Urban Legend: There's Always A Backstory



Moving day 1978...



Once upon a time, about a zillion years ago when I was a newlywed, we moved into a little townhouse in Poughkeepsie. On the very first day, a girl and two boys walked out of the front door next to ours. I asked, "Is your mom home?" And when they all stopped laughing, the "girl" explained she was the mom and these were her sons, Ace, 11 and Bebop, 7. And thus, in a single moment the world changed for all of us.

Without going into all but the most important details, we learned she was also a newlywed, married on May 29th, 1977 (Steve's birthday, no less) and that her new husband was a major, a professor at West Point, and on a tour of duty in Korea. I think it took about 10 seconds: they bonded into some kind of macho guy-unit. Somewhere in there, Steve figured he might actually want to be a father so long as I could produce kids like Ace and Bebop. That was 34 years ago. And although the last time we saw those boys was on Minnesota moving day in 1978, we managed to stay in touch over the years. And that's how I knew that Ace grew up to become a big time artists' manager.

So Friday morning, as I was enjoying being home for Sukkot, I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down to do that rare thing: read the S'trib. There on the front page was a teaser - Keith Urban was finishing his North American tour Saturday night at the Target Center. KEITH URBAN!!!!! I jumped up and did the only thing I could. I emailed Ace:  "Are you in Minnesota???" "No," he said, "but I will be tomorrow." And we picked a place to meet.

The last time I saw Ace may have been 33 years ago when he was 12, but I recognized him immediately. There were hugs and tears and wonderful things to be said about that year we were all together. He remembered things I'd forgotten. That year had been important to the boys and that made me cry. He caught up on my own axeman's career, and we chuckled at how he and Misha are in the music business and Dave and Bebop are engineering types. (I guess we did manage to produce our own versions of Ace and Bebop.)

And then, we called his mom. You shoulda heard the screaming!



Yes...I took that picture!

Thus I ended up at the Keith Urban concert on Saturday night. I took my friend Elaine who knew far more about Keith's music than I did. Ace left tickets for me at the box office. The place was packed to the rafters; our seats were stage right, row five, and wonderful. We could see everything and then some. There was a playing platform right in front of us, so things were up close and personal. Raw energy pulsated through the venue. People were shouting and clapping and jumping up and down, and we were close enough to watch the band feed off the frenzy. From the moment they took the stage about 8:45 until the confetti cannons went off and they took their last bow at about 11:40, it was nonstop.

 

Keith Urban never stopped smiling. And I don't mean the plastic glued in place kind, but the kind that went right up to crinkle his  eyes...which we could see on the big screen over the stage. This is a man who loves what he does. He makes love to the crowd with his eyes,  his voice, and his body language, and they could not get enough. I've been to enough concerts (and managed a few in my salad days) to know the difference, and the difference, at least to me, is so pronounced. It may have been the last night of the tour, but they were refreshingly crisp, bright, and clean. He sparkled and from my vantage point, I could watch that entire house sparkle back. It was give and take, and a joy to watch.

Here's the thing: I was sparkling, too. The music pulsed right through me and carried me along with the crowd. No, I didn't know all the words like the swooning fans around me,  but I sure knew the beat and for the first time in a long time, I was dancing. The music wrapped me up and I didn't want it to let go. I wanted to be in the magic and I wanted to stay there. I felt alive. I felt like me.

All in all, this has been a really good chag. I went to the shul Sukkot dinner Friday night and had a good time. Shabbos morning was really nice, too. Then I had this incredible Saturday afternoon and night. And Sunday, I yakked away with Jen in Israel for a whole hour (thank you, Skype!) before  the junior son, wife and grandpuppy came over to help mulch leaves. It was fun. It's okay to have fun. Sukkot marks a change in seasons. Maybe this one will mark a change in me.

Wifely Person's Tip o'the Week

Kids are like a box of chocolates...

they're much more fun when you share them. 

Thank you, LAMW, for sharing yours. That made all the difference.

The Gates Are Not Quite Closed

If I was Ziggy and this was ZJOD, I would be writing, "No intro today, folks," but I'm not, so I guess this is an official entry.  It would seem that ol' Spartacus here was felled by a head cold. I don't mean I had sniffilis with delicate little girl coughs, I mean I sounded like I was at the old guy coughing convention and my head was so stuffed with gunk it was coming out my eyeballs. I thought I'd developed sudden onset cataracts. I even stayed home from work as a concession to my boss who couldn't stand the hacking and the coughing coming from my corner. I think my teammates were equally relieved when it was learned I would finally stay home. 

Despite my failure to produce two pounds of my famous creamed herring for the break-fast, Cousin Laurie brought me groceries, drugs, and a potload of excellent chicken soup complete with light, fluffy matza balls. But as good as it was, and it was well beyond good, it was too late. 

Shofar made at labor camp Skarzysko-Kamienna in Poland in 1943

By Friday afternoon, erev Yom Kippur, it was pretty clear I wasn't going to make it to Kol Nidre that night and by Kol Nidre time I knew I wasn't going to make it to shul the next morning. No Kol Nidre, no Yizkor, no Ne'ila. I slept through it all. I couldn't tell who was more shocked: me or the kids. I mean, the junior son actually offered to pick me up TWICE and I had to turn him down! I had visions of me collapsing in the middle of shul like one of the old ladies with smelling salts and lacy handkerchiefs from my childhood... and that was not a comforting thought at all. And if you want to know the really ugly part, I couldn't even stay awake long enough to daven at home. I just slept. Coughed a lot, and slept some more. At least I fasted. I'm not sure it was intentional, but food was definitely not part of this equation.

But here's the part that surprises me the most: I don't have that clean-slate-after-Yom-Kippur feeling I usually have. I think not being in shul made a huge difference. I was apart from the kahal...the community... and even if it wasn't by choice, I still felt a pang of guilt about not standing with everyone, for everyone; for not being at Yizkor and Ne'ila. It's as if my old year has yet to end and I'm not quite ready to move forward. It is very much a dangle. 


But wait! Sukkot is almost here! There's hope

And that's the thing about running on Jewish time. It's never exact. It's a sundown, a star up, a wait...there's an exception, and an almost not quite. There's always room for debate and even then there's a wiggle. I love that. I love that there's not one simple answer and that it's a matter of structure and growth all at the same time. Just like a tree has a complex root system that keeps growing down while the trunk and branches keep growing up and out, we are the same way. Our roots are deep and our canopy is lofty and wide.

The mystic sages (including Reb Avishay of Midwood) assure me I still have a little time, that the gates remain open a smidge until Hoshanna Rabba, the 7th day of Chol ha'Moed Sukkot, when the decrees made on Yom Kippur are sealed for the last time. If you thought swinging a kappora chicken over your head was fun, you haven't lived until you've beaten willow branches on the floor.

So for Sukkot, I guess I'm going to have to spend a little private time catching up and I'll even promise to march around the shul with a lulav and etrog (even if my father insists this is a pagan ritual that should be banned.)


I will do what I can to close out the old books while I realign my chi for the new year.  And maybe I'll even rotate the tires. We'll see.

Wifely Person's Tip o'the Week

Asking sacred guests to your sukkah this year?

Think outside the box - invite someone you don't know

You Are What You Wear

I have a cold. My head is all stuffed up and I feel froggy. I can feel my clothes on my skin and my hair is just limp. And if all of that isn't enough, my hazel eyes are bright fever green. So you'll just have to put up with my miserable achy whining for the moment. There were a number of topics I wanted to cover today, but my inability to type a single word without a typo will limit my complaining somewhat.I must be succinct..lest I fall asleep at the keyboard.

Thankfully, the Madame Bachmann crazies are fading fast. I am particularly grateful for this. And will be equally grateful when Perry's star fades into the Gulf of Mexico which it, too, seems to be doing. There needs to be an elevation of the political debate in this country and it needs to happen real soon. The Wall Street demonstrations are not too far off from Tahrir Square in vehemence. I would recommend everyone take a look at this: We Are The 99 Percent. You don't have to agree with it, you don't have to support it, but you do have to read it. Some are stories of self-defeating failure and bad choices, others are just testaments to doing everything right and still not being able to afford the basics. This is a harbinger of anger to come.


Uh oh. I fell asleep at the keyboard. Seriously. I just nodded off. 


Beddy-bye time. I can finish this in the morning...when I get up for work at 4:30 a.m. Yeah. You read that right. It's a short night. Okay...enough. I feel terrible. I'm going to bed.

Good morning? It's 5:30. I'm showered and dressed and I still feel crummy, but not as crummy as yesterday. I'll be damned if I'm giving up 5 years of perfect attendance for a lousy cold. I'll just make sure I cough only on myself.

Spencer Platt/Getty Images

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Occupy Wall Street. A few days prior to the rag tag army's arrival there was a different kind of protest on Wall Street. About 700 pilots marched to Wall Street to draw attention to their labor dispute. It was orderly to a point of precision. The placards were printed and very tidy. They did what they came to do, then dispersed. This was not one of them hippy rallies; these guys had a point to make and they made it in their usual professional manner.

Not to be overreaching here, but a corollary comes to mind. After a spate of sexual assaults in Brooklyn, cops have been telling women to "cover up." Actually, there have been a number of places in recent weeks where it would seem the modesty police are out in force. One of my favorite bloggers called it Saudi Arabia, NY 11215. Now, let's just say I am definitely not the fashion police, nor do I think the cops should be commenting on that. Besides, I usually don't care enough to comment on clothing in general, but...

Ah, the big butt.  A while back, in my Mall of America Weeble rant, I questioned the attractiveness of wearing clothing that outlined your fat rolls. And I'll admit I'm one of those dinosaurs who believes your clothing sends a message...which is why everyone who knows me knows I must've been a flower child in my former life for my raiment still manages to  convey an element of hippie-ness…or so my kids tell me.

So, the question morphs into, "are the pilots taken more seriously because they're all dressed in their little pilot suits?"  And subsequently, are the Brooklyn Bridge marchers dismissed more readily because they are less formally attired?

Our world is changing. Perceptions are changing. So let me throw out the question: is the idea that clothing sends a message outmoded? Are appearances nothing more than appearances?

And if you are of a mind, please throw in a comment on this one….especially if you’re one of my foreign readers.  I would love to hear what people have to say on this.

The Wifely Person's Tip o'the Week

If you don't like how you're being treated at the office, 
go check the mirror first. 

If that's not at least part of the problem, go get a good lawyer

 

Defending Your Life

Saturday afternoon, I was the guest speaker at an event for the Saint Paul Chapter of Hadassah. Being a life member and all, I can tell you that the stereotypes of the 1950s Hadassah ladies are long gone and the group, which ranged in age over 4 decades, was an interesting and lively one.  Since Saturday night was S’lichot, that odd midnight service that kicks off the penitential season for Jews, I decided I would talk about ownership.

If you don’t know much about the High Holy Days: Rosh HaShannah is the Jewish new year….and this year is 5772…here’s a little background. This is not the same kind of new year celebration as the one in January. This one is somber, reflective, and, if you do it right, really hard.  The big thing for this holiday is called t’shuvah:  you assess the last year for what went wrong and set about to figure out how not to repeat it. T’shuvah literally means “turning,” and this is a moment for turning one’s life.

Okay, so that’s what I was supposed to be talking about. I was supposed to be discussing, interactively, how one approaches that assessment and how one gets through it. It can be very depressing if you’re totally honest about it. It takes a certain kind of fortitude, and that's what I was describing when one of the older women's hand shot up. "It's very negative, you know," she said, "and we shouldn’t just be all about the negative. We should be looking at what we accomplished, too."

I waited a few seconds before I said, "Uh, actually no. If you focus on the accomplishments you kinda subvert the purpose. It's supposed to be about the things we've done wrong." Well, she wasn't thrilled with the answer, but a lot of other heads in the room were nodding vigorously. Turns out, that little exchange was the most provocative of the afternoon, and I don't know if anyone else even noticed it.

Saturday night, throughout the s’lichot service, I was thinking about it instead of my own issues. Granted, I was sitting in a pew after midnight and my mental acuity may not have been top notch, but somewhere in the middle of the service, I figured out the answer.  All of us are sitting there thinking about where we’d gone amok. This is not a bad thing. There are times when you need not blow smoke up your own butt. So I decided that what bothered me was that she wanted to minimize the mistakes…as if accomplishments could wipe out the bad stuff. But this isn’t cap’n’trade.

When confronted with the act of atonement, it’s not okay to gloss over the bad stuff and remind G-d only about the good stuff so G-d should think better of us. We shouldn’t be absolving ourselves of the real work of examining our actions. If G-d is omniscient (and what Mother isn’t) you can’t blow smoke up Her butt. You and She are going to know you are fundamentally redacting your own history and that’s coloring outside the lines. This is a one shot deal to decide if the life you’ve lived this past year is morally, ethically, and socially responsible. And the only one who really knows if you’ve lived up to your own measure, is you.

You know, of course, it really isn’t just for Jews, and it really isn’t about G-d. It about answering the last question on the test: have you done everything in you power to make sure no one is suffering because of your actions? That ranks right up there with “leave your campsite cleaner than you found it.”

And just for the record, you and G-d can endlessly debate the merits/ demerits of heavenly deeds all you want; just be aware that G-d cannot forgive you for that which you have done to another person. That is not part of Her job description. 

L'shana tovah to one and all.

 May you be inscribed for a happy, sweet, healthy and adventurous new year!

Wifely Person's Tip o'the Week

This picture is worth a thousand words:

Acts of Loving Kindness

Good friends were at Reno this past weekend. Lynn and Chuck, along with the rest of their party, are safe although the crash was very close to where they were seated. Because their company was a corporate sponsor of the air races, they found themselves with hotel rooms and catering contracts that would have been cancelled. Instead, everything has been turned over to the organizers of the event to be used for the families of the victims. It was the right thing to do. It was also gemilut chasadim...an act of loving kindness. These are nice people. Nothing less would have been acceptable to them.

Sunday here brought its own challenges. We were at the cemetery for my friend Amy Ringold’s unveiling. She was a remarkable woman with challenges that would’ve been insurmountable for others.  When she knew she was dying, rather than remaining out east where she had grown up and had been living the last year, she made the decision to come back to Saint Paul where she was a vibrant part of this community. She’s buried not far from Steve, so I always make it a point to visit Amy when I go to the cemetery. Well, on this day we were there for Amy. It was a good gathering, a chance to re-tell Amy stories…which are always full of strength and our admiration for her.

But it's also Elul, so when the prayers for Amy were done, the rabbi and I walked the few steps over to Steve. He chanted El Moleh Rachamim. Some of the people at the unveiling had also been there for Steve. They stood nearby. I got to say how much I missed the ol’ grey beard, and we all got to laugh because there’s creeping Charlie on just Steve’s plot and unbelievably there was no hand reaching up from the ground to yank it out.

Thank G-d we didn’t yet know the Vi-queens were about to blow a 17-0 lead in the second half to lose to Tampa Bay 24-20. For sure, he would’ve risen up hollering, “Fucking Vikings, yer breaking my heart!”

It was drizzling just like it had on the day of the funeral. Our friends stood with me in that spitting rain anyway, gemliut chasadim and rememberance. It’s little things like that that keep me going; when I think I'm all alone out there, a little noodge reminds me that I am not.

Which brings me to the big point in this week’s self-indulgence: gemilut chasadim ~ acts of loving kindness. When we take stock of this past year, the really difficult question isn't "what sins did I commit?", but rather, "where could I have been more compassionate in my response?"

This question seems to have gone missing from the public forum these days. Anyone who wasn’t abjectly horrified by Ron Paul’s cavalier attitude towards those without health insurance has some serious assessing to do. How “okay” are they with paying for the medical bills of someone in need, and how far does that commitment go? Listening to the Republican candidates is a very interesting window into what they each think constitutes the American personality. And the thing I keep running up against is the lack of social responsibility in the general responses.

But there’s little anyone can do about that…as a single person. Perhaps collectively we would have more luck, and that’s what elections are for. But in the meanwhile, I think it should be a rule that everyone has to sit down ALONE and answer the following questions:

1. Can I afford to cover my parents/kids/aunts/uncles/grandparents/closest friends’ medical bills in an emergency where insurance is not available or adequate to cover their needs?
2. If the roads/bridges/tunnels are no longer safe enough to bear the usual traffic levels, is there alternate transportation to get me to my job?
3. Can I afford to live out the remainder of my days on the money I’ve put aside without the assistance of Social Security?

If you can't yes to all three questions, you're probably part of the 95% of the non-wealth controlling majority of Americans. And you have some serious thinking to do. I would recommend the first question you ask yourself is "was I as compassionate in my response to things as I should have been?"

And if you are not sure about that new first question, not to worry; you can fix that starting right now.

The Wifely Person's Tip O'the Week

Always keep a filled water bottle and a couple of stones in the car; 

they're handy in case you have to run out to the cemetery. 

Bonus Tip for the Poetically Impaired
Reading between the lines isn't de riguer;
sometimes it just is what it is.

The Roar of the Pencil Sharpener, The Smell of the Crayons

September is the smell of fresh crayons. I love a nosegay of yellow pencils sprouting up from a jelly jar with sharpened points up in the air. There is nothing like the sound of a black and white Composition notebook crackling open for the first time. And the ultimate aroma…real library paste.

These are the smells of a new year. Not the one that happens in January, but the one that happens in the fall when school doors are thrown open and kids with shiny faces and heads full of expectation, trepidation, and illumination parade in for another year of mental expansion. Even though it’s been a long time since I’ve had a first day at school, I still surreptitiously sniff crayons at Target, and buy a pocket sized academic calendar. 


I pretend I’m starting over.

Well, I went a little overboard this year. As I mentioned a while ago, I'm growing out my hair. Every day I look a little more like me and less like the old widow lady that had been staring back from the mirror. I have a ceramic iron now and can actually use it. Coming from a woman who recently figured out which is the business end of a blow dryer, this is quite an accomplishment.

My erstwhile and eternally optimistic cousin Laurie accompanied me on the quest for new glasses. The old-lady rimless ones are gone, replaced by very fashion-forward Kate Spades with turquoise inside. (Like someone actually sees the inner rim of glasses???) Of course, they’re still lined trifocals (no progressives for me unfortunately) but they are Transitions lenses, so that has to count for something. And as if that was not enough for one season, Laurie is now muttering something about my wardrobe. Hey! Cut me some slack here! I don’t want to shock myself into the big one, y’know!

Right now, I am eagerly anticipating my friend Judy’s call to say she has first blush Macs all ready for me. I love popping over to her little orchard for a taste of whatever new apple she’s growing for the University of Minnesota and a chance to catch up on all the news. Judy always smells of fall and apples, and her tiny shop is just a wonderland of appley Judy-things.

But I digress. Indeed, it’s time to sharpen the pencils, buy new harvest apples, stock up on local honey…and begin that process of self-evaluation necessary for the coming Yam'im Nora'im (High Holy Days.) Now is the time to take a moment to think about where we’re were and where we’re going. Have we lived up the goals from last year, and to whom do we owe an apology for being a horse’s ass? The interesting thing about Jewish atonement is that G-d can’t forgive you for whacking your brother upside the head. Issues between people have to be resolved between those same people. You are responsible for clearing your own slate.

There is something daunting about this process, but I think it’s a necessary one. You have to pause to clean up your own messes. It’s not easy, nor should it be. Even getting ready for the process is its own deliberate process. And it should be a deliberate examination of the past year. You need to revisit the good as well as the bad. 

On the other hand, this is a symbolic time for new beginnings.  Kids get to have them on the first day of school. I want my own. A new pair of sneakers might be nice, or maybe a new pair of jeans. Meanwhile, a pencil bouquet is on my desk, and they all have really good erasers in case I make any mistakes....which I will, but I'm ready for whatever comes. 

Wifely Person's Tip o'the Week

Never throw out a good jelly jar. They make the best repositories for weird stuff.

Notes On A Decade

Next Sunday will mark the 10^th anniversary of September 11^th. There is a ton of stuff on television, and lots of stuff written about what it meant to America, questions about whether or not we are any safer, and weepy-waily op/ed pieces on heroics ad nauseum.

September 11^th was not an abstract event for me and my family. On my dad’s side, the Cantor in Cantor-Fitzgerald was family and even though BG was already gone, other family members still had business in that building. On my mother’s side, Arthur was at Fred Alger, and Kenny, his son was, oddly enough at Cantor Fitzgerald. I would later learn a friend from my college days was on American Airlines flight 11. Another friend who worked in the Pentagon happened not to be at work that day because he was moving into a new house and that kept him out of harm's way. And my childhood best friend, who would've been arriving in the WTC Path station at that time, was delayed at home because her daughter barfed on her on the way to school. 

Rodin: the hand that survived
Michael Falco for The New York Times

I was here in Minnesota watching it all from a surreal distance. For days and days, when I wasn’t at my job as a corporate travel agent trying to secure hotel rooms and rental cars because planes weren’t flying and people wanted to get home to their families, I watched the planes hit the towers over and over and over. I was haunted by the knowledge that Kenny called his wife to say he was on his way down the stairs and would stop to find his dad. Neither ever emerged from the rubble.

The videos and constant rehashing went on and on and on. I hated them all. I hated people who talked about it even though they knew nothing. I hated the people who spouted off about how they once saw the twin towers so they understood New Yorkers' feeling when clearly they had no clue. Our home town had been attacked, our friends and relatives and neighbors had disappeared in a cloud of flame and ash. We could barely understand our feelings.  


And then for reasons which still manage to escape me, President Bush started a war in Iraq. Iraq had nothing to do with this. Then he started a war against Afghanistan. Even the screenwriters of THE PRINCESS BRIDE knew enough to say, “Never start a land war in Asia.” The one objective, to find Osama bin Laden, went unmet for a decade. 

Every year on 9/11 I cringe as the baloney starts up all over again. The uproar over a Muslim community center and mosque several blocks away from the pit that was once the WTC was disgusting. Would anyone have said such a thing to a church or synagogue group? The TSA is an alien entity unto itself, humiliating old ladies and terrifying children yet they are unable to find the “weapons” hidden and sent through the detection process to test their abilities. We spent the blood of tens of thousands of young men and women in pointless, expensive wars...for what purpose? Are we really any safer?

We have honored the memory of those who perished in the towers, on the planes, in Pentagon, and two absurd wars with a completely hamstrung, dysfunctional government more interested obstructionism than in America. I know I am not the only one repulsed by the grotesque parade of political hatespeech that permeates the airwaves and the halls of Congress in equal amounts.

 There are thousands of us who have lost loved ones in the aftermath.  Not everyone wants to talk about it, or relive it publicly, or even watch the tributes on TV. Why would we? Ten years later, they can't even get their act together to build a new building. Those television specials are depressing in the worst way because they point out we have accomplished nothing in the years since the attacks. 


I prefer to remember the last time I saw Arthur ...sitting across from me in the dining room of my parents' house on Long Island. Alive.

Wifely Person's Tip o'the Week

Unless you are a terrorism survivor yourself,

do not attempt to tell a New Yorker who sat for days on end clutching a cell phone, 

terrified every time it rang that there would be more bad news, 

that you understand what he/she felt. 

You don't.