Aunty Gladknit is on her way to Aunt Ruthie's to meet the gang.

 With no surprise to any of us who knew her, but Aunty Gladknit took control of her own ending. 

Jamming at Conways

Aunty G was a take charge person. She skied, she golfed, she was an engineer. She took charge of Jewish War Veterans Women's Auxiliary and rose to National President . She took charge at Temple Emeth in Delray and oversaw its merger with a shul in Boynton Beach to become Temple Torat Emet. She was a great mastermind of anything she decided was worth her energy. She knitted, she embroidered, she did needlepoint, beading, and cake decorating. There wasn't a craft she could not master. She was at the senior son's wedding, and danced the night away at the after-party blues jam at Conway's Bar until 2 a.m. When COVID hit and her shul stopped having daily minyanim, she became a regular at our zoom minyan in Minnesota. Nothing stopped her; she was a rock star.

But after receiving the happy title of Great-Grandmother, Aunty Gladknit decided 95 was enough. She'd had a good run (her words) and it was time to stop fighting the rapidly encroaching frailty.  So she called a halt to all treatment and with her kids, her IDF-serving grandson, and her sister (yes, she has a younger sister) by her side, she went to join Uncle Budge.

Sunday, we all gathered (missing only one newborn baby and one first cousin) on Long Island, New York to bury my Aunt Gladys. 

Uncle, Aunty, Mom, & Dad

Aunty G was the last of my aunts and uncles. Standing at the gravesite, it hit me harder than anticipated. I was sorta frozen to the spot as the idea settled over me that I was really a full-fledged orphan. See, there was the circle: the grandparents in the middle. then the siblings and their spouses. The Simons (mom's clan) just sorta joined up with the Schwaidelsons (dad's clan.) We grew close. We have pretty much remained close. Without thinking about it, I can tell you where all my first cousins and even their kids are. 

Jewish tradition dictates that we bury our own. Literally. It's the last mitzvah you can do for a person and it's one that can never be repaid. The first bit of dirt is thrown from a shovel turned upside down. One should never be too anxious to bury the dead. Then you turn the shovel over and begin moving dirt in earnest. When you have shoveled enough, you never hand the shovel to someone; you stick it back in the dirt. Everyone who can, participates. There is no sound worse in the world than dirt hitting the top of a plain wood casket. In my heart, that moment when you pull the shovel from the mound of dirt. you perform the most important act one person can do for another. Once you hear your dirt echoing in the grave, you can never unhear it, just as you cannot undo death.

My much older bro hit 75 this week. I will hit 72 this summer. My cousins on both sides are all around the same ages. In other words, we’re not kids anymore no matter what we wanna think. We are the ones sitting at the survivors’ table. My hair may be grey and my joints creakier than they used to be, but that doesn’t make me old. Knowing one’s limitations does not make me old, either…it makes me smart enough to know I have to adapt/adjust. Not understanding the lyrics of a new song does not make me old; it makes me open to the idea that I do not care.

And that brings me to the martinis. 

On her way to Ruthie's

After my dad's older sister Ruthie died, the running gag in our family became "going to Ruthie's for martinis"...a rather strange euphemism for dying. I don't remember how it got started, but shortly before he died, Ziggy told me he would meet me at Ruthie's for a martini when it was my time to go, but he was going on ahead. Right before he died, Dad told me Uncle Lenny was hiding in the bathroom waiting to take him to Ruthie's for a martini. And even before she died, Mom said she was ready to go to Ruthie's whenever Dad came to get her. So as Aunty G was fading, Perdie told her to go to Ruthie's because the gang would be waiting for her, and the seder would be there. Of course, potato vodka would be served for Pesach. 

Do I really believe everyone is at Aunt Ruthie's drinking martinis? Eh, probably not. But more important is why I do want to believe in that euphemism? It's not about some kind of heaven, or even the Olam ha'Ba. It's about everyone I love being together. That in my heart of hearts, my family still hangs out. I am certain if they're waiting for me, Ziggy has found a way to procure pastrami and half sour pickles to go with the martini. As more and more of my peeps take off for parts unknown, I need to hold them inside me, imagining them standing around Ruthie's living room or the giant backyard with all the peonies, martini glasses in hand. When I envision that, all's right in the world. 

THE WIFELY PERSON'S TIP O'THE WEEK

This weeks tip is from Scottish poet Jenny Joseph who, in 1961 wrote THE WARNING:

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit.

 

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

 

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

 

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple

    

What Really Matters

my Shoshana guitar

I went to a funeral today. Last Friday morning, my friend Shoshana collapsed and died. All signs point to a heart attack. 

Shoshana claimed she retired, but the only thing she actually retired from was practicing medicine. I think she was busier as a glass artist, as a small farmer, and as business manager of their family owned Double F Arena.  Did she ever just sit and do nothing? I don't think so. That would not have been the authentic Shoshana.

A couple of weeks ago, she was getting ready for lambing season and we texted about when I could come up to the farm with the kiddos. Lambing season started off with one of  the sheep dying right after delivery, and the orphan lamb went right into the laundry room where she could be bottle fed every four hours. That was so Shoshana. I mean, doesn't everyone  keep a lamb in the laundry room?

And if that wasn't enough, she was busy getting ready for this past weekend's Art-A-Whirl, the Nord'east Minneapolis art festival where her fantastic glass would be shown and sold at her space, Designs by Shoshana, in the Northrup King building. About her art, she wrote:

Glass has always held a special place in my soul.  I grew up with clear and colored cut Bavarian crystal from my German immigrant grandparents. In the early 1980’s,I started with stained glass and slowly switched to fused glass in the early part of the new millennium.

I have always been fascinated by the interplay of color and light. This interaction and my life is what I try to express in my glass pieces. Since moving to a farm in Stacy, I have become fascinated with the colors of the changing seasons. I have tried to bring the feel of nature and the seasons into my new glass panels.

She never got to open her space on Friday. 

I am damn thankful she gave me my guitar pin. She said I needed it. I did. I especially needed to wear it today. 

Shoshana was a lifetime imbiber of knowledge, a looker-up of stuff. I think that's what we like best about each other....or maybe it was because we were two New Yorkers living in the passive/aggressive heartland. She read this blog regularly and periodically lobbed hard questions and pithy comments at me....usually via text. And when we got started texting, well... 

At this point, I would also like to add that I have a left eyeball because back in December of 2000, my ophthalmologist and Shabbat morning pew buddy, DR. Shoshana, told me if I didn't get that thing on my eyelid taken care of immediately, she would remove it the next time she sat next to me in shul. I believed her. And then, not ten minutes later, that thing exploded. She got me in to see her colleague, Dr. Quist, on Monday morning. Turned out that thing was a basal cell carcinoma gone amok and a bigger deal than anyone could've guessed. I lost a chunk of the bottom eyelid which was rebuilt from skin behind my ear; this was better than losing the whole eyeball thing. The eyeball was saved and still works reasonably well. She always took a quick look at the eyelid every time I saw her. I always said thank you for my eyeball. And we always laughed. Shoshana had a great laugh.

So instead of writing another screechy, pithy, angry episode about the demise of civility and reason in these here United States, I just want to sit here and be sad for a bit. Sad for my friend David as he begins to navigate the world without his partner and love of his life, and their sons Noah and Ben, and the grandkids. My heart goes out to them all. 

Been there, done that. It sucks. 

The Wifely Person's Tip o'the Week

Hug someone you love. 

You never know when it's gonna be the last hug.