We are at war with an insidious enemy who seeks to destroy the very fabric of our freedom. No, I am not talking about the misguided debacles in Afghanistan and Iraq. I am referring to pigeons, “the stout-bodied birds with short necks and slender bills”, according to Wikipedia. The feral rock pigeon variety has invaded our neighborhood and is attempting to permanently relocate to our back deck.
How did this happen? Several months ago, the Homeowner Association’s Board of Directors, of which I was the president for four years until my term concluded two weeks ago, allocated more than $15,000 to control these ornithological pests with a series of spikes and nets strategically placed along the rooftops and eaves of our 63-unit townhouse community.
Part of the pigeon control program also included high-powered cleaning along the sides of homes with several severely clogged downspouts that were filled with assorted detritus and tons of pigeon poop. Some of the clogged spouts overflowed onto roofs and caused water damage to a few units.
The other four directors supported the initial outlay of money, which targeted designated areas around the complex, but were against a total assault and solution. They said it was too expensive.
Only one director, the outgoing president and financially generous author of this blog, favored spending more money now to rid ourselves of the persistent pigeon problem with a complete and relentless campaign of shock and awe.
The board was desperate for a solution to a potential large scale health hazard and total community nuisance, so we even entertained the idea of arming neighborhood kids with BB guns and authorizing them with a license to kill. Alas, our stronger sense of morality and fear of massive lawsuits caused us to abort that plan before it was hatched.
I guess we could have acted as our neighbors in Arizona, and treated all pigeons as suspect and deported them back to their native countries.
What we have now, though, a few months outside the initial treatment, is a grave and unhealthy situation as the pigeons continue their stealth attacks on decks, rooftops, spouts, and sides of buildings. Unsightly pigeon poop is caked on several driveways, ledges, and roofs. One resident refuses to take any measures against the pigeons on her back deck unless the HOA board agrees to reimburse her. Another resident, who hates the birds, is afraid of destroying the nests on her back deck because they are filled with pigeon babies. Daily the adult pigeons and their fluffy offspring defecate on the deck, the house, and the driveway.
When the pigeon problem first began, Verna and I opted for a $7 solution. We bought a not scary scarecrow from the local crafts store and frightened the pigeons that’d begun congregating on our back deck.
All was well until two weeks ago. No longer could we just pound the glass on the back door and terrify the vulnerable pigeons. They started leaving piles of sticks as if they were hunkering down for the long haul.
The first time I saw the nest-to-be I grabbed it and flung the sticks over the railing. The next day the pile of sticks was back. I tossed them over the side of the deck again.
“Maybe you shouldn’t just throw them into the street,” said Verna, my sensible wife. “Put them in a bag and throw it into the garbage.”
I complied with my wife’s wishes and the sticks have not reappeared. But I am not going to let my guard down again and be lulled into a false sense of security. No, with an enemy as vicious and opportunistic as a pigeon I plan to utilize the most modern of resources, technology, and weaponry.
Shortly after the board voted to spend some money to address the pigeon problem but leave the responsibility on homeowners to fund any future issues, one of our neighbors installed fine mesh netting across his deck and a wooden barrier at the bottom.
His solution is relatively inexpensive and works. A few days ago, my father-in-law started taking measurements for our netting and wood. We are not afraid to keep up with the Joneses, or in this case, the nice guy from Armenia whose last name I cannot pronounce.
My wife helped me get rid of the sticks for now; my father-in-law will install the netting and wood; and we imitated our neighbor. Sometimes, birds of a feather need to flock together.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Keeping Up With the Joneses
So Miguel has asked us several times over the past year or so if he can have his own Facebook page.
“Why?” I’ve responded to our twelve-year old.
“Because everyone has one,” he has answered.
If ever there was a response designed to make a parent grab a child and scream, “Is that the best you can offer? So if all of your friends (fill-in the blanks) ‘jumped off the Golden Bridge’ or ‘robbed a bank’ or ‘sucked in massive quantities of tar and nicotine through their noses’…would you do the same?”
But I didn’t seize him by the neck and utter anything angry. I merely said, “Well, Miguel, Mommy and I don’t see the point. You’re not old enough yet.”
Believe me, I see the value in Facebook. I like reconnecting with old friends, sharing family photos, and learning a myriad of mundane details about all my friends’ personal lives—what so and so ate for breakfast, how the weather is at so and so’s mountain cabin, how so and so hates social media but uses social media to tell us, and how so and so coped while the spouse and kids were away all week.
I just don’t think Miguel needs to be rushed into that world before he is a teenager. Having a Facebook page is just adding another layer of less-than-personal brain numbing media to occupy his neurons when he should be engaging with the world, in my view, in healthier ways. Such as reading books, playing board games, babysitting at the park for his little sister, doing household chores, or tossing a baseball with his father? Oh, wait, Miguel already does all that.
And truth be told, there is some merit to the ‘because everyone has one’ argument. It’s the reason I begged my parents to buy me my first pair of white high-top Converse Chuck Taylor All-star sneakers when I was about 10 or 11.
For the most part, we all want to fit in and have that secret language or objects to share at work or school about something, anything, the latest news from American Idol, the raciest gossip about Tiger Woods, the newest fashion fad, etc. So I certainly want Miguel to feel included or cool or whatever someone poised to become a teenager needs to be to avoid hours of therapy (fat chance), blaming his parents for his social retardation (fatter chance), and becoming a ward of the state (fattest chance).
Fitting in is often good, but conformity sometimes exacts a high measure of revenge. I was picked on fairly often when I was in grade school, but I never shied away from attacking someone else when the target was Kathleen Nauss. I remember vividly on several of us taunted her mercilessly one day on the school bus, with the purely fictitious charge that she’d gone to the bathroom in her pants and stained her underwear, so she bolted one stop early, tears streaming down her face.
Years later, while we were in high school, she died in a car crash. In my simple view of the world back then, I looked at some of the rougher kids in her crowd, dangerous types with whom she sought solace after years of childhood abuse during school, kids who let her fit in, and blamed her associations with the ‘wild’ crowd and alcohol for her accident.
I could not have even told you who her friends in high school were, much less what they did for fun and to escape, but I blamed myself for being part of the cruel brigade that ‘forced’ Kathleen to choose delinquency and inclusion that led to her death.
Five or six years later, at our first high school reunion, I confessed my sins to another classmate, Dorothy L., who corrected me and said, “Kathleen wasn’t drinking and driving. Her car malfunctioned, something about the steering, and that caused the crash.”
I didn’t really breathe any easier. I still never got to apologize to her for willingly conforming to the mob and acting like everyone else.
Not that I shared any of this with Miguel.
Yet.
I will save the story for another day. In the meantime, I was on Facebook last Friday, once again contributing to America’s massive decline in workplace productivity, when I plugged in my email address in order to see which of my contacts might have Facebook accounts. Lo and behold, there was a picture of Miguel Friedman, our son, clad in a Yankees t-shirt (which only heightened his crime) and smiling out at the world.
No, I said to myself, it can’t be. Miguel has a Facebook page after Verna and I expressly told him he could not yet have one?
Miguel was on vacation last week, which included four sleepovers, so he was actually at another friend’s house. I quickly placed the call.
“Hi Allison (not her real name), may I speak to Miguel?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled when he got on the phone.
“Miguel, what did Mommy and I say when you asked about getting a Facebook page?”
“No.”
“And no means what?” I asked.
“No.”
“So then tell me why I just came across your Facebook page? When did you do this?”
“At Aaron’s (not his real name) house a few nights ago. Can I keep it? I already have 75 friends.”
“Miguel, you got a page after we told you no.”
“Can we discuss it?” he pleaded.
“Yes, we’ll talk about it later. I’m going to have to tell Mommy.”
During the day I queried one of my co-workers, a father of two, including a young teenager, and one of the residents at the retirement community where we work, a woman in her 70s. I debated back and forth. I called Allison, at whose home Miguel was still enjoying the day—Monopoly, two Pirates of the Caribbean movies, and baseball soccer on the front lawn (it involves a bat and a soccer ball). On one hand, I was inclined to let this one go. Miguel’s had to take on extra responsibility and control himself more as Verna’s chemo treatments have progressed. On the other hand, he went behind our backs and betrayed our trust.
Everyone I talked to agreed I had to terminate his Facebook page. I phoned Verna to make sure we were on the same, um, page. As a side note, Verna does not and will not ever have a Facebook page. She emails, surfs the Internet, and watches Netflix movies on her laptop. But she can’t be bothered with anything involving social media.
So after dinner, before Miguel settled in to watch the Giants baseball game, I said, “Miguel, you’re going to have to get rid of your Facebook page?”
“Why?” he asked.
After I explained our reasoning, he didn’t look upset, just resigned to the reality of our authority. “And if you can maintain our trust, we can re-visit you having a Facebook page when you are 13.”
It turns out that Facebook is as ubiquitous as fungus and right-wing talk radio (you just can’t get rid of the stuff once it spreads). With Miguel watching, I was only able to deactivate his account. He can resume it at anytime, after, presumably, he and his computer hacker buddies figure out how to hide his page from the public and overly curious parents.
On the car ride the next morning, I elaborated, “Miguel, Mommy and I have to able to trust you. What’s next? Are you going to drink and smoke behind our backs when you sleep at a friend’s house? Do we need to stop the sleepovers?”
I was half expecting in an overly optimistic parental way that he’d respond, “Dad, no need to worry, I don’t have to be like everyone else.”
But he’s not there yet and may never be. Time will tell us all how Miguel defines fitting in.
“Why?” I’ve responded to our twelve-year old.
“Because everyone has one,” he has answered.
If ever there was a response designed to make a parent grab a child and scream, “Is that the best you can offer? So if all of your friends (fill-in the blanks) ‘jumped off the Golden Bridge’ or ‘robbed a bank’ or ‘sucked in massive quantities of tar and nicotine through their noses’…would you do the same?”
But I didn’t seize him by the neck and utter anything angry. I merely said, “Well, Miguel, Mommy and I don’t see the point. You’re not old enough yet.”
Believe me, I see the value in Facebook. I like reconnecting with old friends, sharing family photos, and learning a myriad of mundane details about all my friends’ personal lives—what so and so ate for breakfast, how the weather is at so and so’s mountain cabin, how so and so hates social media but uses social media to tell us, and how so and so coped while the spouse and kids were away all week.
I just don’t think Miguel needs to be rushed into that world before he is a teenager. Having a Facebook page is just adding another layer of less-than-personal brain numbing media to occupy his neurons when he should be engaging with the world, in my view, in healthier ways. Such as reading books, playing board games, babysitting at the park for his little sister, doing household chores, or tossing a baseball with his father? Oh, wait, Miguel already does all that.
And truth be told, there is some merit to the ‘because everyone has one’ argument. It’s the reason I begged my parents to buy me my first pair of white high-top Converse Chuck Taylor All-star sneakers when I was about 10 or 11.
For the most part, we all want to fit in and have that secret language or objects to share at work or school about something, anything, the latest news from American Idol, the raciest gossip about Tiger Woods, the newest fashion fad, etc. So I certainly want Miguel to feel included or cool or whatever someone poised to become a teenager needs to be to avoid hours of therapy (fat chance), blaming his parents for his social retardation (fatter chance), and becoming a ward of the state (fattest chance).
Fitting in is often good, but conformity sometimes exacts a high measure of revenge. I was picked on fairly often when I was in grade school, but I never shied away from attacking someone else when the target was Kathleen Nauss. I remember vividly on several of us taunted her mercilessly one day on the school bus, with the purely fictitious charge that she’d gone to the bathroom in her pants and stained her underwear, so she bolted one stop early, tears streaming down her face.
Years later, while we were in high school, she died in a car crash. In my simple view of the world back then, I looked at some of the rougher kids in her crowd, dangerous types with whom she sought solace after years of childhood abuse during school, kids who let her fit in, and blamed her associations with the ‘wild’ crowd and alcohol for her accident.
I could not have even told you who her friends in high school were, much less what they did for fun and to escape, but I blamed myself for being part of the cruel brigade that ‘forced’ Kathleen to choose delinquency and inclusion that led to her death.
Five or six years later, at our first high school reunion, I confessed my sins to another classmate, Dorothy L., who corrected me and said, “Kathleen wasn’t drinking and driving. Her car malfunctioned, something about the steering, and that caused the crash.”
I didn’t really breathe any easier. I still never got to apologize to her for willingly conforming to the mob and acting like everyone else.
Not that I shared any of this with Miguel.
Yet.
I will save the story for another day. In the meantime, I was on Facebook last Friday, once again contributing to America’s massive decline in workplace productivity, when I plugged in my email address in order to see which of my contacts might have Facebook accounts. Lo and behold, there was a picture of Miguel Friedman, our son, clad in a Yankees t-shirt (which only heightened his crime) and smiling out at the world.
No, I said to myself, it can’t be. Miguel has a Facebook page after Verna and I expressly told him he could not yet have one?
Miguel was on vacation last week, which included four sleepovers, so he was actually at another friend’s house. I quickly placed the call.
“Hi Allison (not her real name), may I speak to Miguel?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled when he got on the phone.
“Miguel, what did Mommy and I say when you asked about getting a Facebook page?”
“No.”
“And no means what?” I asked.
“No.”
“So then tell me why I just came across your Facebook page? When did you do this?”
“At Aaron’s (not his real name) house a few nights ago. Can I keep it? I already have 75 friends.”
“Miguel, you got a page after we told you no.”
“Can we discuss it?” he pleaded.
“Yes, we’ll talk about it later. I’m going to have to tell Mommy.”
During the day I queried one of my co-workers, a father of two, including a young teenager, and one of the residents at the retirement community where we work, a woman in her 70s. I debated back and forth. I called Allison, at whose home Miguel was still enjoying the day—Monopoly, two Pirates of the Caribbean movies, and baseball soccer on the front lawn (it involves a bat and a soccer ball). On one hand, I was inclined to let this one go. Miguel’s had to take on extra responsibility and control himself more as Verna’s chemo treatments have progressed. On the other hand, he went behind our backs and betrayed our trust.
Everyone I talked to agreed I had to terminate his Facebook page. I phoned Verna to make sure we were on the same, um, page. As a side note, Verna does not and will not ever have a Facebook page. She emails, surfs the Internet, and watches Netflix movies on her laptop. But she can’t be bothered with anything involving social media.
So after dinner, before Miguel settled in to watch the Giants baseball game, I said, “Miguel, you’re going to have to get rid of your Facebook page?”
“Why?” he asked.
After I explained our reasoning, he didn’t look upset, just resigned to the reality of our authority. “And if you can maintain our trust, we can re-visit you having a Facebook page when you are 13.”
It turns out that Facebook is as ubiquitous as fungus and right-wing talk radio (you just can’t get rid of the stuff once it spreads). With Miguel watching, I was only able to deactivate his account. He can resume it at anytime, after, presumably, he and his computer hacker buddies figure out how to hide his page from the public and overly curious parents.
On the car ride the next morning, I elaborated, “Miguel, Mommy and I have to able to trust you. What’s next? Are you going to drink and smoke behind our backs when you sleep at a friend’s house? Do we need to stop the sleepovers?”
I was half expecting in an overly optimistic parental way that he’d respond, “Dad, no need to worry, I don’t have to be like everyone else.”
But he’s not there yet and may never be. Time will tell us all how Miguel defines fitting in.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Strat-O-Matic Lives
Strat-O-Matic lives.
I received my first Strat-O-Matic game set for a bar mitzvah gift when I was 13. I played simulation baseball games with my dad and later a college friend, but mostly alone, for several years. I enjoyed the simulated competition and being thrust into the role of manager for teams from the 1971 baseball season.
Just in case you are wondering, according to the official website, “Strat-O-Matic produces sports-simulation games that rate real players and teams accurately for professional baseball, football, basketball and hockey, and college football.”
Somehow, in the various moves I made after college, the original Strat set did not survive. About 13 years ago, before we even had kids, I decided to buy another game replete with old timers’ teams from the 30s and 40s as well as some of my favorites from the 60s and 70s. The game gathered dust on top of our bedroom bookshelf and later in the garage until last winter.
That was when I decided to introduce Miguel to Strat. Even though many of today’s kids are addicted to videogames, X-boxes, Playstations, and all things instant stimuli media, Miguel loves all games and I thought this one might rope him in.
I was right.
Unlike other board games, Strat is largely based on the roll of the dice. Yes, the player cards do reflect actual statistics, so a world class hitter or pitcher has greater odds of “performing” well. But anyone can be a star at any given moment if the right numbers pop up. Call it game board egalitarianism.
Miguel and I decided to each select ten teams, play ten games per team, and then have playoffs and an inter-conference World Series. One each of our teams we drafted from a pool of Hall of Fame All-Stars.
Among the teams he chose were the 1927 New York Yankees, featuring Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig and called by some as one of the greatest offensive squads in baseball history. He also had the 1975 world champion Cincinnati Reds, 1920 Cleveland Indians, the 2007 Los Angeles Anaheim Angels, and the 1909 Detroit Tigers, which included otherworldly base stealer and inveterate racist Ty Cobb.
My Hall of Fame All Star team was pretty stacked. I had Frank Robinson and Roberto Clemente on my bench and my team boasted pitchers Three Finger Brown, Kid Nichols, and Chief Bender and hitters Frank Baker, Jackie Robinson, and Heinie Manush. I had the 1924 Washington Senators and the 1905 New York Giants. I also picked the 2004 and 2007 Boston Red Sox teams and learned an important lesson: it’s not always good to lead with your heart.
Those Red Sox squads may have won the World Series (and brought me unbridled joy), but their real world success does not always translate well in the chancier world of simulated baseball. They won a total of four or five games out of 20.
Miguel scored the most learning by acquiring knowledge about players from different eras. How many other twelve-year-olds know that the 1906 Cubs featured the great double-play combination of Tinker to Evers to Chance? Or that Mantle and Maris combined to hit nearly 120 homeruns in 1961? Or that several old time pitchers were virtually unhittable in the dead ball era?
Well, Miguel does, and more. I recently added the Negro Leagues All-Stars to our stable of players, and last week we each drafted three teams. Miguel is now familiar with Oscar Charleston, Satchel Paige, Bullet Joe Rogan, Josh Gibson, Buck Leonard, Cool Papa Bell, and nearly a hundred more men who were denied entrance to the major leagues solely on the basis of the color of their skin. I hope the six-team inclusion of Negro League stars will educate Miguel and increase his sensitivity to matters of race and tolerance.
And I think Strat is paying off. Over the weekend, the parent of one of Miguel’s friends said to me, “Miguel’s pretty smart. He was telling us all about all these old-time baseball players.”
So I explained to him that it was largely because of Strat. Then he asked for the website and said he might get the game.
“Kids just don’t play board games much these days,” he said, impressed by Miguel.
No, they don’t, I said. Miguel and I used to play Star Wars and Major League Baseball Monopoly, but he gave up on both games because he said I won too much. Hey, I may be a proud progressive-leftie-commie-rabble rouser, but plop me down in front of Monopoly and I turn into a blood-thirsty capitalist with enough cutthroat ambition to rival Vanderbilt, Trump, or Murdoch.
Anyway, we began our second season last night after we chose teams and assigned them to various divisions. Curiously, most of the players on one of Miguel’s Hall of Fame All-Star teams formerly played on my team, the team that won our inaugural World Series.
As we climbed to stairs to his room, he said, “You’re going down.”
“You’re going down,” I said.
The game pitted his other Hall of Fame All-Star squad with Ty Cobb, Christy Matthewson, and Joe DiMaggio against one of my Negro Leagues teams, with Satchel Paige, Bullet Joe Rogan, and Dizzy Dismukes.
Miguel’s team scorched mine, 11-3.
Strat-O-Matic Lives. Long live the games.
I received my first Strat-O-Matic game set for a bar mitzvah gift when I was 13. I played simulation baseball games with my dad and later a college friend, but mostly alone, for several years. I enjoyed the simulated competition and being thrust into the role of manager for teams from the 1971 baseball season.
Just in case you are wondering, according to the official website, “Strat-O-Matic produces sports-simulation games that rate real players and teams accurately for professional baseball, football, basketball and hockey, and college football.”
Somehow, in the various moves I made after college, the original Strat set did not survive. About 13 years ago, before we even had kids, I decided to buy another game replete with old timers’ teams from the 30s and 40s as well as some of my favorites from the 60s and 70s. The game gathered dust on top of our bedroom bookshelf and later in the garage until last winter.
That was when I decided to introduce Miguel to Strat. Even though many of today’s kids are addicted to videogames, X-boxes, Playstations, and all things instant stimuli media, Miguel loves all games and I thought this one might rope him in.
I was right.
Unlike other board games, Strat is largely based on the roll of the dice. Yes, the player cards do reflect actual statistics, so a world class hitter or pitcher has greater odds of “performing” well. But anyone can be a star at any given moment if the right numbers pop up. Call it game board egalitarianism.
Miguel and I decided to each select ten teams, play ten games per team, and then have playoffs and an inter-conference World Series. One each of our teams we drafted from a pool of Hall of Fame All-Stars.
Among the teams he chose were the 1927 New York Yankees, featuring Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig and called by some as one of the greatest offensive squads in baseball history. He also had the 1975 world champion Cincinnati Reds, 1920 Cleveland Indians, the 2007 Los Angeles Anaheim Angels, and the 1909 Detroit Tigers, which included otherworldly base stealer and inveterate racist Ty Cobb.
My Hall of Fame All Star team was pretty stacked. I had Frank Robinson and Roberto Clemente on my bench and my team boasted pitchers Three Finger Brown, Kid Nichols, and Chief Bender and hitters Frank Baker, Jackie Robinson, and Heinie Manush. I had the 1924 Washington Senators and the 1905 New York Giants. I also picked the 2004 and 2007 Boston Red Sox teams and learned an important lesson: it’s not always good to lead with your heart.
Those Red Sox squads may have won the World Series (and brought me unbridled joy), but their real world success does not always translate well in the chancier world of simulated baseball. They won a total of four or five games out of 20.
Miguel scored the most learning by acquiring knowledge about players from different eras. How many other twelve-year-olds know that the 1906 Cubs featured the great double-play combination of Tinker to Evers to Chance? Or that Mantle and Maris combined to hit nearly 120 homeruns in 1961? Or that several old time pitchers were virtually unhittable in the dead ball era?
Well, Miguel does, and more. I recently added the Negro Leagues All-Stars to our stable of players, and last week we each drafted three teams. Miguel is now familiar with Oscar Charleston, Satchel Paige, Bullet Joe Rogan, Josh Gibson, Buck Leonard, Cool Papa Bell, and nearly a hundred more men who were denied entrance to the major leagues solely on the basis of the color of their skin. I hope the six-team inclusion of Negro League stars will educate Miguel and increase his sensitivity to matters of race and tolerance.
And I think Strat is paying off. Over the weekend, the parent of one of Miguel’s friends said to me, “Miguel’s pretty smart. He was telling us all about all these old-time baseball players.”
So I explained to him that it was largely because of Strat. Then he asked for the website and said he might get the game.
“Kids just don’t play board games much these days,” he said, impressed by Miguel.
No, they don’t, I said. Miguel and I used to play Star Wars and Major League Baseball Monopoly, but he gave up on both games because he said I won too much. Hey, I may be a proud progressive-leftie-commie-rabble rouser, but plop me down in front of Monopoly and I turn into a blood-thirsty capitalist with enough cutthroat ambition to rival Vanderbilt, Trump, or Murdoch.
Anyway, we began our second season last night after we chose teams and assigned them to various divisions. Curiously, most of the players on one of Miguel’s Hall of Fame All-Star teams formerly played on my team, the team that won our inaugural World Series.
As we climbed to stairs to his room, he said, “You’re going down.”
“You’re going down,” I said.
The game pitted his other Hall of Fame All-Star squad with Ty Cobb, Christy Matthewson, and Joe DiMaggio against one of my Negro Leagues teams, with Satchel Paige, Bullet Joe Rogan, and Dizzy Dismukes.
Miguel’s team scorched mine, 11-3.
Strat-O-Matic Lives. Long live the games.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Farewell, Kind Sir
I said goodbye to Mr. W. last week. His breathing was labored and he snorted loudly as he inhaled, but he looked relatively peaceful as he lay in a coma. His fight against leukemia was winding down.
He died the next day.
But I am glad I got to see him before his death. I developed a fondness for him in the brief time I’d known him. He was one of the residents at the retirement facility where I work, one of six who died here in a seven-day period.
Everyone—staff, residents, families—was affected by the deaths, coming in such rapid succession, staccato bursts of intense pain straight to the heart.
Death is never a real surprise when you work at a place where the average age is 87. Everyone dies, and older people are just naturally at a greater risk for, well, a secession of life. But the deaths were and are still a shock to our systems.
So in the ten weeks I knew Mr. W., he touched my heart. Maybe it was because he was always so friendly and chivalrous. Maybe it was because he served our country in the Navy during WWII. Or maybe it was because two of his four dining tablemates were often cranky and downright pains in the ass, but he endured with a cherubic smile and a quiet sense of humor. Or maybe it was because he handled his impending demise with such grace and so little fanfare.
Maybe another reason why Mr. W.’s death also pricked me more deeply was because my wife has incurable cancer and I am very sensitive to matters of life and death.
Mr. W. had a strong pointed nose and large ears and wore sweaters that reminded you of Mr. Rogers. He always smiled in the folksy manner of Jimmy Stewart and his awe-shucks demeanor never wavered.
I didn’t meet him until early January, but at some point last year he announced to our executive director that he had cancer and he was going to die.
“I just wanted to let you know,” he said to the executive director, “that I have leukemia. I’m not going to do anything to fight it.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. W.,” the executive director responded.
“No, no, no,” he said, waving his arms. “I’m really OK with it. I’ve led a good life.”
The executive director checked in with Mr. W. regularly and in late December Mr. W. reported that he’d found solace in the wisdom of Norman Cousins.
“I heard somewhere about Norman Cousins,” Mr. W. explained. “He locked himself in a hotel room and watch funny movies, and laughter helped cure his life-threatening disease.
“I know this won’t cure me,” he added, “but I thought it was a great idea. So my kids set me up on Netflix, and now I have a queue. Let me know if you have any recommendations.”
The executive director suggested The Office, Blazing Saddles, and a few other knee-slapping, tear-inducing comedies.
Alas, the laughter did not cure Mr. W.—as he knew it wouldn’t—but brought him a measure of comfort during his final months of life.
I also checked in with Mr. W. at least 2-3 times a week after one of his daughters told me about a month ago that the end was near. I walked over to him when his family pushing him in a wheelchair a few weeks ago.
“Mr. W., just let me know what I can do for you,” I said. He clearly didn’t want to be a bother or have anyone fuss over him.
“No, no, no, that’s OK. Everything’s OK,” he said.
“What about meals? Can we send you up some trays?” We generally do not charge people for trays of food or guest meals during times of crisis.
“Actually we’re taking him out to shop for food,” said his daughter. “Peanut butter and sweet pickle sandwiches. One of his favorites.”
A few days after Mr. W. died, a group of residents asked if we could shuttle them to his funeral. I volunteered to attend the ceremony as well. It was held at St. Raphael’s, the parish church he and his late wife had attended for many years.
During the mass, I found out that Mr. W. and his wife were devout Catholics, active in the church, and members of the Catholic Daughters. His faith, the priest said, was an active kind, exemplified by his dedication to the St. Vincent de Paul Society, an organization that helps the needy with food, clothing, shelter, and other material assistance.
When Mr. W. moved into our retirement facility, which is located in another parish, he met with St. Raphael’s leading priest, Father Rossi.
“Father,” Mr. W. said, “I’m moving to Drake Terrace, which is out of the parish. But will it still be OK for me to attend St. Raphael’s?”
Mr. W. attended his home church for a few years, volunteered in the community, and greeted parishioners in the lobby. Then his retirement facility started shuttling residents to a church in the neighborhood. Mr. W. was back in the office of Father Rossi.
“Father, would it be OK if started going to St. Isabella’s?” Mr. W. asked.
“Yes, it would,” the Father said simply. “It doesn’t matter where you worship. You’ll always have a home at St. Raphael’s.”
Father Rossi concluded his remarks and said Mr. W. embodied the values and spirit of Christ and touched everyone with his compassion, humility, and sense of service to others.
One of Mr. W.’s four children, Steven, spoke haltingly, tears welling in his eyes, and thanked everyone for helping to celebrate the life of such a great and devout man. Tears flowed freely throughout the sanctuary.
I didn’t actually say goodbye to Mr. W. His caregiver invited me to his room as she left for the day. She had tears in her eyes for she knew Mr. W. was almost gone. She said, “Go on up and say goodbye.”
One of Mr. W.’s daughters was there. We hugged and I asked her how else we could help or if she needed any food. Just like her dad, she said she fine and everything was OK. Her eyes were red but she seemed serene.
But I didn’t say goodbye because Mr. W. was in a coma. I poked my head into his room and watched him breath and listened to the music his daughter had playing.
“He so loved his Gregorian chants,” she said with an impish grin.
Goodbye Mr. W. Rest in peace.
He died the next day.
But I am glad I got to see him before his death. I developed a fondness for him in the brief time I’d known him. He was one of the residents at the retirement facility where I work, one of six who died here in a seven-day period.
Everyone—staff, residents, families—was affected by the deaths, coming in such rapid succession, staccato bursts of intense pain straight to the heart.
Death is never a real surprise when you work at a place where the average age is 87. Everyone dies, and older people are just naturally at a greater risk for, well, a secession of life. But the deaths were and are still a shock to our systems.
So in the ten weeks I knew Mr. W., he touched my heart. Maybe it was because he was always so friendly and chivalrous. Maybe it was because he served our country in the Navy during WWII. Or maybe it was because two of his four dining tablemates were often cranky and downright pains in the ass, but he endured with a cherubic smile and a quiet sense of humor. Or maybe it was because he handled his impending demise with such grace and so little fanfare.
Maybe another reason why Mr. W.’s death also pricked me more deeply was because my wife has incurable cancer and I am very sensitive to matters of life and death.
Mr. W. had a strong pointed nose and large ears and wore sweaters that reminded you of Mr. Rogers. He always smiled in the folksy manner of Jimmy Stewart and his awe-shucks demeanor never wavered.
I didn’t meet him until early January, but at some point last year he announced to our executive director that he had cancer and he was going to die.
“I just wanted to let you know,” he said to the executive director, “that I have leukemia. I’m not going to do anything to fight it.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. W.,” the executive director responded.
“No, no, no,” he said, waving his arms. “I’m really OK with it. I’ve led a good life.”
The executive director checked in with Mr. W. regularly and in late December Mr. W. reported that he’d found solace in the wisdom of Norman Cousins.
“I heard somewhere about Norman Cousins,” Mr. W. explained. “He locked himself in a hotel room and watch funny movies, and laughter helped cure his life-threatening disease.
“I know this won’t cure me,” he added, “but I thought it was a great idea. So my kids set me up on Netflix, and now I have a queue. Let me know if you have any recommendations.”
The executive director suggested The Office, Blazing Saddles, and a few other knee-slapping, tear-inducing comedies.
Alas, the laughter did not cure Mr. W.—as he knew it wouldn’t—but brought him a measure of comfort during his final months of life.
I also checked in with Mr. W. at least 2-3 times a week after one of his daughters told me about a month ago that the end was near. I walked over to him when his family pushing him in a wheelchair a few weeks ago.
“Mr. W., just let me know what I can do for you,” I said. He clearly didn’t want to be a bother or have anyone fuss over him.
“No, no, no, that’s OK. Everything’s OK,” he said.
“What about meals? Can we send you up some trays?” We generally do not charge people for trays of food or guest meals during times of crisis.
“Actually we’re taking him out to shop for food,” said his daughter. “Peanut butter and sweet pickle sandwiches. One of his favorites.”
A few days after Mr. W. died, a group of residents asked if we could shuttle them to his funeral. I volunteered to attend the ceremony as well. It was held at St. Raphael’s, the parish church he and his late wife had attended for many years.
During the mass, I found out that Mr. W. and his wife were devout Catholics, active in the church, and members of the Catholic Daughters. His faith, the priest said, was an active kind, exemplified by his dedication to the St. Vincent de Paul Society, an organization that helps the needy with food, clothing, shelter, and other material assistance.
When Mr. W. moved into our retirement facility, which is located in another parish, he met with St. Raphael’s leading priest, Father Rossi.
“Father,” Mr. W. said, “I’m moving to Drake Terrace, which is out of the parish. But will it still be OK for me to attend St. Raphael’s?”
Mr. W. attended his home church for a few years, volunteered in the community, and greeted parishioners in the lobby. Then his retirement facility started shuttling residents to a church in the neighborhood. Mr. W. was back in the office of Father Rossi.
“Father, would it be OK if started going to St. Isabella’s?” Mr. W. asked.
“Yes, it would,” the Father said simply. “It doesn’t matter where you worship. You’ll always have a home at St. Raphael’s.”
Father Rossi concluded his remarks and said Mr. W. embodied the values and spirit of Christ and touched everyone with his compassion, humility, and sense of service to others.
One of Mr. W.’s four children, Steven, spoke haltingly, tears welling in his eyes, and thanked everyone for helping to celebrate the life of such a great and devout man. Tears flowed freely throughout the sanctuary.
I didn’t actually say goodbye to Mr. W. His caregiver invited me to his room as she left for the day. She had tears in her eyes for she knew Mr. W. was almost gone. She said, “Go on up and say goodbye.”
One of Mr. W.’s daughters was there. We hugged and I asked her how else we could help or if she needed any food. Just like her dad, she said she fine and everything was OK. Her eyes were red but she seemed serene.
But I didn’t say goodbye because Mr. W. was in a coma. I poked my head into his room and watched him breath and listened to the music his daughter had playing.
“He so loved his Gregorian chants,” she said with an impish grin.
Goodbye Mr. W. Rest in peace.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Ouch
I’ve had two ouch moments recently that jolted me out of my relatively comfortable middle aged existence.
Last Sunday, moments after the 6th grade CYO basketball team I help coach won its quarterfinal playoff game, we huddled together outside the gymnasium for a postgame wrap-up. Coach Connor, who just turned 17 and plays JV ball at a local high school, also reminded the team how important our final two practices would be this week.
“We’re going to work on our inbounding and beating the press,” Connor said. “But I won’t be there Thursday.”
“Coach Martin and I can handle that practice,” I said. Coach Martin is the father of Connor. His other son, Patrick, plays on our St. Isabella’s squad.
From out of nowhere, my son, Miguel, swooped in with a major dose of reality. “If you two are going to run practice you have to pay attention this time. No talking to each other on the other end of the court.”
Ouch. Double ouch.
I looked at the team and saw grins on their faces. Miguel’s smile was wide and slightly sheepish.
“I think I was just dissed by my son,” I said.
“Well, it’s true,” he said.
And he was right.
Martin and I understand the game of basketball, but we couldn’t diagram or design a play to save our lives. That is Connor’s territory. He lives and breathes basketball. Before our first round playoff game he said to me, “I was up playing basketball last night until midnight.”
Not video game basketball. Not on the computer. But real live bouncing the ball on the hardwood inside some school gym basketball for serious aficionados basketball.
So Martin and I gladly step aside at the practices when Connor is there, and what else can the two of do but converse about life, love, and avoiding serious prostrate issues for two men at or near 50?
But Miguel’s semi-serious admonition was a wake-up call for me. Then Martin called me Monday morning as I was driving Miguel and a neighbor to school.
“Maybe we could move practice to another day,” he said. “Then Jacob and Kendal (our two big men) can be there.” Both of them have never been able to practice on Wednesdays because of a previous extracurricular activity.
So Martin and I agreed to switch the practice to Tuesday and keep our usual Thursday schedule. Then the proverbial shoe dropped.
“But Connor and I won’t be there Thursday. We’re going to see the Warriors. Connor’s a big Brandon Roy fan. The Warriors are playing his team, the Trailblazers.”
Then the other shoe dropped and I nearly careened off the side of the road.
“And Connor won’t be at the game on Saturday,” Martin continued. “He’s got the SATs.”
When I shared the conversation with Miguel before we turned into his school, all he said was, “You better take notes at practice on Tuesday.”
Ouch.
Martin and I are on our own this Saturday bright and early for the first semifinal matchup at 9 am. If we win, we play in the championship game on Sunday afternoon. If we lose, we busy ourselves with Little League baseball, which began in late January, with regular season games beginning this weekend.
My next ouch moment occurred last night at work. Verna went into San Francisco for a special talk sponsored by her breast cancer support group. So I had the kids with me because I needed to work later, until 6:30. Normally I work until five or so, but one of my co-workers is off this week due to a death in his family. So I have to cover his hours, as I am his supervisor and those hours are at the front desk of a retirement facility, which must always be manned, as it were.
I brought Miguel with me after his baseball practice, which lasted fifteen minutes (batting practice). Verna dropped Maya off en route to her event. At one point, Maya came up to the front desk while I was talking to a private duty aide. The aide, a nursing student at a nearby university, said, “Oh, is this your granddaughter?”
I nearly choked.
“Granddaughter?” I asked. “I’m going to have to bar you from the building.”
I know I am Senior Dad, father of a 4-year old and four weeks from turning 51, but grandfather? OK, I know it’s quite possible. Verna and I met a 43-year old woman two years ago in Cabo who has eight grandchildren. I have cousins younger than I am with grandchildren. And my brother-in-law, who isn’t yet 50, has a one-year-old granddaughter.
After I recovered from the shock of her remark, which was quite innocent, she said something about her age, 33. I quickly did the math and figured out that when I was 33 my mother was 55. So being a grandfather at 50 is entirely plausible. Too plausible for comfort. But, as Miguel is only 12, he will meet a swift and untimely demise should he bless us with his off-spring in the next few years.
The hard part about being mistaken for Maya’s grandfather is that I still think of myself as somewhat youthful. Besides being in decent shape, I run around with the kids as much as possible. I play tag in the park, chase Maya up and down the slides, play several sports with Miguel, and race Maya upstairs in order to get her to bed.
Shortly after my grandfather ouch moment, one of my colleagues said to Maya, “You love your daddy?”
Maya said, “Yes.”
“What do you like about your daddy?”
“He’s silly,” Maya said. “He makes me laugh.”
Nothing like a sweet four-year old to nearly remove the sting of the grandfather comment. Then a little while later, as I shared the grandfather incident with another colleague, a young woman who is twenty and works as a housekeeper and server in the dining hall, she said, “But you’re not that old.”
“How old do you think I am, Veronica?”
“In your 30s.”
Give that girl a major raise. Promote her to CEO.
“I’m 50,” I said. “I’ll be 51 next month.”
She looked at me and said, “No way.”
The second ouch was now completely gone, having been pummeled into submission (for the most part) by someone whose mother is only 46. Hey, I had to ask. So I was essentially saved from an evening of sulking by two females not old enough to legally drink alcohol, one of whom is in preschool and recites the ABCs to help her fall asleep at night.
As for basketball, I paid serious attention on Tuesday and am completely ready to guide the boys tonight and Saturday.
Father doesn’t always know best.
Ouch.
Last Sunday, moments after the 6th grade CYO basketball team I help coach won its quarterfinal playoff game, we huddled together outside the gymnasium for a postgame wrap-up. Coach Connor, who just turned 17 and plays JV ball at a local high school, also reminded the team how important our final two practices would be this week.
“We’re going to work on our inbounding and beating the press,” Connor said. “But I won’t be there Thursday.”
“Coach Martin and I can handle that practice,” I said. Coach Martin is the father of Connor. His other son, Patrick, plays on our St. Isabella’s squad.
From out of nowhere, my son, Miguel, swooped in with a major dose of reality. “If you two are going to run practice you have to pay attention this time. No talking to each other on the other end of the court.”
Ouch. Double ouch.
I looked at the team and saw grins on their faces. Miguel’s smile was wide and slightly sheepish.
“I think I was just dissed by my son,” I said.
“Well, it’s true,” he said.
And he was right.
Martin and I understand the game of basketball, but we couldn’t diagram or design a play to save our lives. That is Connor’s territory. He lives and breathes basketball. Before our first round playoff game he said to me, “I was up playing basketball last night until midnight.”
Not video game basketball. Not on the computer. But real live bouncing the ball on the hardwood inside some school gym basketball for serious aficionados basketball.
So Martin and I gladly step aside at the practices when Connor is there, and what else can the two of do but converse about life, love, and avoiding serious prostrate issues for two men at or near 50?
But Miguel’s semi-serious admonition was a wake-up call for me. Then Martin called me Monday morning as I was driving Miguel and a neighbor to school.
“Maybe we could move practice to another day,” he said. “Then Jacob and Kendal (our two big men) can be there.” Both of them have never been able to practice on Wednesdays because of a previous extracurricular activity.
So Martin and I agreed to switch the practice to Tuesday and keep our usual Thursday schedule. Then the proverbial shoe dropped.
“But Connor and I won’t be there Thursday. We’re going to see the Warriors. Connor’s a big Brandon Roy fan. The Warriors are playing his team, the Trailblazers.”
Then the other shoe dropped and I nearly careened off the side of the road.
“And Connor won’t be at the game on Saturday,” Martin continued. “He’s got the SATs.”
When I shared the conversation with Miguel before we turned into his school, all he said was, “You better take notes at practice on Tuesday.”
Ouch.
Martin and I are on our own this Saturday bright and early for the first semifinal matchup at 9 am. If we win, we play in the championship game on Sunday afternoon. If we lose, we busy ourselves with Little League baseball, which began in late January, with regular season games beginning this weekend.
My next ouch moment occurred last night at work. Verna went into San Francisco for a special talk sponsored by her breast cancer support group. So I had the kids with me because I needed to work later, until 6:30. Normally I work until five or so, but one of my co-workers is off this week due to a death in his family. So I have to cover his hours, as I am his supervisor and those hours are at the front desk of a retirement facility, which must always be manned, as it were.
I brought Miguel with me after his baseball practice, which lasted fifteen minutes (batting practice). Verna dropped Maya off en route to her event. At one point, Maya came up to the front desk while I was talking to a private duty aide. The aide, a nursing student at a nearby university, said, “Oh, is this your granddaughter?”
I nearly choked.
“Granddaughter?” I asked. “I’m going to have to bar you from the building.”
I know I am Senior Dad, father of a 4-year old and four weeks from turning 51, but grandfather? OK, I know it’s quite possible. Verna and I met a 43-year old woman two years ago in Cabo who has eight grandchildren. I have cousins younger than I am with grandchildren. And my brother-in-law, who isn’t yet 50, has a one-year-old granddaughter.
After I recovered from the shock of her remark, which was quite innocent, she said something about her age, 33. I quickly did the math and figured out that when I was 33 my mother was 55. So being a grandfather at 50 is entirely plausible. Too plausible for comfort. But, as Miguel is only 12, he will meet a swift and untimely demise should he bless us with his off-spring in the next few years.
The hard part about being mistaken for Maya’s grandfather is that I still think of myself as somewhat youthful. Besides being in decent shape, I run around with the kids as much as possible. I play tag in the park, chase Maya up and down the slides, play several sports with Miguel, and race Maya upstairs in order to get her to bed.
Shortly after my grandfather ouch moment, one of my colleagues said to Maya, “You love your daddy?”
Maya said, “Yes.”
“What do you like about your daddy?”
“He’s silly,” Maya said. “He makes me laugh.”
Nothing like a sweet four-year old to nearly remove the sting of the grandfather comment. Then a little while later, as I shared the grandfather incident with another colleague, a young woman who is twenty and works as a housekeeper and server in the dining hall, she said, “But you’re not that old.”
“How old do you think I am, Veronica?”
“In your 30s.”
Give that girl a major raise. Promote her to CEO.
“I’m 50,” I said. “I’ll be 51 next month.”
She looked at me and said, “No way.”
The second ouch was now completely gone, having been pummeled into submission (for the most part) by someone whose mother is only 46. Hey, I had to ask. So I was essentially saved from an evening of sulking by two females not old enough to legally drink alcohol, one of whom is in preschool and recites the ABCs to help her fall asleep at night.
As for basketball, I paid serious attention on Tuesday and am completely ready to guide the boys tonight and Saturday.
Father doesn’t always know best.
Ouch.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Meet The Grandparents
My mother-in-law, Maria Graciela “Chela” Wefald, should have turned 86 today, but she died a week before Halloween in 2008. Verna went to Mass this morning, where the priest mentioned Chela, and planned a quiet celebration of her mother’s birthday after dinner. The four of us shared a fruit tart, topped with blueberries, kiwis, and strawberries, and filled with white and chocolate custard-pudding. Then we watched the 12-minute DVD Verna and her brothers commissioned for Chela’s memorial service, which was on Election Day 2008.
Maya was excited this morning as she readied herself for preschool about eating cake after dinner, but she was also focused on her grandmother. “Grandma died,” she said to Verna as Miguel and I rushed to get ready. “I want to get another grandma.”
Verna reminded her that she already had two grandmothers, my mom, who is Grandma Bev, and my stepmother, who is Bubbie (Yiddish for grandmother) Joyce. Maya was relieved and happy.
As Miguel and I dashed out the door, I started thinking about my grandparents. I was fortunate, very fortunate to have grown up with four grandparents within 10 miles of where we lived in Bloomfield, CT. And by the time I was in my late teens or early twenties, three of them resided in my hometown, so I saw them pretty regularly when I was home from college and beyond.
Unlike Verna, who saw her paternal (she never met her maternal grandparents) grandparents maybe 6-10 times in her entire life, I saw four grandparents at least 1-2 times a month, including all major American and Jewish holidays and assorted birthdays.
Sadly, Miguel and Maya only live near one grandparent, Verna’s father, Martin, who continues to play a major role in their lives, so they won’t have the same, expansive relationship with multiple grandparents as I did. And Maya especially did not have enough years with Chela, who absolutely adored her last grandchild. I won’t even mention that Chela did not live to see her first great-granddaughter, Lola Chela, enter this world on the final day of 2008.
But back to my grandparents: My mother’s father, Sam Bernstein, came to this country from Russia some time after the Bolshevik Revolution. His father, Benny, raised him because his mother wasn’t well physically or mentally. She died when Sam was young. Benny was often harsh and distant.
Sam died when I was 12 so I really didn’t know him well. I remember him giving me a Tonka truck when I 10 for my birthday (that was when Tonka trucks were really sturdy and metal). Another time my mom gave him a lunchbox for either Father’s Day or his birthday and he cried. He was not overly educated, but he loved to create and solve math problems, and then beam with pride when my mother or I checked his work.
My paternal grandmother, Fannie Friedman, was cold and demanding at times. She made great matzah ball soup and pickled tomatoes, which she left in jars on her porch. She died in 1988 when I was 29.
She was, er, frugal. She would send us to the store for a dozen eggs with two dollars and expect the change back. One time she treated me to bingo night at the synagogue and I won the coverall and $50. She said I had to split it with her because she’d paid for my bingo cards. Then one of my cousins asked me what I planned to do with the money. It was late August.
“I’m going to use it to buy school clothes,” I answered.
Fannie then gave me the other $25. “Since I was going to give you money for school anyway,” she said, “I might as well give it to you now.”
I loved sleeping over her house in East Hartford, CT, which she shared with my grandfather, Myer, Myer’s sister-in-law, Lillian, and another boarder, Simon Rutt, the father-in-law of Myer and Fannie’s daughter, my Aunt Sari. We always got to eat candy, play cards, watch TV, and one year, on New Year’s Eve I think they let me and a neighbor sleep in their bed.
Myer died in 1992 of congestive heart failure. He was 86. He was one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met. After he retired he continued to work part-time as an aide to physically disabled adults. He regularly chauffeured people to synagogue for morning and evening prayers, no matter the weather. He religiously cut coupons out of the newspaper and either shared them with family, used them himself, or left them on the items in the stores.
He never stopped talking about how great Roosevelt’s New Deal had been for working people. He drove a delivery truck for 35 years for Drake’s Cakes, which meant we always had ample supplies of Hostess-like coffee cakes, devil’s food cakes filled with crème, and fruit pies. He always straightened out the Drake’s displays in whatever store we were in, whether it was his day off or past his retirement.
For a year after he died, I wanted to ask my father, as had been my tradition during our long-distance phone calls, how Zadie (Yiddish for grandfather) was doing. As I type this, a framed photograph of Myer Friedman, his face grinning down at me, hangs to my right.
My maternal grandmother, Ida Bernstein, was the other most compassionate person I’ve ever known. She migrated to this country from Poland in 1921. She spoke no English and didn’t understand anything about American customs or cuisine. When someone gave her a banana for the first time, she didn’t know what it was so she threw it under the table.
She, too, loved to cook. She made great spaghetti and meatballs, matzah ball soup, kasha and varnishkes (buckwheat groats and bowtie pasta), pudding, and jello. She kept kosher, but was never dogmatic about her religious beliefs and practices. She was one of the few people in my family who was truly excited when I married a wonderful Catholic girl because she knew how happy I was with Verna.
When she sent us to the store for a couple of groceries, she gave us $10 and always insisted we keep the change. One year, when I was 15 or so, I spent the night with her on New Year’s Eve and we made cookies at midnight and proclaimed that we were the first to bake cookies in the New Year.
She inspired me with her devotion to Judaism and her acceptance and respect for all people. She never went beyond high school, but she listened religiously to informative radio talk shows, read the newspaper daily, and watched the news at night.
We brought Miguel cross country when he was six months old in 1998 to meet his great-grandmother, who lived then in the Hebrew Home in West Hartford, CT. After cleaning him up following a massive poop on the sidewalk of the Home, we surprised Ida in her room. She immediately exclaimed, “The baby, the baby, you brought the baby.” We were there with my mother, stepfather, brother, and sister-in-law, and everyone was crying joyfully as Ida gazed at Miguel. We quickly posed for a photograph of the four generations together.
Ida died in early March 1999, just two weeks before her 90th birthday.
I miss all four of my grandparents, one whom I didn’t know well, one who was flawed but loved us deeply, and two who were amazing and deserved to be sainted in a Jewish-secular kind of way.
Missing them was certainly on mind as the DVD of Chela ended and I said to Maya, “You miss your grandma?”
“Yes,” she said. “I want to share my cake with her.”
Maya was excited this morning as she readied herself for preschool about eating cake after dinner, but she was also focused on her grandmother. “Grandma died,” she said to Verna as Miguel and I rushed to get ready. “I want to get another grandma.”
Verna reminded her that she already had two grandmothers, my mom, who is Grandma Bev, and my stepmother, who is Bubbie (Yiddish for grandmother) Joyce. Maya was relieved and happy.
As Miguel and I dashed out the door, I started thinking about my grandparents. I was fortunate, very fortunate to have grown up with four grandparents within 10 miles of where we lived in Bloomfield, CT. And by the time I was in my late teens or early twenties, three of them resided in my hometown, so I saw them pretty regularly when I was home from college and beyond.
Unlike Verna, who saw her paternal (she never met her maternal grandparents) grandparents maybe 6-10 times in her entire life, I saw four grandparents at least 1-2 times a month, including all major American and Jewish holidays and assorted birthdays.
Sadly, Miguel and Maya only live near one grandparent, Verna’s father, Martin, who continues to play a major role in their lives, so they won’t have the same, expansive relationship with multiple grandparents as I did. And Maya especially did not have enough years with Chela, who absolutely adored her last grandchild. I won’t even mention that Chela did not live to see her first great-granddaughter, Lola Chela, enter this world on the final day of 2008.
But back to my grandparents: My mother’s father, Sam Bernstein, came to this country from Russia some time after the Bolshevik Revolution. His father, Benny, raised him because his mother wasn’t well physically or mentally. She died when Sam was young. Benny was often harsh and distant.
Sam died when I was 12 so I really didn’t know him well. I remember him giving me a Tonka truck when I 10 for my birthday (that was when Tonka trucks were really sturdy and metal). Another time my mom gave him a lunchbox for either Father’s Day or his birthday and he cried. He was not overly educated, but he loved to create and solve math problems, and then beam with pride when my mother or I checked his work.
My paternal grandmother, Fannie Friedman, was cold and demanding at times. She made great matzah ball soup and pickled tomatoes, which she left in jars on her porch. She died in 1988 when I was 29.
She was, er, frugal. She would send us to the store for a dozen eggs with two dollars and expect the change back. One time she treated me to bingo night at the synagogue and I won the coverall and $50. She said I had to split it with her because she’d paid for my bingo cards. Then one of my cousins asked me what I planned to do with the money. It was late August.
“I’m going to use it to buy school clothes,” I answered.
Fannie then gave me the other $25. “Since I was going to give you money for school anyway,” she said, “I might as well give it to you now.”
I loved sleeping over her house in East Hartford, CT, which she shared with my grandfather, Myer, Myer’s sister-in-law, Lillian, and another boarder, Simon Rutt, the father-in-law of Myer and Fannie’s daughter, my Aunt Sari. We always got to eat candy, play cards, watch TV, and one year, on New Year’s Eve I think they let me and a neighbor sleep in their bed.
Myer died in 1992 of congestive heart failure. He was 86. He was one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met. After he retired he continued to work part-time as an aide to physically disabled adults. He regularly chauffeured people to synagogue for morning and evening prayers, no matter the weather. He religiously cut coupons out of the newspaper and either shared them with family, used them himself, or left them on the items in the stores.
He never stopped talking about how great Roosevelt’s New Deal had been for working people. He drove a delivery truck for 35 years for Drake’s Cakes, which meant we always had ample supplies of Hostess-like coffee cakes, devil’s food cakes filled with crème, and fruit pies. He always straightened out the Drake’s displays in whatever store we were in, whether it was his day off or past his retirement.
For a year after he died, I wanted to ask my father, as had been my tradition during our long-distance phone calls, how Zadie (Yiddish for grandfather) was doing. As I type this, a framed photograph of Myer Friedman, his face grinning down at me, hangs to my right.
My maternal grandmother, Ida Bernstein, was the other most compassionate person I’ve ever known. She migrated to this country from Poland in 1921. She spoke no English and didn’t understand anything about American customs or cuisine. When someone gave her a banana for the first time, she didn’t know what it was so she threw it under the table.
She, too, loved to cook. She made great spaghetti and meatballs, matzah ball soup, kasha and varnishkes (buckwheat groats and bowtie pasta), pudding, and jello. She kept kosher, but was never dogmatic about her religious beliefs and practices. She was one of the few people in my family who was truly excited when I married a wonderful Catholic girl because she knew how happy I was with Verna.
When she sent us to the store for a couple of groceries, she gave us $10 and always insisted we keep the change. One year, when I was 15 or so, I spent the night with her on New Year’s Eve and we made cookies at midnight and proclaimed that we were the first to bake cookies in the New Year.
She inspired me with her devotion to Judaism and her acceptance and respect for all people. She never went beyond high school, but she listened religiously to informative radio talk shows, read the newspaper daily, and watched the news at night.
We brought Miguel cross country when he was six months old in 1998 to meet his great-grandmother, who lived then in the Hebrew Home in West Hartford, CT. After cleaning him up following a massive poop on the sidewalk of the Home, we surprised Ida in her room. She immediately exclaimed, “The baby, the baby, you brought the baby.” We were there with my mother, stepfather, brother, and sister-in-law, and everyone was crying joyfully as Ida gazed at Miguel. We quickly posed for a photograph of the four generations together.
Ida died in early March 1999, just two weeks before her 90th birthday.
I miss all four of my grandparents, one whom I didn’t know well, one who was flawed but loved us deeply, and two who were amazing and deserved to be sainted in a Jewish-secular kind of way.
Missing them was certainly on mind as the DVD of Chela ended and I said to Maya, “You miss your grandma?”
“Yes,” she said. “I want to share my cake with her.”
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Growing Up
While Miguel and I were watching the Olympics last night, I asked him, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I don’t know what prompted me to ask, but maybe I was curious because I am reading a book about parenting (Becoming a Jewish Parent by Daniel Gordis). Of course, for some strange reason, I picked the most inopportune moment to query him: we were watching the four-man bobsled competition, in which the US earned its first gold medal in 62 years.
“An athlete,” he answered. “Baseball or basketball.”
I couldn’t help being a parent at that moment. “Do you have a fallback position in case you get injured?”
“A doctor,” he said.
“What kind?” I asked.
“One who works with kids.”
Yes, I beamed inside. My son the doctor, crowed the Jewish parent that I am. But I was a little sad, too. I wondered if Verna would live long enough to see Miguel realize his dreams and become a professional athlete or pediatrician (or any other choices he makes). Time will tell, I know.
When Miguel was six he announced that he and his schoolmate, Oscar, wanted to room together and become janitors at the zoo when they were older.
“We’re not going to get married,” he stated firmly.
“That’s OK,” I said, trying to be the supportive parent.
Later he said he and Oscar could always adopt children. I quickly went to Verna and said, “Miguel’s gay. And a chorus from Seinfeld erupted, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
And there isn’t. But I am a product of the larger society and radical-liberal-vegetarian-commie-pinko-Jewboy that I am, I am also imprisoned within very traditional notions of how life ought to be. So while I intellectually support equal rights for everyone, on a visceral level I was disappointed that Miguel wasn’t opting for the wife, two kids, dog, and picket fence scenario that has clogged my mind for so many years.
Verna probably said something about me overreacting, which was true, but, hey, I’ve refined anxiety and neuroses to award winning dimensions. And the reality is I will love and support whatever decisions Miguel makes, whether he is gay, straight, Democrat, or…oh, never mind, or becomes a Trappist monk.
I phoned Oscar’s mom, a friend of ours, and she just laughed. She hadn’t heard about his career goals, but she found it touching that Oscar and Miguel were close enough to ponder a future together.
Miguel’s revelation yesterday got me thinking about my dreams so very long ago. The first career I envisioned for myself was as a mechanical engineer. I have absolutely no reason why I chose mechanical engineering, because as an eight or nine year-old I had nary a clue what a mechanical engineer was or did. In fact, today I still couldn’t satisfactorily explain the details of a mechanical engineer’s job description.
The first vocation I recall choosing was that of consumer advocate. I wanted to be a lawyer just like Ralph Nader, one of my earliest public heroes. I loved that he fought against corporations that betrayed the public’s trust and cared more about profits than people. I even spoke about the legal profession to a friend of my parents who was a Legal Aid attorney.
The next time I confronted grown-up career goals was in high school. We had to take one of those seemingly useless personality achievement tests that determined, based on the answers we gave, what profession best suited us. My results came back as teacher-social worker-guidance counselor.
At the time, having just turned 18, I had no idea what I wanted to be when I “grew up”. I was fairly smart, but lazy and had elevated procrastination to an art form of the highest capacity.
However, that prognostication was pretty close to where my heart truly lies. I taught school for 12 years, have continued to tutor for another 11, and spent a year as a funeral counselor. Now I work with elders in an independent living retirement facility.
I guess I am really impressed that Miguel knows what he wants to do. Or at least he has an idea that may change, evolve, mutate, or dissolve several times over before he reaches adulthood.
We will nurture his dreams even if I was taken aback by his declaration. Medical school is so hard and the profession so demanding, that I wonder how he will deal with the challenge. Not that I doubt Miguel’s resolve, but so far he is happiest with a baseball, basketball or football in his hands or watching any televised sporting event. I can’t yet picture him hunched in a college library study carrel, sucking down massive quantities of caffeine and pulling another all-nighter as he struggles through biochemistry.
Last night, though, I was reminded that the present often bears little relation to the future. I ran into an old friend, whose son I taught 15 years ago. The son was a spirited kid, rock solid build, who, despite being super bright, couldn’t hold his behavior or focus together in class. After running a successful landscaping operation in the Caribbean for a few years, this “kid”, now in his mid-twenties, his proud father informed me, is currently getting his master’s degree at Berkeley in project management. The student I knew so long ago probably couldn’t have spelled the words project management (OK, I am exaggerating).
So, to borrow an Olympic motif, Miguel should reach for the gold (or silver or bronze or forego medals) and settle into a career and life path that satisfies his deep desires as a human being.
Yes, I am being corny yet again. Not that there is anything wrong with that.
I don’t know what prompted me to ask, but maybe I was curious because I am reading a book about parenting (Becoming a Jewish Parent by Daniel Gordis). Of course, for some strange reason, I picked the most inopportune moment to query him: we were watching the four-man bobsled competition, in which the US earned its first gold medal in 62 years.
“An athlete,” he answered. “Baseball or basketball.”
I couldn’t help being a parent at that moment. “Do you have a fallback position in case you get injured?”
“A doctor,” he said.
“What kind?” I asked.
“One who works with kids.”
Yes, I beamed inside. My son the doctor, crowed the Jewish parent that I am. But I was a little sad, too. I wondered if Verna would live long enough to see Miguel realize his dreams and become a professional athlete or pediatrician (or any other choices he makes). Time will tell, I know.
When Miguel was six he announced that he and his schoolmate, Oscar, wanted to room together and become janitors at the zoo when they were older.
“We’re not going to get married,” he stated firmly.
“That’s OK,” I said, trying to be the supportive parent.
Later he said he and Oscar could always adopt children. I quickly went to Verna and said, “Miguel’s gay. And a chorus from Seinfeld erupted, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
And there isn’t. But I am a product of the larger society and radical-liberal-vegetarian-commie-pinko-Jewboy that I am, I am also imprisoned within very traditional notions of how life ought to be. So while I intellectually support equal rights for everyone, on a visceral level I was disappointed that Miguel wasn’t opting for the wife, two kids, dog, and picket fence scenario that has clogged my mind for so many years.
Verna probably said something about me overreacting, which was true, but, hey, I’ve refined anxiety and neuroses to award winning dimensions. And the reality is I will love and support whatever decisions Miguel makes, whether he is gay, straight, Democrat, or…oh, never mind, or becomes a Trappist monk.
I phoned Oscar’s mom, a friend of ours, and she just laughed. She hadn’t heard about his career goals, but she found it touching that Oscar and Miguel were close enough to ponder a future together.
Miguel’s revelation yesterday got me thinking about my dreams so very long ago. The first career I envisioned for myself was as a mechanical engineer. I have absolutely no reason why I chose mechanical engineering, because as an eight or nine year-old I had nary a clue what a mechanical engineer was or did. In fact, today I still couldn’t satisfactorily explain the details of a mechanical engineer’s job description.
The first vocation I recall choosing was that of consumer advocate. I wanted to be a lawyer just like Ralph Nader, one of my earliest public heroes. I loved that he fought against corporations that betrayed the public’s trust and cared more about profits than people. I even spoke about the legal profession to a friend of my parents who was a Legal Aid attorney.
The next time I confronted grown-up career goals was in high school. We had to take one of those seemingly useless personality achievement tests that determined, based on the answers we gave, what profession best suited us. My results came back as teacher-social worker-guidance counselor.
At the time, having just turned 18, I had no idea what I wanted to be when I “grew up”. I was fairly smart, but lazy and had elevated procrastination to an art form of the highest capacity.
However, that prognostication was pretty close to where my heart truly lies. I taught school for 12 years, have continued to tutor for another 11, and spent a year as a funeral counselor. Now I work with elders in an independent living retirement facility.
I guess I am really impressed that Miguel knows what he wants to do. Or at least he has an idea that may change, evolve, mutate, or dissolve several times over before he reaches adulthood.
We will nurture his dreams even if I was taken aback by his declaration. Medical school is so hard and the profession so demanding, that I wonder how he will deal with the challenge. Not that I doubt Miguel’s resolve, but so far he is happiest with a baseball, basketball or football in his hands or watching any televised sporting event. I can’t yet picture him hunched in a college library study carrel, sucking down massive quantities of caffeine and pulling another all-nighter as he struggles through biochemistry.
Last night, though, I was reminded that the present often bears little relation to the future. I ran into an old friend, whose son I taught 15 years ago. The son was a spirited kid, rock solid build, who, despite being super bright, couldn’t hold his behavior or focus together in class. After running a successful landscaping operation in the Caribbean for a few years, this “kid”, now in his mid-twenties, his proud father informed me, is currently getting his master’s degree at Berkeley in project management. The student I knew so long ago probably couldn’t have spelled the words project management (OK, I am exaggerating).
So, to borrow an Olympic motif, Miguel should reach for the gold (or silver or bronze or forego medals) and settle into a career and life path that satisfies his deep desires as a human being.
Yes, I am being corny yet again. Not that there is anything wrong with that.
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