But that was just an added and usual Catskills sibling event. The main attraction was Bingo Night.   My Grandma and Mom usually went with us for Bingo Night. Sometimes, just my Grandma. I think it was a time for my Mom to have a bit of peace and quiet. We were three very active children. And Grandma liked to go because she sat with her friend Nan. Sometimes one or more of our friends went with us as well. The more the merrier for bingo!

We carried our money carefully in our pockets. It was so exciting to enter the filled hall and stand on line to buy our cards. I cannot remember the price. But it was not expensive. We would buy a drink and a snack before we found seats. Now came the best part: the bingo games.

I remember the angst and excitement when we would be one away from bingo. Would we win? Or would someone else get the last number first? And what if two people won? We all knew not to move the see-through red buttons off our card until the caller yelled, “We have a Bingo!” That was the best call, especially if one of us was the winner. I will be honest that did not happen very often. But when it did! Wow!

The worst thing to happen was to accidentally move your card and have the red markers move. That was a disaster because it was really hard to recreate exactly what numbers had been called. Everyone would help, but it made for a sad game.

I always loved the last game of the evening, the all over board. You had to fill every single number on your card to win this one. And it usually had a bigger prize, perhaps $5.00 instead of the usual $1.00 or $2.00 prize. As I would get closer and closer to filling my card, my heart would begin to pound. I so wanted to win that prize! When a friend or a sibling won, I would be happy. But not the same type of happy I would feel if I actually won.

The joy of bingo stayed with me even as an adult. My mother-in-law, Lee, loved bingo. I remember going to St. Louis and going to her bingo game with her. It was always held in the same church, and was a fundraiser. Lee had a special bingo bag with colored markers and other paraphernalia.   By this time you would buy throw-away, thin paper cards that you marked with a colored marker. You no longer had to worry about the little round buttons moving. When Lee died, way too early at 59, I remember finding that bag and wondering what we should do with it. She loved bingo so much. I kept that bag for a while. But eventually the markers dried out, and I threw it all away.

In Kansas I never found a bingo game. But I have found that on cruises, there are often big bingo events. I actually won bingo on a cruise ship. The pay off is much bigger. I received $150 for winning! That was exciting!!

My daughter and I with our Minnesota bingo winnings. My friend and her son also won that night!

My daughter and I with our Minnesota bingo winnings. My friend and her son also won that night!

But it was not as exciting as taking my children to play bingo at a resort in Minnesota. We spent a week at the resort with friends and their children. There was a Bingo Night. It brought back so many happy memories. Between the two families we won four hands of bingo. I could not believe it. We even took a photo of the event holding up our winning bingo cards. This was the closest I have come as an adult to the excitement and joy of the Bingo Nights in the Catskills.

We always had something to do in the Catskills. It did not matter that there was not television and no transportation most of the week. Walking to Bingo Night, being with friends and family was enough to bring enjoyment in the Catskills.

 

 

http://cropseylegend.com/urban-legends

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