All The "T"

SHOOT THE ROOSTERS (And while you're at it, take out the sheep and dog)

2012-01-20T07:54:00.005-06:00

In the middle of Paradise, away from the cold and snow and dark, dark days. What else could one ask for this mid-January?

Well, I hate to complain (I know all my friends back in Chicago won't have a whit of sympathy), but the roosters, sheep, and unattended dog that live a stone's throw away from our casa have forced me to wear earplugs at night, turn up the iPod during the day, and generally curse the management company that never bothered to mention the friggin' farm next door.

Now I've lived a few blocks away from the el in Chicago but never felt like blowing up the tracks. I've had neighbors in Evanston whose hot tub gatherings late at night pushed me to call the cops. (The neighbors finally got the message and shut it down by 11 p.m.) But now, here in the "quiet" colonial town of San Miguel de Allende, I'm itching for a BB gun.

From what I'm told, roosters crowing at all hours of the day and night have started feuds, forced people to move, and sometimes led to violence like the kind I'm considering. I mean, I can handle the bah, bah, bahs of the sheep. Even the whining, barking dog is manageable. But the piercing crowing of the damn roosters reverberates through my entire body like a nightmarish audio electric shock.

The web offers all kinds of advice to rooster weary neighbors and owners: Create a "blackout" effect in the coop to trick roosters into believing it's still night; use cages that allow the rooster to sit and stand comfortably but not to stretch (apparently, roosters stretch when they crow); make sure there are plenty of interesting things for the roosters to do (yeah, right!); and my favorite, clipping the vocal cords. Alas, this is merely a temporary solution because roosters will apparently learn how to crow AGAIN. There used to be a hormone called DES that was used to stop roosters from crowing, but it produced bad side effects and is now illegal in many countries.

No offense to all you animal lovers. But if I could get my hands on this DES stuff, I'd gladly feed it --- better yet, inject it --- and stop the roosters from crowing. Anything to shut them up. In the meantime, I'm off to find a pair of Hearos Earplugs that, according to one obsessed person who conducted years of research, actually "reduced the pounding sounds of the jackhammer to a pleasant thud."

(If you call and I don't answer, you'll understand why.)

Mi dios, yo pienso que puedo tener que disparar a los bastardos

San Miguel: Take Two

2012-01-09T11:15:00.007-06:00

Groggy with sleep and dark skies outside, I rolled out of bed on this our departure day to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, where Alan and I were to spend the next two months. We'd both finished packing the night before, save for a few toilet articles to be stashed in our suitcases.

As usual, I'm the front traveler, up earlier and responsible for those last odds and ends like washing a dish, feeding the cats, packing some fruit to take on the plane. Things moved along on schedule and, by the time I woke Alan, I was dressed and ready to hit the road.

"I've rolled my big suitcase to the top of the stairs," I said. "It's too heavy for me to lug. Please carry it down for me."

"No problem," Alan said as he tied his shoes.

For anyone who doesn't know Alan, he is always late. I can't count the number of times I've spent egging him on, telling him to hurry up, scolding him for making me wait --- not to mention others who may be waiting. It's a tiresome task, believe me.
But today he was moving right along. I think he realized that it's no way to start a two-month trip aggravating me before we get out the front door.

We arrived at O'Hare in plenty of time before out 9:20 a.m. flight. The cab driver unloaded the suitcases and went on his way.

I rolled my small bag from the curb to the attendant, got in line, and waited while Alan toted the remaining suitcases.

"We have three suitcases to check," I said when it was my turn.

"Where's the third bag? I see only two."

I spun around and looked at our remaining suitcases. The big tan one with all my clothes was missing.

"It must be in the cab," I screamed. "Cab Number 212."

Alan took off running as if he were going to be able to catch up with the taxi. I frantically dialed 4-1-1 to get the cab company number.

"We have an emergency," I said to the dispatcher. "Cab 212 drove away from O'Hare with one of our bags. You've got to reach him and tell him to turn around."

"Stay on the line," he said much too calmly for my satisfaction.

While I'm hanging on the line, Alan returned to the curbside check-in, out of breath, mumbling something about he can't take this and he's never going to Mexico again or to anywhere else. "How could you forget your suitcase?"

"Did you bring it downstairs like I asked you?"

"I can't remember. I can't remember anything."

The dispatcher started talking, telling me that there was no suitcase in cab 212.

"It's not there," I said, fighting back the tears.

"Maybe someone walked away with it while we weren't looking," Alan offered.

I tried to restrain myself and mimic those twosomes on "The Amazing Race" who seem to be gentle and kind to one another even when one of them has lost his passport or driven on the wrong road. "I don't think that's likely. If it isn't in the cab, it's either on the street in front of the house or upstairs" because you forgot to bring it down.

"You're not going to blame me, are you? It's your damn suitcase."

He was right: I should have accounted for all luggage before we walked out the front door. But I hadn't, and it looked more and more likely as if we would miss our flight to Mexico.

"Did you try to call any neighbor? They could at least look to make sure it's not sitting on the street."

By then, it was 8:30 a.m., and I was sure the neighbors on either side had left for school or work. But I fumbled with the phone, called each one, and listened to unanswered rings as long as I could bare.

Then Alan had the brilliant idea of calling the taxi company again, asking if one of their guys close to the house could drive by, maybe look in the front window to see, if by some chance, the missing suitcase was sitting in the vestibule, forlorn. While the minutes ticked away and other, obviously happy, organized passengers checked their bags, I realized we were shit out of luck. Still, we persevered, hoping for the first time in our lives that the plane would be late. Very late.

No such luck. The plane was on time, and the second taxi driver verified that the suitcase was neither in the street in front of our house or in the vestibule. Either someone did swipe the bag (highly unlikely) or Alan had never brought it down the stairs. Whichever way you sliced it, we were headed home, not to San Miguel.

Exhausted, we dragged our luggage into another taxi and headed home. What if my suitcase weren't there? I'd have to go on one major shopping spree in just an afternoon and spend all the money I'd saved for the vacation. I shut my eyes and tried to repeat my mantra in a failed effort to relax.

"Give me the house key," I said a block before pulling up in front of our house. With the key in my hand, I ran up the front stairs, unlocked the door, hightailed it upstairs and, for a moment, saw nothing but my dear cat Zuni who'd had part of his tail amputated just days before. (But that's a story for another time.) But as I turned my head slightly to the left, there was the infamous suitcase staring back at me as if asking "What up?"

So, tomorrow we do it all over again. Alan has already carried it downstairs. We're leaving nothing to chance.

The Tail End

2012-01-04T09:29:00.005-06:00

I stepped on my beloved cat's tail not once but twice.

In over eight years, I'd never stepped on his tail. Why now? Why me? I really have no answer. He got underfoot when I was opening mail and, without knowing he was there, I took a step forward toward the dining room table.

The scream echoed throughout the house. I'd heard Zuni complain in the past but never anything like this.

I bent down to see what I'd done, but Zuni ran for the hills. He wanted nothing to do with me. I was his caretaker, his mommy, and I'd let him down. Even his cat brain understood that.

I felt like such a louse and prayed that whatever I'd done wasn't that bad.

The first vet was unable to get Zuni to settle down enough to get a good look.

"We'll have to put him under."

That seemed rather extreme.

"And what if you find that his tail is broken? What next?"

"We put him on pain medication and antibiotics, if necessary. Beyond that, nothing. Cat's broken tails usually repair themselves."

"Then give me the pain meds."

With difficulty, I maneuvered Zuni back into his cat carrier, put him in the car, and raced for home.

Over the next few days, as the pain subsided, I was able to investigate his tail. I didn't see any open wounds but did feel what I thought were possibly two scabs. Thank god. He was going to be just fine.

Almost a week later, I was in the basement putting a load of laundry in the dryer. I didn't see Zuni around my feet, focused as I was on not dropping a wet sock or small kitchen towel. And it happened again. I stepped on his tail! How could this happen? Twice in two weeks?

This time, neither Zuni nor I was so lucky. The tip of his tail protruded like a small hot dog, red and glistening. Whatever hair had covered the tip was miraculously gone. Something was terribly wrong.

It was the afternoon of December 31. Our vet had closed his doors at noon. So, it was off to Animal 911, a 24/7 care center about a 10-minute drive from my home.

"You'll be fine," I mumbled to my wounded cat as he sat stoically in his pet carrier stationed securely on the passenger car seat.

Zuni was whisked away by the attending at the emergency pet hospital. I felt like such a bum. And I was embarrassed. What I'd done, albeit unintentionally, made me look like an abusive pet owner who had absolutely no awareness or consideration for my cat. It was if I'd broken a child's arm not once but twice.

"I have a theory," the vet said. "I think the damage was done the first time you stepped on his tail. He's been operating at half mast and, this second time, he just didn't have enough control to move his tail out of the way."

I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it was an accident waiting to happen.

"Still, there is no doubt that we'll have to amputate."

My stomach turned.

"How much? How much will you have to cut?"

"I won't know until we get him in surgery. My best guess is about three inches."

"There's no other option?"

"No other option. The tip of his tail is almost dead. The injured section has sustained nerve damage, and there's no way of restoring it."

"What about the hair?"

"It will grow back. In time, no one will know."

Right, except me. I'll know. That long, bushy tail won't be long enough to wrap around his legs like a winter scarf. It will no longer stand like a periscope when he walks.

"What's the healing time?" I asked, worried because we had only eight days before leaving the country for two months.

"Ten to twelve days."

My heart sank. "We don't have that long. We're going to Mexico and leaving Zuni with a house sitter who likes cats but . . ."

The vet explained the protocol. He'd be given antibiotics twice a day for a week and pain medication, as needed. That meant we could finish that part of his treatment before leaving.

"And the stitches?"

"They'll dissolve on their own, so you won't have to worry about that. But he'll have to wear a collar to prevent him from licking and scratching."

There was no way. Zuni was a wild man who bit attendants during routine exams. To stick one of those plastic Elizabethan collars on him and expect him to get used to it was as likely as asking me to move to Alaska during the winter.

"Good luck getting it on him," I muttered, suddenly exhausted.

They did manage to attach the collar. And he hated it. The minute we arrived home and I opened his cat carrier, he catapulted out and flew through the air, landing on his feet, and then running up and down the stairs, bumping into walls at every turn. When he came to a halt, he was panting, his little tongue hanging out, his breath fogging up the plastic collar. It was pathetic, really.

The next morning, we found Zuni sitting calmly in the upstairs hallway, his collar crunched up against an adjoining wall. Our little Houdini had somehow squeezed out of a collar that was good and tight the night before. My husband and I knew then that we'd have to take turns making sure that he didn't bite or lick the stitches until they dissolved.

It's Day #4. Zuni seems more and more like himself despite the missing 3 inches of tail. Still, we're not out of the woods yet. I caught him licking his stitches earlier this morning and have had to sequester him in my office where I can keep an eye on him.

Small penance for the harm I've caused.

An Intimate Yoga Class

2011-12-05T11:55:00.008-06:00

Yoga class was particularly crowded this morning. We burgeoning yogis moved our mats closer together to make room for more people than the space could easily hold. Lying still no more than a foot away from our closet neighbor, one could hear the intimate breathing of our floor mates . . . the inhales, exhales, sniffles, coughs, grunts, and all other sorts of human noises made during the course of class.

It was all very intimate.

We wiggled this way and that in order to reach our arms along the floor, move our legs from side to side, to just "be" on the mat. The yogi-in-training to my right has a history of bad allergies at this time of year, so her breathing was at times labored as she struggled to inhale through congested nasal passages. The gentleman to my right moaned softly. I wasn't sure whether the postures were too strenuous or whether he had reached a state of near Nirvana.

I wondered whether such intimacy would detract from my yoga practice, particularly when on this very day when I'd set my intention to accept myself, my life, and the world around me. Okay, maybe I bit off more than I could chew. But I thought I'd give it a go. Maybe all these people lying so close to one another were a test of some sort, a yogi exam. If I could do my downward dogs without worrying that my tail was in someone else's face. . . if I could manage a plank pose without collapsing on someone else's mat . . . if I could breathe freely and not be influenced by the breath of someone else . . Then maybe, just maybe, I was on my way to enlightenment. Well, okay, maybe just en route to a cheerful afternoon.

A Game of Scrabble

2011-11-29T16:30:00.003-06:00

My elderly parents’ decision to relocate to a small, quaint two-bedroom house in a sleepy Ohio town just a ten-minute drive from my sister’s farmhouse came out of left field and confused the heck out of me.

“We considered your area,” my mother explained in a phone call, trying to make certain that I didn’t feel slighted. “But it’s such a big city and so expensive.”

I was relieved. Overseeing my parents’ care in the last years of their lives was not on my “To Do” list.

“And while I’d love to live in France at John’s place, your father would never agree,” she said somewhat wistfully. “So when your sister said there was a house for sale in Yellow Springs, we decided to have a look.”

My baby sister had one upped me without saying a word.

“And?” I said.

“And it’s adorable.”

I couldn’t envision my parents squeezing into a small house after having lived in large, beautiful spaces for most of their adult lives. But more power to them. I admired their guts and their faith in a future. How many people in their late 80s moved anywhere except into a nursing home or in with a son or daughter?

“Dad’s willing to live in Yellow Springs?” I said. “What about golf? And the winter?”

“For now, we’ll go there in the summer and fall and come back to Sarasota for the winter.”

“Does the house need work?” I said, wondering whether my sister knew what she was getting herself into.

“It really doesn’t need much, though we’re talking about putting on an addition off the bedroom. And we might fix up the attic, put in a bathroom, and a separate entrance for live-in help, if and when we ever need it.”

I should have known. My mother and her plans. Always one step ahead of the game.

“And the fact is that now we’ll be only a short plane ride away from you or a five-or-so-hour drive.”

The initial relief at not having to care for my parents quickly turned to guilt. I was the oldest child, the one who should have made the offer. But there was no way I could bring my parents to Chicago. I was back at work full-time. And my mom could barely walk up the front stairs of our home the last time she visited.

“When are you moving up? I said.

“As soon as we can.”

My sister had plenty of time on her hands. She hadn’t been employed for years. Sure, she had her art and her farm that kept her busy. But it wasn’t the same as going to work every day. Besides, she had a close-knit group of female friends who knew and loved my parents. I was sure that they would pitch in. I vowed to visit often and prove to my parents that I loved them as much as my sister did.

It didn’t take long for my sister to call and ask if I could stay with my parents while she and a friend went camping. I was pleased to help her out but had to hold back reminding her that she’d gotten herself into this whole thing. What did she expect?

My dad was at the side door when I pulled my car into the driveway. “How was the drive?” he said, giving me a quick kiss on the lips.

“I got caught in the usual morning rush hour traffic in Chicago. After that, it was a breeze. Took me less time than I thought.”

“Good. That’s good.” He put my suitcase down on the driveway. “Listen, I want to talk to you before you go inside.”

Now what? I ‘d only just arrived.

“Things aren’t going well with your mother.”

“What’s wrong?” I said, already wishing that I hadn’t come. My sister wanted my parents close by. She should have been there to handle this.

“It’s just so hard to see her like this.”

“What’s ‘like this’ mean?”

My dad choked on his words. “She’s not herself. Her memory is shot.”

“It must be hard for you,” I said, trying to mirror his feelings when I really wanted to ask him why he was spending every day on the golf course instead of with my mother.

“I can’t take it anymore. It’s wearing me out.”

“How do you think mom feels? You think this is easy for her?”

“I don’t think she has a clue.”

“Oh, sure she does. But she’s made up her mind to accept things. She told me on the phone the other day that she’s just happy to be alive.”

“Well, I’m not! This getting old business is for the birds.”

I laughed. “You mean ‘not for sissies.’ That’s what you’ve always said. ‘Getting old is not for sissies.’”

He didn’t crack a smile. Where had his sense of humor gone? He’d always been the kibitzer, the one making the jokes, a lot of them off-color. Now he’d turned into a bitter, old man whom I no longer recognized and didn’t like.

“And I can’t get her to do a thing,” he said. “She spends half the day in bed.”

My sister had told me that my mother loved to go out and be pushed in her wheelchair but that my dad was never willing to go along.

I wanted to push his buttons, to see for myself. “Well, maybe we can go for a walk into town. Get an ice cream. Mom loves ice cream.”

“We’ll see,” he said without conviction.

“How’s your golf game these days?” I said, picking up my suitcase and moving toward the house.

“Lousy.”

“But you’re still out there, plugging away.”

“It’s a waste of time.”

“But it gets you out of the house.” Away from mom, I thought. But I swallowed the thought. I was afraid that he’d yell at me or, worse yet, never love me again.

My mother sat in the small living room with an unopened book on her lap. She looked good, a bit heavier than usual but more relaxed. Maybe it was a blessing of sorts that she no longer had to create those “To Do” lists and worry about managing her life and everybody else’s. She recognized me. That was all that mattered.

I was shocked when, later in the evening, my mother suggested playing Scrabble.
I glanced at my dad, trying to gauge his reaction. In years past, our family often sat at the dining room table and enjoyed a good game of Scrabble or a couple rounds of Word Duel. My mother was almost always the winner and usually racked up double the points of her nearest competitor. But now she had trouble doing simple things like following a recipe, completing a crossword puzzle for beginners, or following a conversation. She was a shadow of the sharp, responsible, powerful woman she used to be; I couldn’t count on her for much of anything. And that pissed me off. How could she abandon me and apparently not give a damn?

“Well, are you two ready to play?” my mother said. She’d made her way to the small breakfast table with the Scrabble game in hand.

Again, I looked at my father who hadn’t budged from the wicker chair. I thought of our conversation earlier in the day and wanted to encourage him. “C’mon, dad,” I said, grabbing his hand and pulling him up from the chair. “Let’s play Scrabble.”

My mother dropped a few of the word tiles on the floor, and that drove my dad nuts. “Shirley!” he said. “Quit dropping the tiles.”

“Oh, Mor,” she said. “What’s the big deal?”

“They’ll fall into the heating vent. That’s the big deal.”

I hated my dad for being so damn insensitive. Each time she dropped a tile, I shot him a nasty look, bent down, and picked up the tile. None of them ever got close to the vent.

My mother was having trouble making a word. I looked at her letters and saw at least two obvious possibilities. I resisted helping her because I thought she’d be humiliated.

“Shirley,” my dad said in that accusative voice of his. “You’re taking too much time.”

She looked at him and glared. All I could do was shake my head in disgust and wonder how my parents had stayed together for sixty-eight years. I ached for them and vowed not to let my own marriage sink into the depths of barbs and misunderstandings.

My mother continued to stare at her letter tiles. At one point, she picked up a letter and started to place it on the board. I held my breath. “No,” she mumbled, realizing in that split second that she’d forgotten whatever word had filtered in and then out of her mind. It was pathetic, really. The woman who could do The New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle without a dictionary could no longer form one stinking word.
“Shirley,” my dad said again. “You’re taking too much time!”

That did it. My mother threw her tiles on the table, shoved her chair from the table, said something about “Play your own damn game,” and marched into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

I sat, my arms folded in front of me, fuming. “You’re a mean man.”
He flinched but, instead of hollering, he asked me to please go talk to my mother and bring her back to the table.

“That’s your job, not mine,” I said, trying to keep my voice down so my mother wouldn’t hear.

“I just can’t stand to see her this way,” he said, trying to explain. I didn’t give a damn about his feelings. He’d become a stranger to me.

“Please, Jane,” he said. “Go get you mother.”

I knew my going wouldn’t solve a thing. My parents needed to work this one out themselves. “You should go,” I said. “You’re the one who upset her.”

My dad put his hand on top of mine. His hand was severely sun damaged, covered by red and purple blotches and open sores. The blotches disgusted me.

“I’m asking you to go get your mother,” he said, no longer softly pleading but commanding me to act.

I pulled my hand from under his and placed it ceremoniously on my lap.

My dad had removed his glasses. The deep indentation from the nose clips on either side of his long, prominent nose and the dark, puffy shadows under his blue but now milky eyes made him look like the old man he was. Despite myself, I felt sorry for him. Sorry for him, for my mom, and for me. Our family was falling apart, disintegrating in front of my eyes.

“I’m doing this for me,” I said, getting up from the table, pushing the chair away.

I found my mother standing at the end of the bed. She’d taken off her robe and was wearing a cotton, sleeveless nightgown. I couldn’t tell from the blank look on her face whether she even remembered what had just transpired.

“I am so proud of you, mom,” I said. And I meant it. “Most people who have memory problems would never dare to suggest playing Scrabble. But you jumped right in and gave it your best shot.”

She looked at me adoringly. “You’re the best daughter any mother could ever ask for,” she said, encircling her arms around me and pulling me close.

I nestled my head in between her large breasts and felt safer and more comfortable with her than I had since she betrayed my trust and read my diary some forty-five years earlier.

“Why don’t you come back to the table?” I said, reaching for her hand and leading her back to the kitchen.

She shuffled behind me, taking small, uncertain steps.

My dad managed a faint smile. “Glad you’re back,” he said.
I bet you are. I saved your ass.

I pulled my mother’s chair out and, still holding her hand, placed her body squarely in front of the chair before having her sit down.

“Now where were we?” she said enthusiastically as if nothing had happened. She reached into the velvet purple bag and picked seven letter tiles, carefully placing them on her wood rack.

MUSINGS FROM AN OLDEST DAUGHTER

2011-11-23T12:13:00.004-06:00

Every morning until she turned ninety, my mother —wearing a sleeveless, silk nightgown and nothing else — stood at the kitchen counter, sharpened a #2 pencil with a full eraser, studied her appointment calendar, and then neatly printed the day’s “To Do” list — a list she would complete “come hell or high water.” My mother was a planner who believed that order and structure could fend off life’s messy surprises. She’d apparently been caught off guard and greatly disappointed often enough that she’d vowed to try to control the future, thus controlling her fate.

Over the years, I’d gotten used to my mother’s “To Do” list; in fact, I thought them so handy that I’d taken to compiling my own. My lists were never properly printed but scribbled on the back of grocery bills, torn envelopes, or, when nothing else was available, on paper napkins, often adorned with lipstick blots or remnants of lunch or dinner. I felt a sense of accomplishment when, at the end of a day, I could look at a list with nary one item left to do. Funny, but I think I lost my love of lists around the same time my mother stopped bothering with them all together. By then, she had trouble seeing, difficulty hearing, and her memory was a shred of what it used to be. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Flashback to one of my visits to my parents who by then had long been retired, living first on Longboat Key, Florida, in a condo fronting the Gulf of Mexico and then in an apartment across the bay in Sarasota. The latter two-bedroom was situated on the eleventh floor in what was a state-of-the-art senior living facility with swimming pools, a dining room, theater, work-out room and all kinds of other amenities for those lucky enough to use their social security checks as chump change, not as their major source of income. The developer of the complex had turned the interior decorating over to his wife who, in my humble opinion, must have been on a bad acid trip when she picked out the furnishings, mixing as she did striped and plaid couches with flower-patterned carpets, fake plants (in Florida, no less!), statues of dancing children (attempt to remind the seniors of their youth?), and garish chandeliers dangling from ceilings in every room. The trek from the front door, through the lobby, up the elevator, and down the long, the value of wearing dark —very dark — sunglasses.

My parents and I had returned from dinner at a local seafood restaurant on Highway 41, the main drag leading in and out of Sarasota. My mother, still dolled up in her designer mid-calf black skirt and matching long-sleeved jacket, handed me a copy of something called a “Guaranteed Security Plan” — some Madison Avenue brander’s gimmicky name for a funeral and burial insurance policy.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” I said as I stared at the folder.

“Well,” said my mother, “this way you guys won’t be burdened by making decisions about coffins and head stones after we die.”

The ‘you guys’ referred to my two younger siblings and me. As the oldest, I was burdened with hearing this nonsense before the others and for making sure that the funeral primer was followed down to the last shovelful of dirt heaped on my parents’ coffins.

I stared out the windows facing north and west. A sliver of a new moon hovered against a dark sky dotted with a host of twinkling stars. “Isn’t this a bit premature? I mean, you’re in your early eighties and hopefully have years left before you . . . “

“We aren’t going to live forever, you know.”

My mother seemed so cavalier about it all, as if death weren’t a big deal. But it was a big deal to me. It had taken years for me to move forward after my brother’s suicide on his thirtieth birthday. I wasn’t ready to face my parents’ deaths, unable to imagine life without them. I counted on them for too much, moral and emotional support and sometimes some extra cash when things were tight or a free trip to Florida in the middle of a tortuous Chicago winter.

“So,” my dad said. “I’ve got a joke for you.”

“Oh, not another one of your off-color ones.”

“No, this one is fine for the whole family.”

His bushy white eyebrows accented the top of a long, narrow face, the shape of which both my younger sister and I had inherited. There was a twinkle now in those blue eyes. He loved telling a good joke, almost as much as he loved playing a round of golf.

“There's an old rabbi who wants to try pork before he dies. But, being an Orthodox rabbi, he can't eat pork in his community, so he goes to a restaurant 50 miles away. On the menu is a dish called ‘Suckling Pig’ so he orders it and they bring it out on a beautiful tray with an apple in its mouth. Just as he's about to take his first bite, in walks Goldberg, the president of his congregation.
Goldberg says, ‘Rabbi, what are you doing? What are you eating?’

The rabbi replies, ‘Goldberg, can you believe this restaurant? I order a baked apple and this is how they serve it to me!”

“Very funny,” I said, laughing despite myself. Leave it to my dad to turn the conversation from death to rabbis eating pork. He was as uninterested in discussing burial plans as I was, probably even more.

Still, I had some questions. “You went along with this?” I said, pointing to the folder sitting in front of me.

“You know your mother. When she sets her mind on something, there’s no way out.”

“Oh, Mor,” my mom said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “That’s not true.”

The truth was that my mother almost always got her way. She could be relentless. I pitied my dad having to live with such a force of nature, all packed into a woman not quite five feet tall in her stocking feet. But he seemed resigned to taking orders from her and hadn’t yet begun to put up much of a fuss.

“Here,” my mother said, handing me a manila folder. “I want you to keep this in your files.”

I flipped open the folder and glanced at the “Guaranteed Security Plan” my parents had signed. “Mogen David casket with an oval top.” You’ve got to be kidding! “Poplar wood exterior with a walnut stain.” Jesus. My parents had chosen their “merchandise” as if they’d purchased a new car, selecting various packages to upgrade the basic product. Maybe the policy would make for a seamless funeral and burial. But I had my doubts. Even a planner like my mother couldn’t always have things her way.

I continued reading. A two-inch by one-foot by six-inch granite grave marker to “match that of Robert Mersky in Space 1.” Space 1? Is that what we become? Spaces? That was my brother, dead now for over twenty years. I slammed the folder shut. I was sick of having to be the responsible one. I’d played that role all of my life and yearned to let go and let someone else pick up the slack.

My mother reopened the folder. “Did you see this?” she said, pointing to a document titled “Travel Care Plus +.”

“No,” I mumbled.

I hated talking about death. But maybe I needed to buck up. Face the inevitable. After all, I was a grown woman in my fifties. As my mother said, she and my dad weren’t going to live forever. But when they died, I’d be the matron of the family, the one supposedly in charge of keeping us all together. My mother was so good at that. There wasn’t a happy occasion or a funeral that she didn’t miss and to which she didn’t try to drag the rest of us. To her, family was everything. And she wished more than anything that my siblings and I would be good friends and get along long after she was gone. I’d never be able to promise her that. My sister and I were good buddies. But my surviving brother and I had had a rocky relationship ever since I could remember. He never approved of me, my middle class lifestyle, my choice in men. It was if he saw in me a replica of my mother, and nothing I could do or say changed his mind. I’d given up trying.

“So,” my mother said as she closed the folder and pushed it in my direction. “Put this away for safe keeping.”

When I returned to Chicago, I stuffed the thing in a larger red folder marked “Parents” and didn’t open it again for eight years.

GIVING THANKS

2011-11-23T10:21:00.003-06:00

Yes, there are many things for which to be thankful:
* We have somehow escaped another 9/11.
* Despite the floods, hurricanes, tornadoes, and other disasters that have reeked havoc on many corners of the world, planet Earth and the humans who inhabit it remain
. . . for now
* The Republican field for President has managed to implode, one candidate at a time.
* Participants in Occupy Wall Street have at last given voice to the real "silent majority" in this country. Some folks may not like the tents, the drumming, or the lack of one grand leader, yet the majority of Americans support the issues of inequality and want to see something done to level the playing field.
* The Arab Spring and Summer have reminded us how much men and women crave freedom and how they are willing to put their lives on the line to secure it.
* Greece and Italy were rescued from the brink of financial collapse.
* Italy's Prince of Debauchery has been booted from office. It will be harder now for him to summon his harem and party on down.
* The thugs at World News Corp are getting their just due.
* With the economic mess has come a renewed appreciation for the importance of family and friends. For some, it has afforded a chance to reinvent. For others, it has taught the valuable lessons of financial budgeting and restraint. Still, we'd all be happier if more people could go back to work.

MY WISH LIST FOR 2012 INCLUDES BUT IS NOT LIMITED TO:
* A return to sanity among at least 51% of the American voting public
* A new discussion about election reform
* A renewed emphasis on alternative forms of energy
* The dismantling of the Bush tax cuts for the wealthy
* A health care law that covers every American
* Fiscal responsibility for the social programs like Social Security and Medicare that keep millions of older Americans afloat
* A decrease in weapons of mass destruction
* A revived American and world economy
* Legalization of marijuana
* Continued passage of laws to enact gay marriage
* Improved educational systems that reincorporate art, music, dance into the curriculum

Gee, I could go on, but you get my drift. We are blessed to have the opportunity to make meaningful changes to save ourselves, our kids, and subsequent generations. Do we have the will?

FORGIVENESS

2011-11-10T09:55:00.006-06:00

A dear friend of my husband and mine died suddenly of a heart attack at age 68. One minute he was dancing the funky chicken at a niece's wedding; the next, he was on the floor, moaning in pain. Henry (not his real name) had been my husband's college roommate and a dear friend ever since. They shared a love of making art, of travel adventures, and a bond of unshakeable friendship. Unshakeable, that is, until two years before Henry's death when, upset about something to do with his terminally ill brother, he severed all communication. Several attempts at reconnecting - letters, a birthday card, emails - failed. Henry had made up his mind. He wanted nothing to do with my husband or me.

For months Henry haunted us. We searched our memories for what might have sent him over the edge. But it was all a series of guesses; we didn't have a clue. We'd been declared dead and gone without any cause of death. In some ways, the not knowing catapulted me back to the suicide death of my brother. Sure, there were some plausible reasons - at least, in my brother's mind - to take his life: his fragile psyche, the reality of life without hard drugs, a complete lack of direction. But my family and I would never know for sure. And the not knowing, as much as his death, plagued me for years. Only when I'd pursued every lead and come to a dead end every time - when I'd talked to young people who had attempted suicide and lived, to family members and friends of those who weren't so lucky, to experts of every stripe - did I finally accept the not knowing, absolve myself of guilt, move beyond the anger, and the palpable pain.

Henry's wife, (I'll call her Sarah) also a dear friend for over 45 years, is a therapist. She's also an Orthodox Jew whose parents disowned her when she announced that she and Henry, then a lapsed Catholic, were getting married. As far as her parents were concerned, their daughter was dead and buried. The hurt was too much to bear. Sarah had a nervous breakdown. Only when Henry promised to convert to Orthodox Judaism did the parents welcome their back-from-the-dead daughter into their lives again.

Given that history, one would think that Sarah would remember the pain of being banished and would do all in her power to convince Henry that he needed to at least communicate with us and tell his side of the story. That never happened. So, when the phone rang early on a Sunday morning with Henry's sister on the other end telling us that he had died, I burst into tears for him, for his wife, and for us - the dear friend who would now never be able to restore the friendship.

"You're the first people we've called," his sister said.

"But . . we haven't spoken to Henry in two years."

"That doesn't matter. We want you here at the memorial service this afternoon." I hesitated. Did this mean that Sarah had agreed? Or was Henry's sister acting on her own?

"We'll be there."

We arrived at the funeral home later that day and waited for Sarah. She darted into the private room for family only, talking on the phone I was told to her son back in Phoenix who was saddled with making all of the funeral and burial arrangements. When I saw her come out of the room and head toward the women's restroom, I followed her.

"I'm so sorry," I said, wrapping my arms around her. She stiffened.

"How are you doing?"

"What do you expect?"

I began to feel very uncomfortable. "Is there anything we can do?" I offered.

Sarah stared at me, her eyes not filled with tears but with rage. "It's too late."

She turned and walked away.

I felt sick to my stomach and wanted to grab my husband and leave. I hadn't come for abuse but for some kind of a start toward reconciliation or at least some understanding as to what had gone so wrong between us. That was not to be. Sarah, even in her grief, refused to reach out to me for support. She'd made a conscious decision not to open the door, even a tiny bit.

And I made the decision to remember the good times we had shared and to move on.

Sleeping Like A Baby

2011-11-08T10:40:00.019-06:00

Okay. So I waited almost three years before subjecting myself to a second overnight sleep test. Sure, I knew I had sleep apnea along with approximately 30 million other Americans, but when my neurologist pointed out that during my first sleep test, at one point, I'd stopped breathing for a whopping 54 seconds, I gasped.

"I can't hold my breath for 54 seconds!" I said.

"Well, you did."

He then lit into a litany of possible consequences of stopping breathing during one's sleep (not including the final ending): heart attacks, strokes, impotence, irregular heartbeat, high blood pressure, and heart disease.

So, how could I continue to refuse to treat my sleep apnea?

The major stumbling block? Having to wear one of those ugly Darth Vader-like masks every night. It was bad enough that I've been inserting a mouth piece nightly that prevents me from gnashing my teeth but positions my jaw so that I resemble a baby monkey. Not pretty!

Still, it's a big step up from a clear mouthpiece to a mask with an oxygen tube connected to it.

"You're in good health," the doctor said. "Why take a chance when you can do something now to prevent any future problems?"

I'm not sure why his argument made sense when in the past I was willing to take my chances. Maybe it was my mother's experience. She was ninety and hospitalized with all kinds of ailments. One night the nurse walked in, saw that my mother wasn't breathing, and called a "Code Blue." Not once, but twice. The nurse and doctors thought she'd had a stroke. Only later after my panicked father had driven to the hospital, after I'd made a plane reservation to fly to Florida did the hospital staff realize that my mother had stopped breathing because she had sleep apnea.

I gave in and signed up for my second overnight sleep test. I didn't know until I checked in that this time I'd be tested wearing the C-PAP mask. Now, these masks apparently come in a variety of types. One of the least invasive is one in which small tubes carrying oxygen are placed in each nostril. But there's a downside: You cannot breathe through your mouth. If you do, the flow of oxygen stops and, as I was informed, stopping the flow too often during the night causes the oxygen to escape, drying out your mouth and reducing the effectiveness of the treatment.

But the technician was insistent. "Let's try this one first," she said. "It may be weird at first. And if you don't like it, we can try a full-face mask."

After I was all hooked up and ready to go, the technician turned out the lights and closed the door. Immediately, I panicked. What if I couldn't get enough air? It was like the first time I'd used a snorkel. I did my best to relax, breathing in and out through my nose like I do in yoga class. With some effort, I calmed down, only to feel my left nostril tightening. I was going to suffocate. I was sure of it.

"Bernadette," I said. "Can you hear me?"

She'd told me to call her if and when I needed something.

"Yes, I can hear you."

Thank goodness. For a moment there, I thought she'd decided to take a coffee break.

"I want to try the other mask."

Bernadette fitted me with a second mask. This number covered my nose and mouth with what felt like rubber edges to prevent the oxygen from escaping. It was a tight fit, but I didn't care. I could now breathe any way I wanted.

"Good night," Bernadette said a second time as she turned out the lights.

I thought about how brave my mother had been lying in that hospital bed with doctors and nurses trying to revive her. I'm sure she was confused, scared, terrified. But when I saw her a day later, she made light of the misdiagnosis and said all she wanted was to go home.

And that's all I wanted. To fall asleep, get this test over with, and go home.

I tossed and turned. The melatonin I'd taken didn't do a thing to relax me. I reached for one and then a second prescribed sleeping medication. Finally, I fell into a deep sleep that was interrupted about five hours later with a throbbing pain in the bridge of my nose.

"Bernadette, are you there?"

"Good morning. What can I do for you?"

"The mask . . . it's killing my nose."

"We can end the test," she said. "But first I need you to follow a few instructions."

Like what? I wanted the mask off.

"Close your eyes and don't open them until I tell you."

Couldn't she see? My eyes WERE closed."

"Okay, good. Now open your eyes and keep them open until I tell you."

What did this have to do with anything? I was going to rip the mask off if she didn't hurry.

After what seemed an eternity with additional exercises ("Look to the right." "Look to the left." "Wiggle your right foot." "Now your left.") Bernadette saved the day and unhooked the mask.

It's two days later, and the bridge of my nose is still sore. But what's a little soreness if I can breathe through the night, stop snoring, and maybe just maybe enable my husband to stop wearing earplugs for the first time in years?

Wheel of Fortune

2011-04-15T17:39:00.017-05:00

M.K. and I bonded over "Wheel of Fortune," not the TV fare with Vanna and Pat but the online version with poorly-animated "contestants" and a wheel spun by pressing "Enter" or "Return."

M.K. was a member of the group for which I volunteer every Wednesday afternoon at Misericordia --- a residential community of care for people with mild to profound developmental disabilities, many of whom are also physically challenged. M.K. was frightfully thin, his matchstick legs and arms appearing as if they might snap and break at the slightest provocation. Unable to walk unaided for more than a few steps, he moved about in a black wheelchair that required someone pushing on the back end. His dark, straight hair was matted under a baseball cap that was absent only after a bad fall necessitated a slew of stitches.

M.K. sat quietly at the conference table in Room 201. He rarely interacted with other classmates, so I had no idea what was brewing under that baseball cap of his. Then one day when the topic of discussion was Japan, he spoke up, anxious to know exactly where Japan was. I eyed the globe sitting on the window sill, raced over and grabbed it, and returned to point out Japan's exact location.

"Where are we?" M.K. said.

I turned the globe until I fingered Chicago. "Right here."

"What is this place?" M.K. said as he placed his slender finger close to Denver.

"That's Denver, Colorado."

"What do they do there?"

"Well, lots of people like to ski in the winter and hike in the summer."

M.K.'s questions would have continued unabated, but the instructor needed to guide the discussion back to Japan.

But I'd discovered there was quite an inquisitive mind lurking under that baseball cap and made a mental note to use the globe with M.K. whenever the opportunity arose.

A week or two later, I walked behind M.K. as he sat at a computer. Unlike some of his classmates who returned to the same computer game time and time again, M.K. liked to experiment. On this day, he was playing "Wheel of Fortune."

"Can I play, too?" I said, grabbing a chair and pushing it next to his.

Startled, M.K. sat there, frozen. He pretended not to have heard me.

"I used to love watching that show," I said. "Sometimes I could solve the puzzles. Sometimes I couldn't. How about you?"

"I'm pretty good," he said in a whisper.

"Wanna show me?"

M.K. wasn't one to bend to pressure. He did exactly what he wanted. His silence made me uncomfortable. Maybe I'd pushed too hard. Maybe I should have left him alone.

After a long pause. "Sure."

For the rest of my time that afternoon, M.K. and I played "Wheel of Fortune." When I couldn't complete the puzzle, he'd blindly start punching in letters on the keyboard, often sending the game into overload. My inclination was to shout, "No, wait a minute. Let's think this through." And I'm sure I said that a few times. But more often, I just let him type away, hoping that by some miracle the puzzle would be solved or that that the game wouldn't crash.

Week after week, I'd make my rounds, chatting with everyone, answering questions, making supportive comments. When I got to M.K., I'd say, "How about a few rounds of 'Wheel of Fortune?'"

There was never any doubt. M.K. was always anxious to play.

I don't remember talking about personal things. Well, maybe I asked where he was going for vacation (he was staying at Misericordia) or what his favorite foods were (hamburgers and fries). But our focus was on amassing as much play money as possible and dreaming about what we might want to do with all that moola. A trip to Disney Land? Maybe an ocean voyage? Perhaps a visit to Japan?

And whenever possible, I'd grab the globe and show M.K. our fantasy destination.

But the globe was small and difficult to read. I had to squint hard to make out most of the names. For someone like M.K. with poor eyesight (he'd broken his glasses, and it took what seemed like months to get them replaced), reading the words was impossible.

I decided to buy a bigger globe and donate it to Room 201. After a thorough online search, I purchased a 16" inflatable globe and couldn't wait to gift it to Room 201 in M.K.'s honor. But M.K. was absent that Wednesday and the Wednesday after that. He'd been hospitalized but for what and for how long was information to which a volunteer like me was not privy. His roommate visited him, took him his favorite hamburger and fries, and said he was doing "okay."

"I miss him," his roommate said.

"I'm sure you do."

"I just want him to get better. He's my roommate."

But M.K. didn't get better and died in the rehab center where he'd been transferred after his hospitalization. "His body just gave out on him," I was told.

The inflatable globe sits on the window sill next to the older, smaller globe. The person who would have enjoyed it most never got to grasp it in his hands, spin it around, and discover the exact location of some exotic country or to reaffirm his place in the world. But he was able to reaffirm his place in my memories and in my heart.

Getting Out of Myself

2010-09-16T08:34:00.003-05:00

The perfect antidote to writing a memoir with so much focus on oneself is to spend some time, however limited, with others who appreciate your undivided attention.

In that spirit, I started volunteering at Misericordia, a home for people with mild to severe developmental disabilities, many with physical challenges as well. "My" class has turned me inside out. They are SO challenged but, in most cases, SO loving and open and, yes, SO happy.

Confidentiality prevents me from using any personal photos and real names. So I will use first-name aliases and give you a quick overview.

* Stan - Stan has Down Syndrome. From Day 1, he wanted to sit next to me because he figured out quickly that I could help him with his journal writing, a task he finds extremely difficult, not because he doesn't have ideas but because his spelling is at a first or second grade level. Like most people with Down Syndrome, his tongue is too big for his mouth. He constantly sticks out his tongue, as if gasping for breath, and the subsequent dribbling is inevitable. It took a few weeks for me to get beyond the dribbles and the chapped lips to appreciate Stan for his sense of humor and his kindness. It is now an unwritten rule that he sit next to me come "hell or high water."

* David - David talks a mile a minute, stuttering, mispronouncing words. But if you listen carefully, amid the gush of sounds are observations, facts, and feelings. David loves sports and knows his stuff. He gets very excited when talking about the TV channel on which a particular sporting event will be aired. David likes mystery. He can't wait to find out who the new "American Idol" judges will be or who will win a football game or the World Series. I'm a sports junkie, too. So, David and I have become fast buddies.

* Suzy - Suzy is one of the highest functioning young women in the group. She flies back and forth between Chicago and her hometown, sings in one of Misericordia's performance groups, and remembers things that many of the others forget. Suzy adores a particular Elvis impersonator; whenever she has the chance, she sits at the computer, headphones on, and watches the same You Tube videos over and over again. For the past two weeks, Suzy has told me that she loves me.

I look forward to my few hours at Misericordia. It some ways, it's like meditation. I get beyond the chatter of my own mind. I am focused on others who, for a short time every week, take me out of myself.

I recommend it to everyone!

Trying My Hand at Writing A Memoir

2010-06-28T18:42:00.003-05:00

My Memoir Writing class started three weeks ago, and I've been writing my heart out ever since. Some of what I've written is quite good; other sections have already been tossed. Par for the course but, still, this has been no easy task.

In many ways, I feel like I've been on a psychiatrist's couch without much food or sleep. What was I REALLY thinking when I was three and my baby brother was born? What did it REALLY feel like to be dethroned, never to be the center of anyone's universe again? Why did I REALLY use my dad's razor when I was eleven and shave my legs? When my brother took his life, why didn't I turn to my family for support and comfort?

The questions are endless; the digging is deep.

I'm used to telling other people's stories. Sure, I may include my tale in a preface or a prologue. Or maybe even in a magazine article. But to consider making myself the main character of a memoir, someone who is compelling, interesting, and, oh, yes, wise . . . well, that's a tall order. Quite candidly, I'm not sure I'm ready.

The most successful memoirs don't just string together a series of events that may, in and of themselves, be quite enticing. No, a memoir has an arc just as a novel or a play. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. And a memoir has major themes, hopefully universal, that demonstrate how the character (me) has evolved and, through her experiences, gained some insights that other people may find handy.

I wasn't a drug addict or a prostitute or a Rhodes Scholar. I didn't cover the war in Iraq or perform in a circus or strip joint. God hasn't talked to me - at least, not directly - and I can't read other peoples' minds. My parents had their dysfunction, but I wasn't abused.

Sure, I've known my share of failure, disappointment, and tragedy. But nothing necessarily to write a memoir about.

Unless . . . unless my writing is so sharp, my feelings so honest, my "voice" so unique that an editor is willing to take a chance that more than 500 people will be interested.

In truth, I'm not focused on publication. Been there, done that. I'm more interested in the process of writing, in the challenge of digging deep and finding the exact words that, when I've finally arranged them just so, make me go "Wow! That's damn good."

Happy Birthday, Daddy-O

2010-05-11T15:44:00.006-05:00

If he'd lived, my dad would be celebrating his 93rd birthday today. Oh, I'm sure he'd be complaining about his golf game. And it's quite possible that we would have taken his driver's license away by now. His sense of distance had been failing, and he tended to swing wide, just missing hitting the curb or sometimes other cars. And, oh, how he'd be missing my mother who died a matter of weeks before he did!

That wasn't the way it was supposed to be. My dad had for years expressed the wish to die first; he couldn't imagine facing life without her. They barbed at one another constantly (My mother said to me at one point, "I wish your father would take a permanent golf vacation"), and the distance between them appeared to grow once my mother became seriously ill. I recognize now that my dad was petrified that my mother wouldn't make it and, instead of supporting and caring for her, he did everything he could to push her to her limits.

For all his years, my dad was in incredibly good shape. Hell, it took him 8 days to die with no food or water. He couldn't do math in his head anymore, and multi-tasking was often beyond him. But he was still very present, never forgot a face, and could argue politics and other social issues with the best of them. He loved the fact that I was politically involved and was intrigued by how the computer had revolutionized social/political networking. My dad was a proud member of MoveOn.org. He was hip and progressive to the end.

Sitting by his bed side, waiting for him to die after a subdural hematoma left him paralyzed on the left side, unable to speak, and unable to swallow, I was convinced that, despite his protestations to the contrary before he was struck down, he really didn't want to die. We all say things we don't mean, and I believe that if he could have had a second chance at life, he would have grabbed it. His beloved youngest daughter lived nearby. Her friends had become his. He'd taken to small town living in Yellow Springs, Ohio, like a duck to water and probably could have run for mayor or water commissioner. He was that personable. My dad could strike a conversation with anyone and often did.

I'd love to be able to talk to him now. So much has happened since July 26, 2008. Obama is President of the United States. He would be damn happy about that. The country is more polarized than it's been in decades. He would have been dismayed but with a sense of history that nine plus decades brings. And all the personal events, dreams and disappointments. My dad was a good sounding board and always one of my best supporters.

So, daddy-o, I wish you happy trails wherever you may be. Know that your memory is fresh, your lessons well taught, and your love always a port in the storm.

Happy Birthday!

A Unique Life: Maybe

2010-05-08T11:46:00.003-05:00

I've decided that as I approach my 65th birthday I should take a stab at writing a memoir. Hey, my life is as unique as anyone's. Well, maybe . . . I didn't suffer abject poverty, rape, or addiction. And my travels didn't take me to Bali for love or to India to pray.

But the circumstances surrounding my birth toward the end of World War II make for quite a dramatic story. (Once a Drama Queen, always a Drama Queen.) And dealing with anti-Semitism for the first time in the girls' bathroom at my new junior high school threw me for a loop. My brother's downward spiral and eventual suicide at age 30 changed my life and the dynamics in my family forever.

And then there was my marriage to the wrong man (I knew I was making a mistake but forged ahead), the birth of my son, several affairs, a divorce, life as a single mother, remarriage . . . Throw in my son's automobile accident that nearly paralyzed him for life, the effect that accident had on my second marriage (it almost ended it!), a seizure that led me to meditation, my burgeoning career as a writer . . . Now, we're getting somewhere.

And if you've been reading my blog, my dear reader, you know that I lost both my parents within 3 weeks of one another and the heartache and challenges their deaths created. In July of this year, we will mark the 2-year anniversary of their deaths. I still miss them terribly.

Anyway, I've signed up for an online memoir writing class led by a seasoned writing professor who has published her own memoir. Am I ready to open my life to strangers? Why not? My friends and family are too through with my stories by now. Stay tuned.

Remnants

2010-04-20T12:45:00.010-05:00

I hadn't intended to sell my mother's jewelry. I'd wear what I could and keep the rest in a safety deposit box for . . . A daughter-in-law? A granddaughter?

My mom's taste is jewelry was, for the most part, big. She liked 14 karat gold with bold stones that begged attention. Her favorite set was a gold necklace with an amethyst the size of Rhode Island, a matching pinkie ring with a second amethyst, and, yes, a pair of earrings with an amethyst dangling from each. The whole shebang cost a mint; the replacement value was even higher.

Alas, I'm just not a gold, big stone kind of gal. I go for silver, subtle, unique.
Even so, as I planned what I hoped would be the last estate sale (I'd already used Internet ads, auctions, consignment shops) to finally sell the remainder of my parents' stuff, I didn't consider selling the jewelry. Maybe it was the sense that my mother wouldn't approve. Or that I was a ruthless daughter interested in money. Whatever the reasons, I didn't list jewelry in the estate sale ads.

People kept calling and asking if I had any jewelry to sell. Initially, I said "No." Then I went through my own collection, picked out what I no longer wore, and threw that into the mix. I sold a few items. Then I tossed in costume jewelry from the 50s and 60s. The response was lukewarm. And there wasn't much interest either in the items I really wanted to sell - the rugs, the set of four Henredon chairs, the custom media center with antique Japanese screen doors, the oak square table for four. If I didn't unload these things, I would have to give them away. The monthly storage fee was bleeding me dry.

Finally, I called one of the dealers who was looking for "better" jewelry. I knew he'd never pay close to what the jewelry was worth. But I'd taken it around to estate jewelers months before, only to be told that it wasn't their style. Or that they'd melt the pieces down for the gold. Now, that I'd never do.

"How much do you want for these?" he said, having put together a pile of my mother's finest jewels, including the amethyst set.

I had no idea. "Let me look at the insurance estimates," I said.

"I'm not interested in those. They're always much too high, and I'm not going to pay close to those amounts."

This guy was a pro. I picked up the red folder with the insurance estimates and started reading aloud the descriptions and estimated values.

"What do you want?" he said again.

I started adding numbers in my head. "How about $1000?"

"$800," he countered.

I hate bargaining. "$900, and that's my final price."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and began handing me $100 bills. I thought of calling off the deal. My mother's going to kill me, I mumbled under my breath. "Sell these to women who will wear them proudly," I said loud enough so he could hear.

"What about these?" a second prospective buyer asked. She'd collected an array of less expensive pieces. Hardened by the first round of bargaining, I quoted her prices I was sure she wouldn't pay. I was surprised. She backed off of just one piece, an ornate silver necklace that looked Turkish or Indian. I vowed to wear the necklace sometime soon.

I cried myself to sleep that night. I missed my mom, wished I could call her and just shoot the breeze. Maybe she would have been practical about the jewelry thing and agreed that keeping it in a safety deposit box for years made no sense. Whatever her reaction, it would have been so good to hear her voice.

2010-04-14T11:02:00.010-05:00

I had the best of intentions. I'd counted my points, danced, walked, even took a yoga class. But at the end of a week, the numbers of my scale hadn't budged. And I wasn't about to stand on that four-pound-over Weight Watcher scale and have some smug woman who'd lost 500 pounds in three months record my failure and ask what I might do to jump start my diet. I'd jump started it, all right, with the physical scars to show for it: a perpetually sore lower back, aching muscles, and a growling stomach that talks to me all day long.

So, I played hooky. And instead of devouring a sweet, gooey pastry or a stack of pancakes smothered in butter and syrup, I read a book. An entire book. A 300-page book. (Okay, the print is rather large.) I plopped my sorry body down on the back deck, tilted my baseball cap to shield my eyes from the bright sun, and read Brooke Newman's Jenniemae & James: A Memoir in Black & White.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/0307462994/?tag=gidca-20

Yes, I'm a reader. But I can't remember the last time I read a book in one sitting or, for that matter, had sex multiple times in one day. It's been a while. But this book about a brilliant mathematician and his friendship with an uneducated, illiterate African American maid held me in its clutches for 4 hours with one potty break, a quick stroll around the garden, and one annoying phone call.

As pedestrian as it may sound, finishing that book gave the day meaning and me a sense of accomplishment. Phasing into retirement, it's easy to fret away the time, convinced that you should be doing something significant - whatever that means. Make money. Publish an article. Make a stranger happy.

Today I made myself happy. I think I'll read my way through the week, substituting the prose of good writers for any temporary satisfaction I might get from eating one too many Weight Watchers' peanut butter bars.

The Gathering

2010-04-03T09:55:00.009-05:00

In order to save money and make more room on my crowded bookshelves, I've weaned myself off of buying new books and, instead, begun to scan the shelves at my local library. This requires a good deal of patience, for libraries are behind the curve when it comes to current bestsellers. And when they do get these coveted books, there's usually a waiting list. Sure, some of the newbies make it to the "Grab it fast and read it quickly" section where I often find readers body-blocking entire rows of books so they can get first dibs. I find myself grabbing at titles I've never heard of just in case I might be interested. Usually, I'm not.

Last week I got a brilliant idea: I'd focus on past Booker Prize winners, books that have received Britain's counterpart to the Pulitzer. Penelope Lively won the Booker for Moon Tiger, one of my favorite all-time love stories and examples of one of those wondrous books in which events unfurl as the narrator recalls them, not in chronological order. So, why not get on the bandwagon and check out other British authors whose work has been singled out as the best?

That led me to Anne Enright's The Gathering, winner of the Booker in 2007. The back cover blurb tells of "a moving, evocative portrait of a large Irish family haunted by the past." Well, I'm not Irish, but this is a Booker-prize winner after all. The blurb continues, "The nine surviving children of the Hegarty clan are gathering in Dublin for the wake of their wayward brother, Liam, drowned at sea." I know about such gatherings only too well. We three surviving Mersky children gathered for the funeral of my brother, Robin, some thirty years ago.

I didn't read the remainder of the jacket blurb. I was sold.

And I wasn't disappointed. Enright's writing is poetic, her observations keen, and the parallels between her relationship with her brother and my relationship with mine are uncanny. Readers discover soon enough that Liam's drowning was intentional. He stuffed his pockets with stones and walked into the sea. My brother chose a different escape route: He stuck a hunting rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

I finished The Gathering two nights ago. I reached to turn off the reading lamp next to my bed and shivered, fearful that I might have bad dreams about my brother, gone now for thirty years.

Instead I thought about my mother. She was the one who found my brother, his bedroom walls splattered with blood and brain matter. By the time my father arrived home, the cleanup crew had left. While the smell of death was everywhere, there were no visual reminders.

My mother was left raw. I can only imagine the nightmares she suffered for years. Only after she died did a home nurse tell me that my mom talked often about "seeing" my brother again. Perhaps it was her anticipation of such a gathering that buoyed her spirit through the last difficult months of her life and underscored that, when all is said and done, it is, as she told me, love that makes it all worthwhile.

Yikes! Retirement!

2010-04-01T11:11:00.003-05:00

For us Baby Boomers, retirement can last 30 or more years - one-third of our lives. Now, there's an exciting (uh, scary) thought.

As someone in the midst of reinventing herself - or, at least, trying to figure out what's next - I must admit that it ain't easy. I realize some Baby Boomers can't wait to break the chains of an unsatisfying full-time job that has stymied their happiness and self-worth for decades. Just the thought of doing "nothing" - well, maybe playing some golf or tennis or hanging out at the local coffee shop - keeps them slogging toward the "finish line." On the other hand, others like myself have managed to craft a career that has offered a lot of freedom and independence (but rarely a regular paycheck).

Ah, but hold your horses. The Recession from which we are slowly recovering and the go-get-em' spirit of Boomers have prompted a majority (8 in 10 according to an AARP analysis) to plan to work at least part-time or start their own business instead of settling for a lawn chair in Florida. A staggering half of households headed by 50-to-59-year-olds have $10,000 or less in their 401(k) accounts, making holding down some kind of job more attractive than scrimping and saving. The National Council on the Aging estimates that by 2015 20% of the work force will be over 55.

Remember staring at the old guy or gal bagging groceries at your local supermarket and feeling blessed that you'd never have to do that! Hmmmm . . . . To avoid such a fate, millions of us are scrambling, trying to figure out how we're going to maintain something of the lifestyle to which we've become accustomed. And just when no one is hiring younger folks, let alone old farts.

Career coaches and therapists are quick to underscore the possibilities of following our bliss. Perhaps for the first time since we were young kids, we won't have to listen to what parents, peers, or society in general expect of us. We have a blank slate in front of us and can go to town joyously filling it in with piano or painting lessons, worldwide travel, volunteering for all those causes to which we've been donating all these years. Holy Cow! The possibilities are endless.

Or are they? What if no longer having a title (say an engineer or teacher or CEO of a corporation) makes you feel as if you're one big nothing? What if you don't have enough money to take off for Timbuktu? What if you're tired after some 40 plus years of working and you just don't have the energy to start from scratch? What if your mind goes numb with all the possibilities and renders you paralyzed?

I suppose we could all sign up for counseling. Or read a bunch of self-help books. Or we can plod our way through this delicate life marker event, making our share of boo boos along the way. In the meantime, I'll share whatever I figure out as I go along.

Comin' Home

2010-03-14T12:38:00.009-05:00

We couldn't have asked for a better day to leave California. It was pouring. Fog shrouded San Francisco, rendering the city invisible from our perch across the bay. The weight of our overstuffed suitcases seemed even heavier as we lugged them up the flight of slippery, rain-soaked stairs. The cats who were unquestionably depressed didn't even bother to protest as we put them in their carriers on the back seat of our rented Kia wagon.

"It's better this way," my husband said as we drove down the steep, winding driveway for the last time.

I'd been thinking the same thing.

***************************************************************************************
Fast forward to a few minutes after arriving home. "I like our house," he said enthusiastically.

I knew it. He wouldn't waste any time finding all kinds of reasons to stay put. The streets are flat; it's better for jogging. The birds are chirping. There is something green trying to grow in our yard. The weather isn't so bad. There were no home invasions while we were gone. There is plenty of salt left to use on the sidewalks next winter. Ugh!

I wanted to scream something about him having no balls but somehow managed to keep quiet. I knew that we'd never be able to pull up stakes and move across the country. I'm destined to live and die in the Midwest.

Stay cool. Be patient. He usually comes around; it just takes time. Or maybe he and I will have rooms of our own during the winter months. He can stay in his beloved home and frolic in the Winter Wonderland. I'll bask in warmer climes, surrounded by Mother Nature in all her glory.

Okay, so our house is lovely. I'll give him that. And there's something about the symmetry of houses placed in a neat row, the same distance from one another. True, the streets are wider and not jammed with cars parked haphazardly as they were in the Berkeley Hills. It's all very neat and orderly here.

But there are no leaves on the trees and no spring flowers blooming. Lake Michigan is cute and all that, but it ain't the Pacific Ocean. You've got to walk twice as far to equal the calories spent on walking up and down hills. And the headaches. The damn headaches. They're back with a vengeance. And now I have to think about the future and what I'm going to do with my life. It was such a pleasure putting everything on hold.

A dear friend in California encouraged me to be patient and to "process." But patience has never been my middle name, and this waiting for the right decision will be the death of me. For now I'll drag both feet and put them down in the here and now. At least I'll try.

A Traveler in a Strange Land

2010-03-02T13:16:00.018-06:00

Every time we passed the Berkeley Bowl, one or the other of us said, "Maybe we should go bowling." A perfect activity on one of the many rainy days we've grappled with during our stay in Berkeley. And each time, one of us commented, "I haven't been bowling in years!"

The parking lot at the Berkeley Bowl was always jammed. Drivers waited in their cars until a space opened up or drove around the block and then back again. Even on warm, sunny days, both week and weekend, the place was packed. Bowling and Berkeley made strange bed partners, at least in my mind. But, hey, residents of this progressive town have always been ahead of the curve. Apparently, bowling had regained its popularity like so many other recycled pastime activities.

A few days ago, we mentioned to a local that we were thinking of bowling a few games at the Berkeley Bowl. She started to giggle. Okay, the image of two seniors donning bowling shoes, balancing heavy bowling balls, and mightily throwing the balls in hopes of knocking down a few pins was, well, funny. I guess.

She continued to laugh. "What's so funny?" I said, a bit miffed.

The longtime Berkeley resident tried to stifle her laughter by putting a hand over her mouth. The giggles slid out sideways.

I didn't get the joke and found myself getting angry. "Okay, fill us in," I said, unable to hide my growing frustration.

My husband joined in. "Is bowling uncool or something?"

Unable to stop giggling, the loca l- now our nemesis - tried to answer his question. Her answer was unintelligible.

I'd had enough. It's one thing to guffaw at somebody else's expense but quite another to keep up the game.

Now aware of our growing angst, the dear local took her hand away from her mouth and managed to spit out in bits and spurts, "The . . . Berkeley Bowl is . . . a . . ." Here she started to laugh hysterically. "It's a grocery store."

The next day, I checked the place out. Sure enough, our bowling alley was a 40,000-square-foot warehouse-like building with rows and rows of everything that is grown on this green Earth. The speciality here is produce, and the BB boasts the largest selection in northern California. Want green almonds? They're here. Need California red velvet apricots? They've got em'. In fact, the market's Web site boasts that that this is the place for just about any hard-to-find produce item. Bins and bins of nuts, mushrooms, squash, potatoes - the list is endless.

Come to think of it, one of those big purple heads of cabbage would make a great bowling ball.

Our "Amazing Race" Gone Awry

2010-03-01T14:19:00.022-06:00

I've always wondered how my husband and I would fare on a race around the world. On the one hand, our wit, travel experience, athleticism, and social skills would put us in good stead. We know how to drive on the wrong side of the road and, between the two of us, can bumble our way through both French and Spanish-speaking countries. Alan's accent for foreign languages is superb; he can pretend to spout Italian or Russian or Chinese without knowing more than a few words and sound as if he's fluent. Well, at least for a few sentences.

On the other hand, it's clear that contestants on the real "Amazing Race" are under tremendous stress. They get lost, lose sleep, sometimes take much too much time to complete a required task. These contestants - young and old, straight and gay, married or dating - all explode at one time or another. Dating couples have decided there is no future for them beyond the show; relatives have expressed extreme frustration, even hatred, that surely dampens their relationships once the race is over.

Well, any questions I had about how well we'd do in such a race were answered yesterday. We'd kill one another. We were on our way to the Marin Headlands just across the Golden Gate Bridge. I'd programmed Ernestine, our dear GPS, but Alan was set on his own route. To confuse things even more, big road sides pointed to yet a third way to the bridge. As navigator I first insisted that we trust Ernestine. But after seeing the signs, I abandoned her and instructed my dear driver to follow the signs. . . smack dab into a traffic jam that showed no signs of letting up any time this year.

The tension began to build. "I knew I should have taken the Embarcadero," Alan said.

"But the signs," I murmured.

The car inched forward.

"We've already wasted a lot of time," he said. "We should just turn around and go home."

I sat quietly, hoping beyond hope that the traffic would break up. It did not.

And then there's a sign instructing all en route to the Golden Gate Bridge to stay in the middle lanes. But with a chance to veer right and make up some lost time, Alan spun out of a middle lane and raced a full block before the light turned red.

"You were supposed to stay in the middle lane," I offered meekly.

"Who says?"

"That sign we just passed."

Alan began a rhythmic pounding on the driver side window as we headed in the wrong direction.
Visions of a glorious hike fizzled like a malfuncitoning firecracker on the Fourth of July.
And then the insults about how I'd intentionally sabataged the afternoon because I "really didn't want to go in the first place" and how I've never been able to own up to my mistakes like the other members of my family and . . .

"I don't like you," I blurted. "You are really mean." God, I had stooped down to the level of a third grader.

"I don't like you, either." (Nah, nah . . . So there!) "And that sure doesn't bode well for us moving across the country."

"You're right," I said, rolling around in the verbal mud.

Where had I gone wrong? I just wanted the best route to the Golden Gate Bridge.

The rhythmic pounding on the window got louder and more forceful. Alan looked like a mad man about ready to do something he'd later come to regret.

Try another tact. I brought up Alan's mia culpa earlier that morning about an episode with a friend and how, instead of judging him, I had listened.

"That's a lie!" he said. "And what does that have to do with this?"

"Because when you admitted having made a mistake, I was able to take a deep breath and not continue to make you feel even worse."

"That's a bunch of crap."

I closed my eyes and silently started to repeat the mantra I'd been given years ago in a transcendental meditation class. Where was the Maharishi when I needed him?

The weather had cleared. It was a perfect afternoon for a hike. And here we were sitting in a rented Ford Focus lost in the middle of San Francisco. Our hike was on the rocks and so, it seemed, was our marriage.

Miraculously, out of the haze and confusion appeared a new sign pointing the way to US 101 North and the Golden Gate Bridge. Cautiously, calmly I suggested that we turn left. Alan followed my directive without saying a word. We drove another five minutes and there, in front of us is all its stunning glory, was the bridge spanning the the city by the bay and Marin County.
The sun danced off the water, sailboats took what wind there was, and hundreds of people strolled or ran the length of the bridge.

I rolled down my window and sucked in the clean California air, hoping that somehow the angst of the past hour would be forgotten in favor of new beginnings. With any fantasies of competing on "The Amazing Race" forever squelched, I now merely hoped that Alan and I could negotiate the ups and downs of our much more banal journey.

Dear, Sweet Betty Lou

2010-02-23T09:45:00.027-06:00

She'll celebrate her 89th birthday in May. While her physical body has let her down - she spends most of her time in bed - her mental acuity matches the sharpest of minds of those many years her junior. Dear, sweet Betty Lou. She's had more than her share of tragedy yet remains ever upbeat and positive (except when it comes to politics and Republicans).

I interviewed Betty Lou when researching my book about love and sex in World War II. Among all the stories I collected, hers was the most heartbreaking. Her fighter pilot husband was shot down days before he was to finish his tour of duty. Betty Lou was left a widow with an infant son. Even though she remarried twice (her second husband was also killed in an airplane accident), not a day goes by that Betty Lou doesn't think of her sweet Rarey, her first love.

Years ago - maybe six or seven - my husband and I attended a memorial in Sonoma, California, not far from Betty Lou's home. One afternoon, I drove to Novato to meet Betty Lou in person. After all, she'd been one of my biggest allies, having supported and cajoled me through all the ups and downs of first finding a new literary agent and then securing a publisher. Her encouragement propped me up many times when I was ready to give up the ghost.

After lunch, we sat in Betty Lou's living room and paged through her cherished World War II photo albums. The young woman with her long, curly hair and bangs rolled back in a 1940s hairdo could have stepped off the pages of Look or Life. Rarey was cute as a button and, after reading parts of his letters and seeing his drawings, it was easy to see why Betty Lou had fallen so hard. (Laughter and Tears, a book edited by Rarey's son, is a must read. If you aren't overcome by joy and sorrow, I'll reimburse you the price of the book.)

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of spending time with Betty Lou once again. I'd expected to be led into her bedroom but was pleasantly surprised to find her sitting in a living room chair all gussied up in a dress with a necklace to boot. She'd fought off the unexplained dizziness and accompanying nausea that plagues her whenever she tries to stand. I was moved. We spent the next two hours covering the water front from Betty Lou's current arrangements (her daughter from a second marriage has come to live and take care of her) to my California journey. Never did Betty Lou complain about her physical maladies; as always, she was upbeat, funny, and smart.

Toward the end of the visit, I could see that she was pooped. I'd overstayed my welcome. I got up, walked to where she was sitting, bent over, and whispered, "I love you." My dear, sweet Betty Lou. May I learn to let tragedy slide off my back as you have done. May I keep a positive attitude even in the face of adversity. May I laugh off the insults of Father Time and learn to live happily no matter the bumps in the road.

"If You Don't Like The Weather, Just Wait Ten Minutes"

2010-02-19T09:34:00.019-06:00

Chicagoans are fond of observing that if you don't like the weather, just wait ten minutes. A cool, rainy day in May could easily give way to a glorious sky with temps in the 70s. At least, that's the way it used to be before global warming. Now, there are weather patterns that stick around for days, if not weeks. Arctic blasts in the winter or unseasonably cool and rainy days in the spring that last year held summer hostage for longer than anyone could remember.

Well, Chicago's fickle weather doesn't hold a candle to winter weather in northern California. Two days ago, I basked in sunshine with not a cloud in the sky and the temperature hovering around 70 degrees. We took the ferry from San Francisco to Alcatraz where the island personnel reminded us that normally the weather out there was foggy, chilly, and often punctuated by rain. The island's infamous prisoners - among them Al Capone and Floyd Hamilton, the driver for Bonnie and Clyde - coveted the southern-facing cells hoping to warm up just a little whenever the sun did shine.

This is me sitting on the cement steps in Alcatraz's outside yard, listening to an audio recreation of one of the many failed escape attempts. You'll note that I've taken off my jacket and would have removed my sweater save for the fact that I wasn't wearing a t-shirt underneath.

But, wait . . . The next morning, we awoke to the thickest fog of the trip, a fog that isolated us from the rest of the world save part of the roof on the house below. Within a matter of hours, the skylit sky with its sliver of a new moon had been consumed by a vapor so dense that even the deck railing a few feet beyond our front windows had disappeared. In its own right, the fog was as magical as the glorious sun the day before. For the first time, I was hesitant to drive down the hill and into Berkeley, nervous that I'd miss one of the hair-pin turns or crash into the back of another car.

The fog didn't lift. The sun made several feeble efforts to break through the barrier but never succeeded. If this fog had landed at the beginning of our trip, we would have been truly bummed. "Where's the sun?" "It's too chilly." "I can't see where I'm going." But now more acclimated to Mother Nature and all her moods, we walked in the fog, took photos of what we could barely see, reveled in the changed environs, and barely missed the twinkling evening lights from down below.

This was truly the forest primeval with who knew what lurking around every corner, behind every tree and bush. The orange glow of the few lamplights that dotted the neighborhood seemed terribly out of place as if they'd been installed by some alien force. Walking up and down the hills in almost absolute silence was meditative, special. You were all alone in the universe, just you, the sound of your breathing, the pounding of your heart.

"A Room of One's Own"

2010-02-14T09:46:00.024-06:00

When I debated leaving the first full-time job I'd had in 28 years and returning to life as a freelance writer, I acknowledged but casually dismissed the fact that, for only the second time in my three decades of marriage, my husband and I would both be at home. The first time around, I bristled at Alan's invasion of my space. I wanted a "room of my own." And that meant I wanted the whole house to myself. The arrangement almost ended our marriage; Alan went back to work full-time.

Now, here we go again. Only this time, Alan is 65 and retired. He may wish from time to time that he had a "real" job, but that ain't going to happen. Not in this economy, not at his age. So once we return to Evanston after our two-month journey in California, he will retire to his third-floor office, and I will retire to my office on the second floor.

The possibility of being under the same roof 24/7, 7 days a week is not one I relish. Don't get me wrong: I love my husband. But I still believe in Virginia Wolf's premise that a woman needs money and a room of one's own to write. Or, as far as I'm concerned, to breathe, to grow, to literally survive.

If the past month is any indication, I'm up against it. Granted, we're on vacation in a strange place with only one car. (The car thing is a biggie: Either we travel together, leave one of us alone up in the hills, or somehow figure out a drop off/pick up plan akin to driving a kid to school and making sure to be back on the dot to pick him up.) Once we're back on terra firma with two cars in the garage, we should be too through with the Bobbsey twin charade.

Establishing boundaries, our unique rules of the road, may be tough. I'll don my Zen robes and give active listening my best shot. I'll use clear "I" statements that bypass blame or judgment. I'll mirror, or restate, what my beloved says without adding my opinion. (Oh, that's a killer!) I'll keep my tone friendly, even welcoming, even when I want to slap him upside the head. And with any luck, he'll understand that I don't want to "do lunch" most days, that when I do "do lunch" with others it's nothing personal, and that a closed door means "Stay the heck out of my space." Okay, okay . . . a closed door means "Please do not enter."

Wish me luck, dear readers, because I'm going to need it!

All You Foodies Out There

2010-02-12T10:31:00.030-06:00

Let's get something straight: When it comes to food, I'm no country bumpkin. I've dined at three-star Michelin restaurants in France, supped at some of Chicago's finest eating establishments, enjoyed many of New York's upscale eateries, and, might I add, frequented some of the country's most reviewed vegetarian diners.

Still, I couldn't wait to have dinner at Berkeley's famed Chez Panisse. Alice Waters, chef, author, and the proprietor of Chez Panisse, is, as her Web site states, "an American pioneer of a culinary philosophy that maintains that cooking should be based on the finest and freshest seasonal ingredients that are produced sustainably and locally. She is a passionate advocate for a food economy that is 'good, clean, and fair.'"

Right on! A restaurateur after my own stomach.

Alan and I dressed for the occasion - sport jacket for him and velveteen jacket for me. (Only later did we realize that jeans take you anywhere in Berkeley.)

We chose to dine in the upstairs cafe that, unlike the downstairs restaurant with its fixed menu, offers appetizer, entree, and dessert choices at a sum total lower bill. The genial staff greeted us as if we were long, lost friends and seated us in a corner booth with a view of several other tables and the open preparation area in which salads are made, bread cut, and selected foods cooked in an open wood oven.

At first blush, we were disappointed. Pizza with tomato sauce, baccala mantecato and egg for $18.50? Grilled Monterey Bay sardines with artichokes, roasted potatoes, and salsa verde for $19? Sorry all you connoisseurs of Italian delicacies. You couldn't pay me to order sardines! (Later, our waitress told us that the Italian dishes had been included on the evening's menu in honor of an Italian chef and wine expert who were dining at Chez Panisse.) The only fish entreé was fried in beer batter and accompanied by celery root salad and tartar sauce. What's up with that, Ms. Waters? Fancy, smancy fish and chips.

And on it went . . . orange zest and ale, pork cooked with red chile, butternut squash baked in the wood oven with tomato and mozzarella. We thought of making up some boldface lie ("My wife's water just broke.") and bolting. But somehow that felt like dissing a member of the family, so we settled in.

I ordered the avocado and grapefruit salad with citrus vinaigrette ($10) and was not disappointed. Maybe this would be a marker culinary event after all. Alan had the Soul Food Farm chicken liver crostini with Florentine fennel salad ($10) that, to my palette, tasted as good as any French paté. Onward and upward. Or so I hoped.

I studied the entreé choices like a woman deciding whether to accept a marriage proposal from a longtime beau. Nothing piqued my fancy. I ultimately settled on a half order of tagliatelle verde with ragu bianco ($11), a fancy description of spinach pasta with small pieces of white chicken and pork. I was not impressed; in fact, I was downright crestfallen. Heck, Alan makes better pasta at home. I slogged through but was not a happy camper. My dear husband, on the other hand, ordered the beer batter-fried sole ($25) and loved it. The fried batter was light and airy enough not to interfere with the delicate sole perfectly prepared. No need for the tartar sauce, Ms. Alice.

Not stuffing myself meant I had plenty of room for dessert. In fact, I insisted on ordering two desserts to make up for my unremarkable pasta. Bittersweet chocolate truffle tartlet with caramel-brown ale cream ($9.25) and a Pink Lady apple and huckleberry tart with vanilla ice cream ($9.75). The latter, while tasty, only teased us with a few huckleberries scattered on top. And how can you go wrong with anything made from dark chocolate?

Chez Panisse is consistently ranked one of the top restaurants in the U.S. and often one of the top eateries in the world. Not according to this albeit untrained food critic. Next week, we're eating at Camino, an Oakland restaurant whose chef worked at Chez Panisse for years. Let's see what he has up his apron.

By Popular Demand

2010-02-10T10:59:00.012-06:00

A cry for more of Alan's photos. So, here you are! Northern California in all its winter glory.

Finding "My" Spot

2010-02-03T13:29:00.012-06:00

Like millions of others, I read Carolos Castaneda's The Teachings of Don Juan. More than the vivid descriptions of the effects of hallucinogenic drugs, I was taken by Carlos's assigned task of finding his sitio – a spot on the porch of Don Juan’s house where Carlos feels “naturally happy and strong,” the one place on the floor that is unique, where Carlos can be at his very best.

It seems that, like Carlos, I have been looking for my sitio ever since. For decades, I thought that spot was in northern California. Sure, I've traveled to cities and towns both near and far and, for a short time, felt that I could live there and be my best. But issues of language, customs, friends, and family – sometimes the cost of living – always took hold and pushed me back to where I started.

Will this time be different? Friends who have known me forever just laugh when I tell them I'm moving to California. I've been threatening such a move since 1970 when my first husband finished law school in Detroit. I had hoped to join throngs of friends and acquaintances who were going to the land of sunshine, acid rock, and "Hippie Hill." It was not to be: My husband and I got as far west as Chicago.

After our divorce, I was tethered to Chicago because of our son. No way was I going to be able to take him across the country with visitation rights for my ex during holidays and summer vacation. I weathered the ensuing winters as best I could with frequent visits to northern California. Each time, I vowed that I'd return for good. Each time, there were compelling reasons why I could not leave. (Think second marriage and my new husband's full-time employment for starters. Even when my son was long out of the house and on his own, California jobs in the arts were like warm, sunny days in a Chicago winter.) I was stuck.

Now after 40 years, there are no jobs holding us back. We are "free to move about the country."

I duped myself into believing that our current 8-week sojourn in the Berkeley Hills was not about a permanent move. I promised that finding my sitio was a distant second behind spending time in more temperate climes. But I hooked us up with a realtor the second week we were here, and she has been trying her best to sell us a home ever since. For better or for worse, there is a dearth of For Sale signs in these parts. Anyone who hasn't had to move has sat tight, waiting for the recession to end and for real estate prices to rebound.

And in the years since I've first come to northern California, my tastes have changed. Many neighborhoods that appealed to me in my 20s and 30s now seem gee jawed, uneasy. If there was a historical board or city planning commission in these parts, the members must have been high because there is no rhyme or reasons to many of the residential sections. Contemporary homes abut weathered Craftsmans. Cars clutter the winding roads because owners are too lazy to drive up the steep driveways. It feels tight, messy, too tight and messy for me.

Only down the hills in the older sections is there a sense of design and calm. Some of the streets are blocked to through traffic, turning the areas into walking spaces immune to the sounds and smells of automobiles. Alas, most homes in these sections no longer enjoy a "view." They face multiple directions instead of due west onto San Francisco Bay. Damn. There are always compromises to be made.

Like Carlos, I am spinning, twisting, and turning.

"America's Most Wanted"

2010-01-31T11:40:00.006-06:00

The little girl and I strolled hand in hand toward the water. Without warning, violent waves crashed just in front of us, around us, threatening to sweep us into the vortex never to return. I picked up the girl and ran for our lives, luckily outrunning the raging waters.

Then they were coming. The bad guys, the ones who thought nothing of slitting your throat in one masterful stroke. Where to hide? Frantic, I opened and closed doors. None of them had locks. Even if they did, the bad guys would smash the locks or break down the doors. Then I saw it, a small, green refrigerator, the kind you might have in a basement for all the meat and chicken and soft drinks that wouldn't fit in the kitchen frig. Without a moment to lose, I pulled out shelves and bins, unplugged the wall socket, and somehow managed like a the girl in a Houdini magic act to step in and curl up just enough to close the door.

I could hear the bad guys rumbling into the building, climbing the stairs, and piling into the room with the green refrigerator. Then I listened in horror as one after another unsuspecting dancer met her fate. The bad guys showed no mercy, ignored all pleas. "Where are the keys?" they screamed. None of them knew about the keys. I had the keys stuffed in my jeans' pocket.

My only hope was to wait until the bad guys moved into the next room to slit the throats of more innocent dancers. I held my breath and listened until I could hear a pin drop. Without hesitation, I pushed opened the refrigerator door, put my feet on the floor, and ran as I'd run earlier in the day away from the waves. Only this time, I ran down stairs, in and out of empty rooms, through industrial spaces with acres of what looked like furnaces and large metal coils, and finally to an open window on the ground level. I could hear the bad guys not far behind me. With no time to lose, I pushed the window open as far as it would go, squeezed through the opening, and jumped, landing on a soft patch of dirt. I picked myself up and ran like the wind.

"There she is!," one of the bad guys yelled, one of his legs already out the open window.

I'd had enough. Only 50 feet or so separated me from the knife-wielding bad guys. Either this dream ended like a Hollywood movie with a large police van turning up just in the nick of time to roadblock the bad guys from me or I met my fate like all the others. I wasn't ready to die. Not like this. So, I forced my eyes open, measured my breathing, and stumbled into the bathroom.

"Good Day, Sunshine"

2010-01-30T10:41:00.009-06:00

Photos by Alan Leder

Ah, what a bit of sunshine does to adorn Mother Nature in all her glory and to lift the human
spirit! The flower on the left is from a flowering tree. (I'm waiting for my landscape designer friend to identify it. It may be nicknamed the "Money Tree.") We happened upon the tree in full bloom during a walk around Lake Merritt, a lovely lake on the east side of Oakland. Alan was bad and, while no one was looking, he plucked a cluster of flowers to take home and admire. The sun was shining, the path around the lake was flat, and, once again, I imagined living here all year round. (I think it's currently 12 degrees in Chicago with another threat of snow.)

Last week, we drove from Berkeley to Muir Woods National Monument in Marin County, not far north of San Francisco. Here stand groves of Redwood trees, proud and untouched for an average 5o0 to 800 years. It cranks your neck to stand at the base of one of these magnificent trees and scan all the way skyward. As might be imagined, the trees create their own climate; the forest is generally damp, if not rainy, and several degrees cooler than just beyond the giant Redwoods. We donned our Lands End jackets with rain coats on top and made our way into the sacred realm of the forest.

Because of all the rain, ferns were sprouting from branches where they normally don't grow, and green, fuzzy moss covered lower branches and twigs. It was a scene out of "Harry Potter" or "Alice in Wonderland" --- special, peaceful, overwhelming. To imagine 2 million acres of old growth Redwoods forests before loggers came to California and cut most of the trees down makes the acres that remain even more precious. Thankfully, the area has been federally-owned and protected since 1908, so nothing other than an act of Nature can tamper with it.

We ate a late lunch at the organic, local-farm-run cafeteria and then wound our way down the valley toward the San Rafael Bridge, in my mind the most exquisite of three East Bay bridges. As if on cue, the sun burst from behind the remaining clouds, a half rainbow arched above us, and we were screaming with delight. The San Francisco Bay to our right, the red Golden Gate Bridge in the distance - - we had died and gone to heaven.

A Visit with an Old Friend

2010-01-24T10:48:00.007-06:00

She stood just inside the doorway, her right hand suspended in mid-air, her fingers crooked, frozen in space. Her hair was cropped short with tufts of gray at the temples. Her blue eyes looked at me and through me. "She can't see good," her caretaker said. Probably just as well. She couldn't see the distress I was trying so hard to hide.

Joan was diagnosed with Alzheimer's four years ago at age 59. The ravages of the disease forced her to give up her therapy practice. Her partner of many years couldn't accept the diagnosis and its responsibilities and eventually left. She hasn't called or visited since. Thankfully, Joan doesn't remember what must have been a crushing loss. "She's smart," Joan said, talking about her former partner. "She works with people when they're dying. I . . . I can't remember what that's called."

"Hospice," I said.

Joan smiled. "That's right. What did you call it?"

"Hospice."

I showed Joan a photo of the two of us taken in 1973. She sat behind me with her arms wrapped around my shoulders. The two of us with our long straight hair parted down the middle and flowers sticking out to one side looked like an ad for the "Summer of Love" in San Francisco. Those were good times.

I'm no stranger to the heartbreak of Alzheimer's. My husband's aunt was diagnosed in her early 70s. My mother showed signs in her late 80s. But this is the first time that someone close in age has been felled by this insidious disease. To see a vibrant, smart, dear woman now tethered to a caretaker for her every need devastated me. Maybe if I'd witnessed the progression of Joan's downfall, the impact would not have been so heartbreaking. But I came in during the final act.

I think Joan was happy that I came to visit. She didn't remember me when I arrived, and I'm not sure she understood our connection when I left. Our ties go way back: Her mother had been my Sunday school Hebrew teacher when I was in elementary school. Mrs. Gilbert was the only reason I was willing to schlep off to school on a Sunday.

"She was . . . a won-der-ful woman," Joan said with a stutter. Apparently, Joan's loss of memory erased all the negative feelings she once held toward her mother. For that, I was grateful.

Without warning, Joan put her hand on her stomach, crunched her face in apparent pain, and began talking very quickly. "I can't . . . I can't. Too much information. This is too hard." I reached for her hand, stroked it gently, and encouraged her to breathe. That seemed to do the trick. Within a matter of 30 seconds or so, the panic abated. Relieved but feeling guilty for possibly setting off her confusion, I decided it was time to leave. I promised that I'd visit again.

As I was putting my coat on, Joan said to her caretaker, "She knew my mother. I like that."

My Little GPS

2010-01-21T17:54:00.012-06:00

Okay, so I know I'm years behind the curve. Hell, I still have boxes and boxes of LP albums, drawers full of cassette tapes, and, no, I don't own an IPod. So, how cool am I that I just paid my $10 monthly fee to activate my Blackberry Storm VZ Navigator!

I haven't a clue how any of us navigated our way around unknown territory before the invention of the GPS. I know all about maps and AAA TripTiks, but the latter are only good when you know in advance exactly where you want to go. There is no room for serendipity; no, it's a matter of getting from a predetermined Point A to Point B. That may be fine when traveling from, say, the Claremont Hotel in Berkeley to the Japanese Tea Garden in San Francisco. But what if you need groceries for dinner and have no idea where the nearest supermarket is? What if the parking meters have eaten all your pocket change (a common event in the East Bay), and you're in desperate need of a bank where you can purchase rolls of quarters? The possibilities are endless but, without a GPS, you're plumb out of luck. Oh, you could roll down your window and ask a stranger or wait patiently by the side of the road until a friendly cab driver drives by. That's how it used to be done. But that was then, and this is now.

I'll be candid: I wasn't convinced some satellite circling a zillion miles out in space would give a rat's ass about little old me and my travels. So it was with a muttered "I hope this works" that I plugged in the address of my first destination, pressed Navigate, and waited for directions. Magically, Ms. Navigator (who today has been christened Ernestine and, yes, the "Laugh In" connection is intended) took it from there, telling me when to turn, when to go straight, how many miles before my destination. I had my own personal MapQuest. And when I made a wrong turn, she didn't scold me like some people I know but calmly said that she was recalculating directions. No need to panic; she had my back. Hell, she even let me know that there was traffic congestion up ahead and kindly offered to reroute me.

Ernestine's robot-like delivery can be a bit annoying, so I'll find out how to make her voice more soothing to match the confidence she gives me every time I turn on the car's ignition. "One ringy dingy, two ringy, dingys" and off I go!

"Trips That Begin Badly Are Bound To End Well"

2010-01-20T10:03:00.007-06:00

My cousin's dear mother always said that trips "that begin badly are bound to end well." I've taken those words to heart as I stare out the floor-to-ceiling window in our California retreat and watch Mother Nature wreak havoc on the California coast. It has been raining off and on for three days now and, if we are to believe the weather forecasters, we have another two days to go. All plans for long hikes have been delayed. Thoughts of sitting on the sunny deck overlooking the San Francisco Bay seem like a Midwestern gal's dream. A ferry trip from Oakland's Jack London Square to San Francisco have been held in abeyance. A field trip of sorts to look at homes for sale may have to wait until the start of the spring market.

But all is not lost. I've finished one book and have begun another. In between the rain - and it does stop for hours at a time, usually in early afternoon - we've scoured the stores up and down College Avenue and the more chic establishments on Berkeley's 4th Street. We've taken advantage of our free guest status and worked out at the Oakland YMCA two times now. I even took a yoga class there yesterday before jumping on an elliptical machine for 20 minutes in my attempt to do something aerobically every day. We've eaten at some good restaurants and visited the Berkeley Museum of Art. And we have frequented the local Whole Foods, Safeway, and specialty food stores and delis that flourish here.

We watch the clouds, fog, and rain roll in and out as if they are in a huge hurry, late for something terribly important. Mother Nature is on display with her palette of colors, moods, and designs. Who needs museums or art galleries? The houses on the surrounding hills disappear and then magically reappear. One minute the Golden Gate Bridge is there; the next, it has been erased as quickly as memories of childbirth. I came here for warmth and sun but am beginning to appreciate the underside of this El Nino that is bringing much-needed rain to these parts. The rain and the snow in the upper altitudes that will eventually melt will help replenish the drought-stricken land and the all-too-shallow reservoirs. I don't know if this marks the end of California's three-year drought - probably not - but it will make a significant dent.

I'm aware of the stunning defeat of the Democratic candidate for Senate in the liberal state of Massachusetts. But I've chosen to implement a news blackout for now. I'm unwilling to let politics rob me of what I know will be a trip that ends well.

OUT OF SHAPE

2010-01-17T12:34:00.009-06:00

A 64 year-old woman can't stop moving; otherwise, the consequences are dire. This was only too obvious yesterday when my husband and I took our first hike in Berkeley's Tilden Park. Now I knew I was out of shape. For a variety of reasons too typical to mention, I'd stopped any semblance of regular exercise for almost a year. Sure, I went to yoga two times a week, but yoga ain't aerobic no matter how many head stands one does. (And, no, I don't do headstands.) My feeble attempts at getting back to dance class petered out when I got sick in the fall. By the time I was feeling better, my excuse was that I'd have plenty of time to pick up the ball once I got to California. (The same excuse, by the way, that I used when I didn't lose the extra 6 or 7 pounds I'd gained after my parents died and I went back to work full time. As soon as you get to California, you'll be able to control your own kitchen and won't be tempted by the constant flow of office goodies and restaurant lunches. Easier said than done.)

Well, the buck stops here. Having to stop several times during yesterday's hike was pathetic. (And who in the hell designed the hike so that the return would be all uphill?) Standing outside of myself, looking at me slumping with hands on hips, practically hyperventilating, made me feel like one of the contestants on "The Biggest Loser." I pictured all those overweight men and women huffing and puffing, sweating gallons, moaning and groaning. Stuck in my mind's eye was the image of one of last season's contestants collapsed on the beach after a mile walk and then being carted off in a medical helicopter.
"I have to stop," I yelled to my husband who was ahead of me, practically out of view.
"Keep walking," he said with not a bit of empathy. I hated him. Couldn't he see that I was struggling?
"I'm really out of shape," I managed to spit out.
"Do you want me to wait for you?" he said.
"Yes," I said, feeling like a scared, little girl.
I fought the overriding urge to collapse on the grass. Instead, I focused on my breath, doing my best to inhale slowly, then exhale to the same count. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
Frustrated but not down for the count, I started walking uphill once again.
"You were a bit harsh," I said to my husband. "I told you I was really out of shape."
"I'm going to be your coach . . . just like on the 'Biggest Loser.'"
Some switch. For years Alan had begged me to stretch him, to show him how to do various exercises. And now he was going to be my coach? No thanks.
"You know you watch that show just to make yourself feel better," he said.
I wanted to kill him. "I watch that show on occasion because I'm amazed at what they can accomplish."
"It's the worst kind of reality show," he said. "Looking at terribly obese people in their bicycle shorts and halter tops. Disgusting."
I was too tired to argue. I needed to finish the hike and sit down. But I wouldn't let this one slide.

California, Here We Come

2010-01-13T09:28:00.005-06:00

Hard to believe that after months of scouring the Internet for the perfect vacation pad, days spent dreaming up all the things we can do, hours engaged in training our two Maine Coon cats to go into their new cat carriers (Not an easy task!), we are less than a day away from blowing the winter tundra and flying off to California. Am I a tad stressed? You bet I am! Try figuring out what to pack for two months. After all, I'm a gal who likes to look good and, while I'm taking plenty of funky Berkeley attire, I do want to dress for the ballet or a dinner at Chez Panisse.

And what's a trip without hormones, a netty pot, gobs of stuff for my hair, and vitamins up the wazoo? Open one of my suitcases and you'll find a virtual drug store . . . oh, and enough shoes to fill a shelf in any self-respecting shoe store. I know, the less the better. And as my husband keeps reminding me, we do have a washer and dryer at our behest. But never mind! Whether it's hiking in the Redwoods, touring the wine country, visiting the museums of San Francisco, or hanging out on our deck toward sunset, I'm going to look and feel G-O-O-D.

Traveling with two cats for the first time could go off without a hitch or could be as grueling as traveling with two two-year-olds who hate flying, get nasty earaches, and cry their lungs out for hours on end. I'm most concerned about Zuni, our almost 7-year-old. He's a talker - not the standard meow but more like "Hello." Hello, hello, hello, hello . . . over and over again until the closed door is opened, the petting meets his fancy, or the morning treats have been doled out. So, we're keeping our fingers crossed that the "absolutely safe" tranquilizers will knock both him and Augie out and that the movement of the airplane will lull them into an even deeper sleep.

We'll be "storing" the cats under the seats in front of us. Southwest Airlines' rules are matter of fact: Cats must stay put during the entire trip. Their bodies must be entirely closed. No heads or tails sticking out at any time during the flight. If they get sick, there will be no medical assistance. If they need, oxygen, tough. And for this, we get to pay $75 per cat each way.

Minor roadblocks aside, I'm chomping at the bit to take this adventure. California, here we come!

"Only The Good Die Young"

2010-01-10T14:07:00.013-06:00

Doug always said he was going to die young. I used to snicker and tell him he was crazy. But he knew something that I did not: Doug, my first true love, passed away from complications of a massive stroke in his mid-50s. Fred, a post-college friend who was divored and living alone, died after suffering a heart attack. A co-worker found him several days later. Dear, sweet Sue lived a bit longer; she succumbed to pancreatic cancer not long after her 68th birthday. The suicide of my brother at age 30 remains the most painful loss of all.

I'm beginning to think Billy Joel was on to something when he penned the lyrics to "Only The Good Die Young." I can rattle off a list of not-so-good folks - yes, Dick Cheney, I'm thinking of you! - who despite all kinds of health issues carry on with a vengeance like that damn Energizer bunny. Cheney has had, count them, 4 heart attacks, coronary bypass surgery, coronary angioplasty, a defibrillator, and more, yet the sucker spits his poisonous venom daily.

And, you, Mr. Lieberman, who as an "independent" openly campaigned for John McCain, flip flopped on health care like a dizzy salmon caught in an illegal fisherman's net ("Let's Make A Deal," anyone?), and is now tromping around the globe with McCain, pontificating about the urgency of our military to up the ante in multiple world hot spots . . . you are another one whose life I would trade in a New York minute.

I'm trying my best to understand this apparent karmic conundrum: The good die young, and the bad guys (and gals) keep on keeping on. Am I to cling to the belief that we all go around more than once and that these sickos will get their just reward? If not in this lifetime then in the next or the next? And will I be anywhere in the vicinity to witness the prosecution? Or is that asking too much and tagging me as vengeful and unforgiving.

Perhaps I should have stayed on at Loyola Press and worked on the revision of the series Finding God.

The Dawn of a New Decade

2010-01-03T10:28:00.006-06:00

Where did the last 10 years go? A matter of blinks ago, we were facing a new millennium with trepidation, afraid that everything electronic would go batty on us. Remember? If I recall correctly, all the hand wringing was for naught; we all managed to fire up our computers and cell phones and continue along our merry way. We carried on without a hitch until 9/11 when our collective optimism was shot to hell; we haven't been the same since (except, perhaps, on January 20, 2009, when President Barack Obama was sworn in as President of the United States.)

What now? A foiled attempt to blow up an airplane about to land in Detroit. Finger pointing to put the blame somewhere with a faulty mindset that we can stop every single terrorist plot. A health care bill that faces tough days ahead as senators and representatives haggle to settle their differences. A limping economy that, while showing some signs of life, has not yet raised the hopes of the millions who are out of work. Climate change that threatens our very existence. Blah, blah, blah . . . .

I, for one, so wanted to start the new year off on the right foot; instead, I've got this queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that we haven't yet reached bottom. And now, just moments after the euphoria of last year's election, we have to be bombarded by talk of the resurgence of the Republican party. Gee, I was just beginning to breathe a sigh of relief after 8 years of that monster George Bush. Can't a girl get a break?

My answer: Run away and hide. Yep, I'm taking a news break, suspending my avid focus on what's going on in the world. And I'm running from what is already a harsh winter by jaunting off to California. Call me a coward, a wimp, a fair-weather friend. "Sticks and stones can hurt my bones, my names can never hurt me." I'm looking out for numero uno . . . and my cats. (My husband is on his own. He brings his own set of issues to the table that only he can tackle.)

Before I have to think about income taxes and what I'm going to do professionally and the 2010 mid-term elections, I'm going to have myself a damn good time. I'm going to walk and hike, commune with Mother Nature, take yoga and dance classes, wander through mueums and art galleries, spend time with old friends, partake of anything interesting the University of California Berkeley has to offer, be wowed by glorious sunsets, roam the ocean beaches, taste the wines of Napa and Sonoma, revisit the enzyme bath in northern California, and do anything else I can to relax, stoke my spirit, rejuvenate my body, and forget about the big mess called planet Earth.

Today Is The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

2009-12-23T09:51:00.003-06:00

As someone in the 60s said, "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." (And, no, it wasn't John Denver!)

Yep, it's that time again. A new beginning. A chance to start over. A day to regroup. The opportunity to walk through new doors. A moment to leave all that baggage behind and start fresh, unencumbered. Light. Free. That it's the day after the Winter Solstice is a happy coincidence. I didn't plan it that way. But I can be hopeful that there is a Grand Scheme operating here and that the sun, moon, and stars are aligned in my favor. Heck, why not?

Today is the first day after leaving a full-time job that has kept me busy for the past 15 months. Unlike most of my peers who are dying to retire, I bucked the tide and left my ivory tower (translate: my home office) to work as an editor at Loyola Press. For the first time in 28 years, I actually had to not only act like a professional but dress like one, too. To tell the truth, I enjoyed having to don some "business casual" whatnot Monday through Friday, slug down some semblance of breakfast, and drive the 25 minutes or so to the office. The structure was good for me during a time when I was adjusting to the death of both parents within a matter of weeks from each other.

But that was then, and this is now. I chose to "retire" after realizing that the Loyola Press mission and mine were not made of the same cloth. Don't get me wrong: LP does some excellent work. And I hope that I contributed in my limited way to the continued success of the company's one and only non religious project, a language arts series for kiddies in Grades 3 - 8. But the next project on tap is a revision of a program called Finding God. From time to time, I've wondered myself where He or She is. But as a Jewish gal who is not a follower of Jesus Christ, I would have been a fish out of water.

While it's taken about 40 years, two husbands, and more machinations that I could ever recall, I am finally headed to the East Bay to spend a chunk of the winter. Call me a "snow bird" if you like. The tag doesn't ruffle my feathers. I'm outta' here. Granted, it's not all warm and sunny in the Berkeley Hills, but the weather sure beats the heck out of cold, snowy, dark, dark Chicago. And there is an ocean, mountains, redwoods, wineries, Highway 1, Alice Waters, Yoga for the People, the University of California, Berkeley, San Francisco, Chinatown (a real one), museums, hiking, touring, green, and even hardy Zone 7-9 flowers. Flowers! In January and February! My dance card is already full.

So, as I prepare for this cross-country adventure with my husband and two Maine Coon cats, I'll blog along the way, detailing the good, the bad, and even the ugly (if there is any ugly). Come along for the ride.

"Tommy, Can You Hear Me?"

2009-02-24T09:59:00.004-06:00

The refrain from The Who's infamous rock opera keeps running through my brain, "Tommy, can you hear me?" Right now, the answer is a resounding "No!" for both Tommy and for me. And when you feel you're not being heard - not at home, not at work, not with family and friends - the feelings range from agitation to anger, from frustration to fear. When did this all begin?

There we are my dying mother, my baby sister, and I. My mother lies in the recently-delivered hospital bed, dozing off and on. My sister, eyes closed, lies in the "old" bed curled up into my mother's body. I sit in an uncomfortable chair off to the side, feeling like a stranger in their midst. I want to scream, "Let me in!" but no one is listening.

For almost two months my sister has tended to my mother, surrounded by hospice care workers and a steady stream of friends. This is her turf. It was, after all, her suggestion that my parents buy the little house in Ohio. Florida was just too far away.

I dutifully follow my sister's rules: emotions checked at the front door, absolute silence in my mother's room. I'm suffocating. But I hold my tongue. I have no right to question. I want to scream, but no one is listening.

My mother died with my sister by her side. I was tending to my father who had landed in intensive care after most likely having had a mini-stroke, falling, hitting his head, and suffering a subdural hematoma.

Even before my father knocked himself senseless, he'd become an angry old man. Looking back, I can't blame him. His wife of sixty-five years was on disconnect, and my sister and her crew had taken over. He had lost control, and no one was listening to him, either. Maybe that's why he decided that there should be no funeral for my mother. It was a decision he thought he could make.

I would have none of it. My mother was a very social person with deep connections to friends and relatives. She would have hated not having had some kind of respectable memorial. But my dad was adamant. "Just tell people to make a contribution in her name," he said.

My sister hadn't attended a funeral since my brother died 30 years before. She sided with my dad. And my surviving brother didn't seem to care one way or the other. So, there I was alone. The only ones who seemed to hear me were my husband and son. And they were hundreds of miles away.

After two days of pleading my case, my family relented: We would have a funeral, but it would be a quiet gravesite affair. And we would have a second funeral just weeks after the first, laying my dad to rest just inches away from my mother.

The snow keeps falling on this the first day of March. I am weary of winter's cold shoulder. Mother Nature ignores my yearning for spring and a new beginning. I want to shake Her until She hears me.

2008-11-27T14:51:00.012-06:00

Who would have thought that I, a committed freelancer, would take a full-time gig at a Jesuit publishing house? Yep, that's exactly what I did, and I'm here to say that it was a brilliant career move. Little did I know how hungry I was for human interaction after working solo from home for 27 years. Who knew? And little did I realize that a nice Jewish girl like me could find so many fun and kind people working at Loyola Press. My Catholic friends call on a regular basis, curious to know if I've started attending mass or taken my first communion. I assure them that no one has tried to convert me, least of which my two bosses - one of whom was a priest, the other a seminarian.

I figure that my dad had something to do with my move back into the 9 to 5 (actually, 8:30 to 4) work-a-day world. He worried about my living beyond my means and how in blazes I would make it financially once he was gone. Well, he's gone, and I'm more financially stable than I've been in, well . . . 27 years. If only he were here to enjoy my stability and delight. Ironically, it may have taken his death to push me to make a 180-degree career move. Dad, this one's for you!

Now, I have people to laugh with, complain to, and to share the challenges of revising and editing a set of venerable language arts textbooks, texts that have been around since the mid-1940s when a group of teaching nuns from Philadelphia published the first edition. The texts are sold to elementary and junior high schools nationwide and, while the majority are used in Catholic schools, there is nothing to stop public schools from ordering the books. That means the books are non denominational - as best as I can tell the ONLY non denominational publication coming from Loyola Press.

I love getting up every morning, donning something other than jeans and a sweatshirt, and heading off to work. My days are full, the work is challenging enough, and the time flies. And to think that I almost blew off the interview. I'm a writer, not an editor. I did the educational thing in another lifetime (I taught junior and senior high school English) so why would I want to return? And the Jesuit Ministry thing . . . Well, I was a bit concerned. I imagined crosses adorning every bulletin board, prayer sessions each morning, and a group of Bible-thumping zealots.

Some people do display crosses in their offices and cubicles. And there are prayer sessions (optional) every once in a while. And copies of publications like Christ Our Lord and The Catechist's Toolbox do fill the bookshelves. But Father Lane and the staff are some of the sweetest, most supportive people I've met and, honestly, I could probably use a little bit of that sweet, old religion about now.

So, on this Thanksgiving Day I give thanks for this new job, for my family and friends, for my good health. Oh, and did I mention a whole lot of gratitude to the American public for having the good sense to elect soon-to-be President Obama?

None of Us Wavered

2008-09-27T19:37:00.003-05:00

If you are reading my blog for the first time, this post will hardly reflect my often playful and humorous take on life. In July, I lost both of my parents within three plus weeks of each other. It was - and remains - a very painful, stressful time. This may be the final piece about that marker event in my life for some time.

The doctor says there are few families that would have let my father die on his own terms – at home, under hospice care, with no feeding tubes or other measures to prolong his life. Someone in the family, the doctor says, would have cried “Uncle!” and tried to save him, gone the extra mile to prevent the inevitable. None of us wavered.

He looks like a young boy. He looks like a monkey. Now he looks like a skeleton, his cheeks sunken, his ribs protruding, his perpetually swollen legs all but sticks. My dad is in the final stages of dying after suffering a cerebral hemorrhage. He cannot talk. He cannot swallow. His is paralyzed on his right side. Still, he hangs on. Maybe he is wrestling with unfinished business or maybe he’s changed his mind; the death he seemed to covet is no longer so appealing. Or maybe at age 91 he is a lot stronger than any of us could have imagined.

My brother, sister, and I know the signs of dying only too well. My mother died in the same bed surrounded by the same hospice staff just three weeks ago. That was our first experience. We are old hats now. While my parents’ illnesses were different, the stages of dying are eerily similar. It is hard work to die. We labor to come into this world and we labor to leave it.

Our family is apparently not unique. A study conducted by Harvard University found that men are 18 per cent more likely to die shortly after their wives’ deaths, and women are 16 per cent more likely to die shortly after their
husbands’ deaths. I have a friend whose mother died, leaving her father alone and depressed. Nothing brought him a modicum of joy, not even moving in with his daughter and son-in-law. The widower mentioned over and over again that he’d never missed being with his wife on her birthday or on their wedding anniversary. And he had not intention of changing things. But his physician had given him a clean bill of health; he was nowhere near dying. Soon after, he suffered a massive stroke. He held on for six days and died on his wedding anniversary.

Most of us have heard stories like this about an older person who “dies of a broken heart” shortly after their longtime spouse’s death. But it all seems like the stuff of soap operas – over-the-top drama until it happens to someone you love. My dad had made it clear that he wanted to die before my mother. And he made no bones about hating to grow old. “Growing old is not for sissies,” he said often. But as I watch him now, struggling for each breath, gurgling in the phlegm pooling in his throat and lungs, I know . . . I just know that he’d give anything for a reprieve.

We knew my mother was dying; we had time to “prepare.” One day, she was on her way to play bridge at the Lighthouse for the Blind. Later that afternoon, after complaining of pain in her legs and having trouble walking, she was in the hospital with an irregular heart beat, high blood pressure, and the worst case of gout the doctors had ever seen. “It’s nothing,” my dad said. He was wrong. The medication for the gout turned her stomach into a whirlpool of upset and pain. Her red blood cell count dipped dangerously low. My mother, once active and involved, spent most of her time in bed. Within ten days, she was back in the hospital. Still, we remained optimistic. The massive dose of steroids given as a last resort to battle the gout would turn things around. We were sure of it. Again, we were mistaken. “Your mother is dying,” the doctors said. While my mother accepted her fate with grace and dignity, my father did not. “I know she’s going to pull out of this,” he said.

Just thirty-six hours before my mother died, we found my dad flat on the floor with his forehead bleeding profusely. He had no memory of falling and no idea what may have caused the fall. He was rushed to a local hospital where, after a battery of tests, the doctors confirmed that he had suffered a cerebral Hemorrhage, or bleeding on the brain. His situation was borderline; if the bleeding didn’t stop, he’d need an operation. “No surgery for me,” my dad said emphatically. And he meant it. Either he recovered or he didn’t. That was that. All that mattered to him was seeing my mother.

The ambulance pulled up slowly into my parents’ driveway. The EMTs opened the back door and carefully lowered my father’s stretcher to the ground. After a heated discussion, the hospital staff had allowed him to come home to spend sixty minutes and no more with my mother who had died just hours before. Family and friends tried their best to hold back the tears but to no avail. There was my father, sitting now at the end of the bed, staring at his partner of sixty-seven years. The late afternoon sun bounced off of her shiny silk pajamas and highlighted her incredibly smooth skin, her delicate hands, her full head of hair not yet all gray. Satisfied, my father signaled that he was ready to return to the hospital.

My father looks like Popeye The Sailor Man now with his one cheek swollen twice its normal size. He lies on his side, his pace maker sticking out from his chest like a pack of cigarettes. He’s no longer responding to noise or to touch. There is no way to reach him. It’s evening now, the night before my birthday. My dad is going to die on my birthday. I just know it. I try to see the poetry in this, the “life coming full circle” thing. It’s a stretch, a big stretch. Up until now, I’ve loved to repeat the story of my birth toward the end of World War II at 4:40 A.M. Eastern War Time. But if he dies tomorrow, my birthday will never be a day of celebration again. It seems so selfish for me to be thinking this way. I can’t help it.

It’s 4:00 A.M. on my birthday, and I cannot sleep. Restless, I grab a jacket, slip it over my mother’s nightgown that I’ve taken to wearing, put on a pair of sandals, and start walking the block from where I’m staying to my dad’s house. Halfway, I see two figures emerge under a street lamp. As I get closer, I realize it’s my brother and sister. They are coming to get me. “We think dad is ready to die but that he’s waiting for you,” they say. I walk quickly now. I’m on a mission. I stand by my dad’s bedside and retell the story of my birth, urging him to let go. I remind him that his dear wife and beloved son who predeceased him by 30 years are waiting for him in a better place. I brush up against him, hoping that the still lingering perfume on my mother’s nightgown will push him to the “other” side. It doesn’t work. He keeps on breathing, quietly now, regularly. I wave off birthday wishes from my siblings like some kind of sick joke and slink back to bed.

The vigil continues. Friends come, sitting with my father, their eyes closed, their hands folded neatly in their laps. When my sister is in the room, there is no talking allowed. I guess it’s about respect for the dying; for me, it’s
cruel and unusual punishment. I’m not getting a thing from watching my father die. He’s emaciated, deformed. Now I can see the chord leading to the pacemaker. For God’s sake, why doesn’t someone figure out how to turn the damn thing off and let the man die in peace? This is when assisted death makes complete sense. Not the Jack Kevorkain style – just a large enough dose of morphine to “snow him under.”

My dad does me a huge favor and waits until the day after my birthday to die. He has the last laugh, passing away quietly when everyone in the house has dozed off. He wouldn’t have wanted all eyes upon him when he took his last breath. He was much too private for that and did things his way one last time. Good for you, dad.

I stare at the all-too-silent man lying in front of me. His bushy eyebrows still hang precariously in his eyes, eyes that remain wide open as if ready for the next adventure. I’m grateful for the chance to see him so peaceful after his eight-day struggle to die. It wasn’t pretty, and the images will haunt me until time plays its magic trick and erases from my mind the moans, the labored breath, the frightfully fast destruction of his physical body. Tears come easily now. There’s no longer any need to stay strong. As heartbreaking as it was, we did as we were asked and upheld my dad’s wishes to die at home without any intervention to save him. My siblings and I were a team and now, having lost both of our parents in the space of weeks, it is our turn to break down and mourn.

True Love?

2008-08-26T14:34:00.002-05:00

Okay, my readers. You may number one or two, but still I feel an obligation to keep my blog as interesting and current as possible. And, hey, who wants to read about death and dying? That gets maudlin very quickly.

But I do want to share a common response I'm getting when I mention that my dad died less than four weeks after my mom. "Well," they say. "At least, they are together again."

And I want to say, "Well, maybe they don't want to be together again. Maybe they did a lifetime together and want some space or the chance to meet someone new or, heck, the chance to sit and stare at the wondrous images up there in Heaven.

But, of course, I don't say a thing. That would be sacrireligious, blasphemous, or something. How can I diss my parents' relationship or make the judgment call that my mom in particular was probably hoping for a reprieve? It's not that she didn't love my dad. She did. But certain hurts, misunderstandings, and who knows what built up over almost 68 years, and I figure she was just plain out of steam.

I know we all say things we don't really mean. Hey, I'm married, too. But when my mom told me a matter of months before she died that she'd like my dad to take a permanent golfing vacation, I got the feeling that she meant business.

And as she was in the final stages of dying, it appeared that she'd pretty much shut him out. Yes, there was that morning when the hospice care worker found them talking softly to one another. They were apparently holding hands and whispering sweet nothings. I think my mom realized that it would be terribly unfair to leave my dad without some words of love and comfort. I suspect that she'd worked through whatever had come between them and wanted to part on a good note. That was the least she could do.

So, when friends and strangers comment on the close death of my parents and how much they must have loved one another, I don't buy it. Theirs was not what I would label a happy and loving ending.

Loss

2008-08-21T07:02:00.002-05:00

It's toughest in the mornings. Upon waking - when the first conscious thoughts flood into my head - I feel last month's loss of both of my parents more than almost any other time of the day or night. This morning, I saw my mother laid out on the bed in which she'd died only minutes before. She looked lovely, washed and dressed in her favorite purple silk pajamas. The mid-afternoon summer sun bounced off of the silk and highlighted a peaceful face that looked so much younger than that of most 91 year olds. Her full hair, not yet completely gray, held its natural wave. I styled it one last time.

She died with her left eye slightly open. And as the time passed before her body was picked up, my sister and I got a bit spooked. It was if she were going to keep an eye on us, even in death. "It's okay, mom," I said. "We'll be fine. We promise." Before long, we started to laugh every time we walked past her. We felt like school girls under the watchful eye of our favorite teacher.

Some mornings, I try to erase the images from my mind; other mornings, I dive into them, knowing that the only way to make it through this sad and lonely time is to acknowledge the full spectrum of my emotions. I'm a middle-age woman who was blessed to have had my parents for so long. But losing them so late in life doesn't make their deaths any easier. In some ways, it may be even more difficult - I've relied on them for their love and support longer than most. It's tough to let go now.

I wear a piece of my mother's jewelry every day. It helps me feel closer to her and reminds me of her exquisite taste and her sense of beauty. This morning, I've put on a gold and quartz ring that she had custom designed. I wear it on the middle finger of my left hand, a proud badge of a close and loving mother/daughter relationship.

2008-06-13T11:48:00.009-05:00

What does a freelancer do in her free time? She takes a Photoshop class.

Who knows - maybe I'll illustrate my own writing some day. Or maybe I'll toss the pen aside for a camera.

My best writing has always been highly visual. "Show don't tell" is one of the proverbial tenants of successful writing. So, in the absence of any new writing projects, I've turned to my camera and all the neat things Photoshop can do.

Here is a sampling of what I've been up to. Alas,
the more involved collages cannot be uploaded. I'll
try to solve that problem another time.

Enjoy.

Brothers and Sisters

2008-06-12T09:37:00.004-05:00

Yes, I wrote a book about brothers and sisters. But that was years ago; since then, I've written another book that explored love and sex during World War II and the significant changes that war created in relationships between men and women.

Out of the blue, a reporter from the Toronto Star contacted me. She was writing a piece about siblings and exploring her premise that, as they age, Baby Boomers will take a closer look at their sibling connections. She'd found my book while researching the subject and wanted to talk.

I wasn't sure what I could add to her story; I'd been off the sibling stump for a long time. I was rusty. The note cards I'd used for book talks disappeared long ago. The talking points for the media - whether print or television - were a mere memory of another time when I was primed and ready to go.

But a funny thing happened. The minute I started to respond to the reporter's first question, I shifted into overdrive. The reasons for writing the book, the surprises along the way, the results of sibling research all came back to me like a pet who'd run far, far away and miraculously found its way back home.

I was in my mid-40s when I wrote Brothers&Sisters. In the intervening years, I've learned a thing or two but have not changed my mind a whit when it comes to the importance of our siblings and the many ways in which they impact our lives. I wrote a chapter about the illness and death of parents and how those seminal events impact siblings. When I wrote that material, I depended upon research and upon the stories of others. Now, I could revise that chapter from personal experience.

My brother, sister, and I have worked together as a well-oiled team in the care for my seriously ill mother. Normally, that charge falls to the oldest daughter in the family - often, on her shoulders alone. But it is my "baby" sister who is leading the charge here and who suggested to my parents that they relocate from Florida where they'd lived for years to a small college town in Ohio just ten minutes from her home. My sister works in hospice care, feels compelled to work with the dying, and is surrounded by a large support system for both her and my parents.

In truth, I was relieved when my sister made the offer and my parents accepted. I'm not blessed with a half dozen friends who would make it their business to help tend to my parents almost daily. I have a husband, a son living close by, and a job, albeit not full-time.

Before my parents moved to Ohio, my siblings and I took turns visiting them. After several back and forth trips by my sister and me, my brother arrived from France where he lives full time and stayed for a month. Whatever misgivings I'd had from the past melted away when I realized his strength, caring, sense of responsibility, and willingness to keep me in the loop daily. I told him as often as I could what a terrific job he was doing and how much I appreciated him.

I'm blessed to have two siblings who, despite childhood misunderstandings, have put all the baggage aside to care for my parents. I can't imagine what it would be like to be an only child or to have siblings who are unwilling or unable to participate in the end of a parent's life. No one has more shared memories than siblings; no one understands the family dynamics better than those who lived together under the same roof and who spent so much time together.

I don't know how well I communicated all of this to the lovely reporter from the Toronto Star. But talking to her reminded me of why I wrote the book in the first place: I knew that, despite all the emphasis on relationships between parents and children, the sibling connection was supremely influential. And the interview reminded me that once an author, always an author.

Clearing Out

2008-06-02T14:54:00.003-05:00

The Herculean task of getting my parents' Florida condo ready for sale fell to my husband and me. Fair enough. My brother had just spent a month tending to my 91-year-old parents and had returned to France. My sister was running the show in Ohio, where my folks had decided to live out whatever time they have left.

I had a To Do List and a game plan in mind. But when I started opening up drawers and cabinets and closets, I almost turned right around. It was as if my parents had packed a few suitcases, grabbed some photos and family heirlooms to be mailed, locked the door, and walked away. I was overcome by the enormity of the task that was mine and the single-mindedness of purpose that was clearly theirs.

For the next five days, my husband and I amassed three piles - roomfuls is more like it. The pile to be discarded, the pile to be given away, and the pile to be sent to my parents. Office supplies, clothes, linens, grubby pots and pans, records from years ago, old cameras, obsolete tape recorders, gift wrapping, cards and postcards saved but never sent, toiletries, purses, shoes, dresses, canned food, frozen meat - the vestiges of a life filled with too much stuff. And a life filled with hopes, dreams, accomplishments and disappointments; a life coming down the homestretch.

I stared at the rows of shoes in my mother's closet. She has very small feet and, over the years, took advantage of sample sales to amass some pretty hot numbers. Now, the high heels were gone, replaced by special shoes for diabetics and her favorite Mephisto sandals from France. I tried not to get tangled in the emotional strings of all those shoes, but it didn't work. Hot, salty tears streamed down my cheeks. I let out deep moans that came from a place buried inside my soul, a place reserved for immense sorrow and hurt.

I was hurting both physically and emotionally. My back, already sore from a past injury, tightened like a vice grip. My "bad" knee buckled while lugging heavy loads of garbage back and forth down the long hallway from my parents' condo to the garbage shoot. When my husband suggested that I slow down or take a break, I just looked at him in disbelief. "Don't you see how much more needs to be done?" I said. "I can't possibly stop now."

Friends of my parents stopped by. They looked stunned, unwilling to believe that my mother and father were really not coming back. Several stayed and helped us pack dishes, decide how to rearrange the furniture, and to choose a few mementos that would remind them always of the good times they shared with my mom and dad.

On the last day - after hauling the last of the garbage bags down the hallway and into the garbage shoot - I walked from room to room, surveying what looked like a staged condo ready for sale. Cabinet shelves, closets, and drawers were empty. Much of the art work had been stored and mailed up north. Furniture in the living room and studio had been rearranged. Despite the clearing out, reminders of my parents were everywhere from the Japanese silk hanging on the master bedroom wall to the stained glass windows my mother had so lovingly crafted. I shut my eyes and could hear my mother calling us to dinner or asking for a word while doing the daily crossword puzzle; the whoosh of my father taking a golf swing in the living room or cheering for one of his hometown sports teams.

As far as senior facilities go, this was top of the line; my parents had enjoyed their independence, even when yet another neighbor suffered a stroke or passed away. In the end, though, it was the constant reminder of their own mortality and the chance to live closer to their children that drove my parents away. The anticipated "last stop" in their journey was not the last stop after all but a bridge to a cozy home in a tiny Midwestern town surrounded by loving caregivers, friends, and devoted children.

The Wait

2008-05-14T13:53:00.002-05:00

I should have been ready. After all, I wrote a book about brothers and sisters. And, by extension, I explored parental ties.

I should have been prepared. All bets are off when a parent is dying. Emotions come from left field. Patience is thin. The stress level reaches epic levels. Family members do their best to manage their fears, but there are those times when the dam breaks and all hell breaks loose.

My father has been the glass-is-half-full guy through all of this. "She's going to get better," he has said more times than I can count. "She's going to make it."

At first, I wanted to believe him. I still do. But the medical reality has set in and, baring a miracle, my 92 year-old mother is not going to pull through. The proud woman who covered up her dementia and fooled many has let go. The feisty woman who promised that she was going to fight no longer has the energy nor apparently the will. Conversations are limited to "I love yous," "Don't those flowers smell wonderful!" and "Oh, look at that bird!" She is content. It's the rest of us who are up in arms.

My sister is obsessive compulsive when she is in my parents' home. She picks up a barely visible piece of dirt off of the floor. She rearranges books and throws out newspapers. Everyone has been instructed to remove their shoes before entering the house.

"I couldn't live with you!" I said jokingly. "I'd never be able to keep the place clean."

She started to yell, with tears streaming down her face. "I'm sick and tired of being disrespected," she said.

Yikes! I'd walked into a mine field.

"I'm doing all of this work, and no one appreciates it."

I tried to hug her, but she pulled away.

It didn't take long for me to figure out that this really had nothing to do with me. She and my dad had had a similar run-in the day before, after he'd thrown away important phone manuals and who knows what else. I signaled to my son in another room, and the two of us hightailed it out of there. When we returned, my sister had calmed down.

"I'm feeling much better," she said. "Dad and I worked things out."

She was off the hook - at least, for the moment.

Then, a day later, it was my turn. "You know," my father said, "you're one of only two people who think mom is dying."

Huh?

"Because of you I'm about ready to call everyone and tell them that they'd better get here right away if they want to see mom alive."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I said. "You're the one who came to me yesterday and said that she wasn't going to make it!"

"Well, you didn't have to agree with me."

I could see this was a no-win deal for me.

I started screaming. "I don't want her to die! I was just trying to be realistic."

"Well, you're my oldest, and I'm really disappointed in you."

"Disappointed?" I said at the top of my lungs.

"That's right. You must think I'm some sort of fool. Do you think I don't know how sick she is?"

There was no way to reason with him. At that moment, I didn't care.

"Dad, I'm not the one who broached this subject yesterday. That was you. And as you were crying and I was trying to console you, I agreed that she probably wasn't going to pull through."

He was furious. "Who told you she was dying?"

I was standing now. "Dr. Morgan," I said.

"Well, she never told me."

"Oh, so I'm the bad guy - the purveyor of doom and gloom. How the heck would I be able to make such a pronouncement without medical input?"

"It's because of you that I have lost all hope."

That did it. "No one is going to tell me how I'm supposed to act or feel. Not you, not my sister, not some hospice nurse! I never had a chance to say good-bye to my brother and I'll be damned if anyone is going to prevent me from saying good-bye to my mother!"

I paused for a moment, wondering how my brother's death by suicide some thirty years ago came into play.

"Well, I didn't get to say good-bye to your brother, either!"

I paced up and down the living room, trying to figure out how we'd gotten to this place.

"Look," I said. "I love you. I don't want to fight. We're all under terrible stress, and taking that out on each other isn't doing a damn bit of good."

His face softened. I walked up to him, put my arms around him, and we both started to cry. Deep, mournful cries.
"I need you to be positive," he mumbled. "Otherwise, I don't know how to make it through. I don't remember anything in my life before the age of eleven when my mother died."

He'd mentioned this to me the day before. Clearly, he hadn't processed his mother's death and, I'd imagine, the deaths of loved ones that followed.

I patted the top of his head, his white hair now falling gently into his eyes. "I know . . . I know."

2008-04-08T16:45:00.002-05:00

My mom is dying. Oh, the doctors manage to couch the truth in their own medical psycho babble: "Nothing she's suffering is life-threatening in and of itself," they say. "But she has so many problems. And she is ninety-one." Yeah, we know how old she is. We celebrated her 89th when she said it would be her last. "No one in my immediate family has ever lived this long," she said matter-of-factly. But she didn't die. Wasn't even close. Sure, her eye sight was failing; her hearing was bad. And her loyal and true mind had begun to fail her. "So," she said casually. "I can't remember the way I used to." While the rest of us struggled with her dementia, it seemed that she had made her peace.

A few weeks ago (is it only a few weeks?), she suddenly had trouble walking. Her feet were killing her. Then the excruciating pain spread to her hands. At the same time, her heart started acting up. It had gone into atrial fibrillation and a fast pulse - a dangerous tango. "It's nothing to worry about," my dad said, trying to convince himself as much as me. But he was wrong. My mom was suffering from gout, anemia, low blood oxygen, and a disobedient heart.

After her first hospitalization, I flew to Florida, hopeful that, with every day, she'd feel stronger and more alert. But things spiraled downhill. The growing pain in her stomach - who said anything about her stomach? - kept her in bed for most of the day and night. The medication twisted her bowels and sent her to the toilet much too often. The swelling in her joints didn't show any improvement. She was miserable.

The doctor palpated her stomach, inspected her hands and feet, checked all of her vital signs. "I've never seen her like this," she said. "I want her back in the hospital now." Dejected, my father, mother, and I passed "go" and drove straight to Sarasota Memorial. This time, she got a private room.

Hospital rooms, no matter how private, are inhospitable cells where the sick and dying are hooked up, poked, and prodded. Despite the insult of it all - and the growing number of black and blue marks up and down her arms where nurses from nurses searching for a viable vein - my mother never complained. She wanted to get better and go home in the worst way, yet she made the best of a lousy situation. "It is what it is," she said without an ounce of anger or self-pity.

Progress was slow. But there was progress. We were all so hopeful. And though I hated to leave, I had a husband at home and work to pursue.

When the phone rang late at night, I knew the news was bad.
"Your mom has had a stroke," my dad said in a very small voice. "You'd better come."
A stroke?
I pounded my fists into the table. I kicked my slippers across the room. Hadn't she suffered enough!

It wasn't a stroke. The attending nurse had come in to give my mother some medication and saw that she wasn't breathing. They "resuscitated" her not once but twice. Then they wheeled her out for a cat scan of her brain
"I don't think she'd stopped breathing for very long," the nurse told my husband.
For VERY long! Any cessation of breathing is too damn long!
Within the hour, my almost 91-year-old father who had raced to the hospital, alone and at night, called again.
"She's just fine," he said. "She had something called apnea or something like that."
"Apnea? You mean sleep apnea?"
"That's it. Sleep apnea."

It didn't matter. The next morning, I was a plane headed back to Florida. I must tell her again and again how much I love her . . . what a wonderful mother she's been. Maybe if I tell her we can still take that family cruise. Or that my son, her only grandson, has found someone special. Or that my latest book, a tribute to her and to my father, will be made into a movie. Or just that I'm happy more often than not, share warm connections with family and friends, and that I owe my strength and open heart all to her.

I don't know how much fight she has left.

Gyro What?

2008-02-27T18:14:00.014-06:00

What in the world are these people doing? Are they out of their minds? Is this some weird form of torture? Or a new form of exercise for the criminally insane?

Nope. This is Gyrotonic. And believe it or not, it rocks.

My world of exercise was shrinking fast. A chronic lower back problem forced me to give up Pilates. All those moves with legs overhead and a slow, vertebra by vertebra descent were more painful than multiple shots of Novacaine at the hands of a sadistic dentist. Then a bum knee hampered my developing yoga practice, turning Warrior poses into Wimp poses. What was I, a believer in regular exercise, to do?

The answer came in the form of three people perched on what looked like contemporary torture racks - though none of the apparent students evidenced any pain. Instead, they were grasping handles and somehow moving their upper bodies in wide circular configurations that resembled stirring a huge pot of soup. Or mixing a witch's brew. I was intrigued.

The system of stretching and toning rotational exercises - most of which are done on the contraption called the "tower" (see photo above left) - is called Gyrotonic. Often described as a yoga/dance//Pilates hybrid, Gyrotonic was developed by a former gymnast, dancer, and swimmer who, after injuring an Achilles tendon, devised a system of yoga and then designed the "tower" to provide mild resistance that complements the moves. I had to try it!

It's been a while since I've felt like a klutz. And though my private instructor moved slowly through the basics of Gyrotonic - the repetitive cycles of circling movement and rhythmic breathing, arching my back and curling my spine, narrowing my hips - I felt like a bench warmer thrust into a varsity game. The work demanded my full attention and challenged everything I thought I had down pat: coordination; rhythm; strength, and endurance.

Yet there was something about Gyrotonic that felt familiar. So, I stayed with it. Slowly, I began to get the hang of it and, with progress, began to understand how yoga and dance had been integrated into the system. All the arching and curling of my spine made it stronger. My posture improved. I was less inclined to initiate movement from tense and hunched shoulders and more able to keep the shoulder wings "in my back." My hip flexors gradually opened, allowing me greater range of movement in Gyrotonic and in everyday life.

The "no pain no gain" theory of exercise is happily not part of the Gryrotonic creed. Sure, there are mornings after when I have a sore muscle here or there. But most of the time, even after sessions in which I've done things with my body never thought possible, I'm whole. It's been 9 months since I started doing Gyrotnic, and I haven't had to see the chiropractor once.

Gyrotonic is not for those on a tight budget. A private, one-hour session at Chicago North Shore Gyrotonic in Evanston, IL, where I study is $70. (The 3-session introductory package saves you $50.) There are semi-private and sessions for three available by appointment. And there are classes at varying times during the week. Once you know what you're doing, you can spend an hour on the equipment without instruction for $20. That's what I've started to do.

Like Pilates before it, Gyrotonic is growing by leaps and bounds. A March 5, 2001, Forbes article titled "Do the Twist," stated that there were 218 Gryrotonic studios worldwide, with 126 in the U.S. Today, gyrontic.com boasts 1400 studios around the world, with 859 in the good ol' U.S.A. (Check out the web site for a studio near you.)

If I were maybe 30 years younger in search of a new career, I might consider becoming a trained Gyrotonic instructor. For now, I'll have to add that to my "Things I Want To Do in My Next Lifetime List" behind professional dancer and best-selling author.

http://www.cnsgyrotonic.com
http://www.gryrotonic.com

Dead Serious: Suicide

2008-02-13T10:31:00.011-06:00

Almost 30 years ago, my brother stuck a hunting rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He died instantly.

Each of my family members handled their grief differently and, for the most part, alone. Not until I wrote a book called Dead Serious did we begin to share the hurt, anger, aching sadness, and endless unanswered questions. Why, when he seemed to have emerged from a serious depression, did he take his life? With the support of a loving family and friends, how he could have seen death as the right path? How could he have been so selfish? Didn't he know the pain he would leave behind?

We'll never have a chance to ask my brother those questions; we are left with coming to an uneasy truce, each in our own way. There will never be a complete resolution.

When the phone call came in last week that my husband's first cousin, as close as a sister, had attempted suicide, I was thrown back into my own pool of sadness and "what ifs." Thankfully, the overdose of prescription pills she swallowed didn't kill her, and she is now recovering. She is filled with remorse and so very, very sorry.

When the time is right, I'll be able to ask her the questions I could never ask my brother and get answers - answers that may be confusing, at times nonsensical, but answers nonetheless. I'll be able to get a glimpse of what it feels like when depression and pain turn to utter hopelessness. I'll be able to ask why concern for her son and the rest of her family didn't trump her decision to end it all. I'll be able to know what it's like to return from the precipice and confront your living hell once again. Did she think she'd really die? Or was this the proverbial cry for help? And, most importantly, what can be done so she can begin to heal?

I recently bought a new frame to hold the photo of my brother that sits on my desk. The old frame, made of cardboard, had miraculously survived since better, happier days when he was just a seventeen-year-old kid about to go off to college. And I was his big sis, his good buddy, and a loving guide.

A Mother's Loss of Memory

2008-02-09T16:45:00.000-06:00

My mother, 91, is losing it. For a time, we thought all she needed was a hearing aid to bring her back into the mix. We didn't realize that the root cause of her growing silence was not poor hearing but her increasing inability to follow and stay with the conversation.

We didn't think it would happen this way. My mother had the memory of an elephant. She could tell you the menu at the Parisian restaurant 20 years before, detail the family tree going back multiple generations, finish the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle just like that. My mother carried hundreds of addresses and phone numbers around in her head, easily accessing them whenever necessary. She managed four children and a husband and, after we had all gone, she chaired or co-chaired everything from music festivals to Peace Now.

My mother's memory never failed her; she could pull any piece of past history like a good magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

Then everything changed. Slowly, at first. It was still possible to pin her mental haze on a bad night's sleep or a nasty cold. She'd have a good day or days, and we'd all breathe a sigh of relief, fooling ourselves.

But there's no fooling anybody now. My mother can't remember what she did earlier in the day, let alone the day before. She has renounced her role as the family cook, turned over the keys to the car, relinquished her responsibilities as the organizer. For the first time in her life, she is no longer in control. And in a strange way, I think she is relieved.

No more plans to make, meetings to chair, appointments to keep, family members' and friends' lives to monitor. She is sweeter, more relaxed. After almost 90 years of being in charge, she can let others rule the roost.

When I asked her if her memory loss bothered her, she blithely said, "I'm just happy to be alive."

We should all be so content.

The Winter Blues

2008-02-07T16:54:00.001-06:00

(photo by Jane Leder)

As of last evening, we'd had exactly 11 minutes of sunshine in the month of February. Eleven precious minutes! That's just about enough time to rifle through my purse, dig out my sunglasses, clean off the lipstick smudges, and walk out the door. By then, the clouds that had so mercifully parted converge in a devious plot to once again eclipse the sun.

Ever since my mid-thirties, I've suffered a mild case of Seasonal Affective Depression, or SAD. Come about November, my energy level drops, I usually gain weight, I get tired more easily, and, in general, I'm not my usual bubbly, optimistic, charming self.

I'm not alone: some 10 million Americans - 70 to 80 percent of them women - suffer from SAD. An even larger number sing the "winter blues." Scientists aren't exactly sure what causes SAD, but they have some good guesses. One theory holds that our biological clocks, regulators of mood, sleep, and hormones, slow down because there is less sunlight. Another theory is that the brain chemicals that transmit information between nerves may be altered. Some of those "happy" chemicals like serotonin aren't as readily available, and those of us who are affected can get pretty cranky.

Back in the day, I tried light therapy to combat the symptoms of SAD. I sat in front of a big light box that boasted white fluorescent light tubes covered with a plastic screen to block out ultraviolet rays. The thing worked for a time but, ultimately, the only effective treatment was a trip to Florida.

The larger light boxes are not portable and force the user to sit in one place for up to 30 minutes. I got even moodier, having lost my mobility. So when my uncle sent me a photo of a new device that, for all practical purposes, looked like a mini-miner's helmet with one of those super duper special lights, I gave the light box to my son and started wearing the helmet. I loved that I could do just about anything while wearing it except take a shower or drive a car but, in the end, it didn't make much difference in how I felt.

For a few winters, I just up and left - first to Florida, then to California. But my husband felt abandoned and, with pressure to stay home, my travels to warmer climes came to an abrupt end. Then one fall afternoon - with the days noticeably shorter and my fears of yet another winter more and more real - I decided to try an anti-depressant through the winter months. As I recall, that winter was uncharacteristically sunny, so I never knew whether it was the medication or the sunshine that softened the blow. Whatever it was, it worked. Not willing to trust Mother Nature (with good reason after the 11 minutes of sun this month), I rely on the medication.

If you're one of the millions who, like me, wishes that winter lasted about 4 weeks - Global Warming may ultimately grant us that wish - there are some steps you can take to survive the season's short, often dark days:

Spend time outside every day, even if it's cold and cloudy. It is brighter outdoors than inside, and the light and fresh air can boost your mood.
Exercise and wake up all those "happy" brain chemicals.
Consider a light box (you should consult with a physician first) or change the light bulbs in your home to full spectrum lights that simulate natural light.
Take out photos of your garden and begin to plan changes for the spring.
Save your money and take a trip to sunnier climes.
If things get really bad, think about moving. Given the low interest rates and disaster in the real estate market, this is a good time to make a great deal.

The Luxury of Choice

2008-02-06T09:32:00.000-06:00

As one pundit put it last night, "This year Democrats have the luxury of choice."

Remember the cast of presidential hopefuls just four years ago: Kerry, Sharpton, Kucinich, Edwards, Dean, Clark, Lieberman, Gephardt, Braun, and Graham? A black man, a woman, a Jew (an orthodox, no less), and a supposed kook who'd seen flying saucers - none of them had a chance. And when the presumptive front runner started "screaming" after his big win in Iowa, he was toast.

And then there were five. Democrats weighed the pros and cons of each, desperate to nominate someone who could defeat Bush and end the debacle fashioned by Cheney, Rove, Rumsfeld, and the other neo-conservatives who took us to war in Iraq, left Afghanistan to fend for itself, gave tax breaks to the rich, supported big corporations, conceived the failing "No Child Left Behind," and took the country from a surplus to an alarmingly high budget shortfall. (And that's just the half of it!)

I remember trying to sing the praises of someone - anyone who might end this reign of terror. A military guy with no political experience? A nice guy with perfect hair? Two longtime U.S. senators with sound records but little charisma and even less national name recognition?

By default, John Kerry was the last man standing. And we Dems did our best to get over his lack of star power, his pandering ploys, his tendency to be ambushed by special interest groups that painted him as less than a war hero and as a flip flopper extraordinaire.

We can argue Ohio and the final tally until we're blue in the face. But the guy lost and we were left to suffer the fools at the top. Oh, there was great hope midway through when the Dems took control of Congress. But with a razor-thin majority in the Senate, the strides have been minimal.

But today is a new day! We've got Hillary and Obama. Like many people I know, I struggled to make a choice. Information (as in Hillary)? Or imagination (as in Obama)? The tried and experienced? Or the fresh and energetic?

Last night, my demographic - white, "older" women - went for Hillary. I voted for Obama. But with the delegate count almost even and millions of voters yet to vote, it's too close to call. And that's just fine with me. If the man with a father from Kenya and a mother from Kansas doesn't make the final cut, then the woman from Illinois, the maligned First Lady, will move to center stage.

I look forward to having a good cry come next January when either the first African American or the first woman takes the oath as president of the United States.

We do enjoy the luxury of choice.

Hope Springs Eternal (photo: J. Leder)

2008-02-01T18:03:00.000-06:00

Choosing A "Path of Fire"

2008-01-30T16:10:00.000-06:00

Lela and Nick Beem, both 27, spent ten days of their honeymoon at a silent meditation retreat in Thailand. They slept on concrete slabs, rose each morning at 4 a.m., meditated eight times a day, practiced yoga, and didn’t speak a word to each other – or to anyone else. There was no reading or writing or listening to music. And there was no intermingling of the sexes.

Sound crazy? Maybe for most of us unenlightened mortals. But for Nick and Lela, Chicago-area yoga instructors who met when he was finishing a degree in computer science at Brown University and she was an AmeriCorps teacher, it made perfect sense. “What better way to start a marriage,” said Lela. “The commitment we made to each other was through Buddhist ideas, and we vowed to move forward in mindfulness.” Loose – very loose - translation: To be nice to each other.

So, are the Beems an oddity in today’s goal-oriented, get-rich-quick world? Or do they represent a trend among younger yogis and yoginis who are choosing to make a positive difference rather than a steady paycheck?

There is no quibbling with the facts: The number of registered yoga teachers in the U.S. has increased six fold to 15,329 in 2006, up from 2,521 in 2001. According to Yoga Alliance (YA), 17 million Americans of all ages now practice yoga regularly. And there are no signs of a slowdown. Americans spend some $2.95 billion a year on yoga classes, equipment, clothing, vacations, videos and more, according to a study commissioned by Yoga Journal.

There are no statistics on yoga teachers’ ages, but a 2007 New York Times article reported that representatives of more than a half-dozen top training programs said interest from recent college grads is strong. “Teaching yoga is wonderful, satisfying, sometimes blissful,” said Nick Beem. “But it is not easy.” It is, according to one of Nick’s teachers, “a path of fire.” Class attendance, which determines income, can vary wildly. Many new teachers travel long distances. It can take months, sometimes years, for classes to build.

Given the obstacles, what’s the draw? And what are the challenges of being a young trying to live a yoga lifestyle? Is this a group of mystical misfits comparable to the hari krisnas of the 1960s? Or are they seekers truly interested in spreading a path to personal growth? And does their age matter in the eyes of older practitioners?

As one of the "older practitioners," I can tell you that a yoga instructor's age pales in importance to his or her ability to teach, support, and inspire. I'm interested in how the breath can take my mind off of screaming hamstrings. I'm focused on how meditation can calm my over-active mind. I'm dedicated to strengthening my weak and all-too-flabby arms. And, oh, yeah - I'm trying not to compare myself to the woman next to me who can balance on one leg for days and stand on her head. Hell, as long as an instructor doesn't try to use the podium to tell me how to live my life, I could care less about age.

WRINKLES DON'T HURT: SAYS WHO?

2008-01-25T09:45:00.000-06:00

You stare in the mirror and confront the laugh lines that stay put when life's no longer a laughing matter. Or you zip up a pair of jeans, tugging a bit too hard over the soft, rounded belly that refuses to respond to sit-ups, crunches, or diets.

The lines on your chest from too much sun conjure up horror images of leather-skinned ladies from Miami Beach. Or the lines circling your neck like an umbilical chord make you want to strangle yourself.

It's a challenge to accept these physical badges of experience and wisdom and not see them as flashing neon signs that scream out, "You ain't no spring chicken anymore!"

These moments when you see yet another sign of aging have been dubbed by some as "age jumps." Just when you've settled down and accepted whatever the pull of gravity, the ravages of a not-so-healthy lifestyle and/or the insults hurled by Father Time, there's yet another one of the "age jumps" that makes you want to don a paper bag over your head and tear ass to the nearest cosmetic surgeon.

It doesn't matter that you've vowed to age with grace. That was some Ernest Hemingway deal about "grace under pressure." What the hell did he know? During an "age jump," you feel ugly and old and, most of all, you begin to feel invisible.

So, how can you survive? Here are a few suggestions. Mind you, I recommend that you take my advice because I'm not using it:

Grieve for the loss of your youth. But not for too long.
Complain a little. Your friends are bound to tell you that you look great.
Focus of what you CAN do make yourself look and feel better.
Find older women who look terrific. Hold them as role models.
Take a page from Al Franken's "Daily Affirmations with Stuart Smalley" bit on Saturday Night Live. Stand in front of a mirror and, as often as necessary, repeat the following: "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, I'm beautiful enough and, doggone it, people like me and I like myself."

SLEEPING BEAUTY HAS A SLEEP TEST

2008-01-24T08:03:00.000-06:00

I've been wrecking my husband's sleep for years - probably decades. I snore just like 24% of adult American women. Not every night. Sometimes, not more than heavy breathing. But when I get going I apparently sound like an old geezer honking away.

I've tried lubricating mouth spray, Breathe Right Strips ( a barely more humane form of close pins on the nose), special pillows, a snore guard, and herbs. Nothing worked. (In full disclosure, I did lose the snore guard about a year or so ago.)

With the odds of nights spent in my own bed with my husband less and less favorable than nights alone with my cat in the guest bedroom, I gave in to the possibility that sleep apnea might be the culprit and agreed to do a sleep test.

For the same outrageously-high fee of $2300 (before hoped-for insurance reimbursement), I was given the choice of doing the sleep test in a hospital room or in a new Crowne Plaza Hotel. That's like asking a kid whether she wants gruel or pancakes with eggs and bacon for breakfast. I opted for the hotel room.

I packed my fluffy sheepskin slippers and my Nick and Nora pajamas covered in sheep. Once settled into my room, I tried to relax and get sleepy by reading the business section of The New York Times. Exactly at 9 p.m., my phone rang. It was Frank, the technician, who was headed my way.

In all of my sheep-pajama glory, I shuffled to the door and opened it. Frank from Nigeria, all 6 feet 2 inches of him, smiled and entered. Once unpacked, he settled me down in a chair and began to hook me up.

The process of hooking me up took almost an hour. He wadded

gobs of sticky gunk into my hair into which he attached sensors to measure brain waves. He connected multi-colored wires to my leg, my chest, and to my forehead. He gently pushed tubes up both nostrils to register my breathing patterns. He taped another sensor to my throat. And then he asked me if I had to "use the facilities."

What happens if I have to go in the middle of the night?" I asked, realizing for the first time that I would be a virtual prisoner. "You'll have to call me," he said. Right then and there, I decided that I'd whet my bed rather than call Frank. The humility of it . . . Not to mention that I already looked like Phyllis Diller on a good day.

I had trouble falling asleep. Who wouldn't attached to so many wires like a marionette controlled by a puppeteer on crack? Finally, I dozed off, sleeping fitfully and waking up on and off all night. The phone next to my bed rang at 5 a.m. It was Frank. He was on his way from his all-night observation room down the hall.

The freedom of getting unhooked was like escaping from a Houdini trap. I tried to get Frank to tell me if I'd snored or tossed and turned like those guinea pigs for bad mattress ads on TV. But he wasn't the doctor, he said. I'd have to wait for the results.

I'm still waiting. It should be another day or two. But funny thing: I haven't snored since.