Decisions, Decisions

It was the summer of 1980 and I had just graduated from college. I would start graduate school at Columbia in the fall. I planned to work at The Perfumer’s Worskhop for the summer, the same place I had worked for the past three summers. The Perfumer’s Workshop was a company that created and distributed a few different lines of perfumes and essential oils, very high-end products that were sold only at the best department stores. Prior to working there, I had not even heard of these department stores. Suffice it to say that Princess Luciana’s Tea Rose, their biggest seller, was not offered at Alexander’s, or even A&S, and A&S was a fancy store, in my estimation.


I got the job through a friend of my father. I learned a lot in my time at The Perfumer’s Workshop. Aside from learning the names of the high-end department stores across the country (Nieman Marcus, Bullocks, Carson, Pirie, Scott, etc.), I saw a whole different world in that office. Mr. Bauchner, the owner, was always tan and dressed in the latest men’s fashion. He frequently jetted off to Dubai and Kuwait – exotic places I had not heard of until then. I hadn’t seen ‘air kisses’ before – visitors were greeted with pecks on the cheek that seemed to deliberately miss. Mr. Molyneux, the ‘nose,’ came to the office carrying his seemingly miniature Yorkshire terrier in his arms like a baby. (Note: The person who developed the scents at a perfume company was called ‘the nose.’) He had a light green velvet suit that he favored and sometimes he wore a beret.

It was a very small company; all the men were addressed as Mister. The office manager/controller was addressed by her first name, Eve. All the women, and there were only a few, were called by their first names. At the time, this seemed appropriate.

They offered me a permanent job, but I could not see my future there. I knew, and I was honest with them, that I didn’t want to be a bookkeeper and I had no interest in the world of high fashion and all that entailed. They were very gracious about allowing me to continue to come back for summers and school breaks.

In August of that summer the Democratic party was holding its convention at Madison Square Garden. My parents’ good friend, Sonya, was very involved in politics. She was, in fact, married to a congressman (Ted Weiss) who represented Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Sonya had connections and knew I was interested in politics, so she arranged for me to get an interview to work at the convention.

On a hot, humid July day I made my way from the Perfumer’s Workshop office on 57th and 5th to the interview at the Statler Hotel across from Madison Square Garden. I anticipated a swanky Manhattan hotel; it wasn’t. It had clearly seen better days. A threadbare carpet led me to a hotel conference room where I was briefly interviewed. It was clearly a formality. They told me they would be in touch with more specifics. I can’t say that I left feeling excited because I didn’t know what the job entailed, it all seemed pretty loose. The drabness of the hotel colored my mood. I went back uptown to the Perfumer’s office thinking that I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, despite being underwhelmed by the interview process. In the meantime, I would continue working at the perfume company until the convention.

During that summer, my brother, Steve, and his wife, Cindy, were temporarily living in London. They were there for six months and that summer was in the middle of their time there.

Cindy and Steve allowed me to ‘apartment-sit’ at their lovely place in Jamaica Estates in Queens while they were away. Living there cut down my commute time dramatically, compared to Canarsie, and not having to move back in with my parents after college was a big plus. Unexpectedly, it also provided an opportunity for Gary to ingratiate himself with my father.

One evening I was on the phone with Gary. He was at his parent’s house in Rosedale, another neighborhood in Queens. We were chatting happily when Gary said he needed to go (literally) and he would call me back. We hung up and I went about my business. I think about half hour or 45 minutes went by when there was a knock on the apartment door. “Who’s there?” I ask, as I looked through the peephole. I see Gary and I open the door. Not only is Gary there, but his brother, Steven, is standing to the side of the doorframe. They both have baseball bats!

“You’re okay?” Gary asked. “Yes. What’s going on?” I opened the door wide so they could come in. “You didn’t answer the phone!” Gary exclaimed, sounding exasperated. “What do you mean? It didn’t ring,” I responded. I went over to the phone and picked it up and to my surprise there was no dial tone.

Turned out, Gary, having answered nature’s call, tried phoning me continuously for ten or fifteen minutes, getting progressively more nervous when I failed to answer. We had been on the phone and he knew I had no plan to go out, or even get in the shower. So, in a move that sealed him in my father’s heart forever, he and his brother jumped in the car and drove (maniacally, if I know Steven) over to make sure I was all right – bringing baseball bats to mete out justice, if need be.

We surmised that something must have happened with the phone after I hung up and I didn’t realize it had gone out of service.  They were quite relieved to find that I was safe and sound. Gary and Steven went back home satisfied that all was well.

Steve and Cindy’s time in London provided the family with an opportunity to see England and there was discussion about visiting them. Pam, Cindy’s sister, wanted to go and we explored traveling together, but the timing didn’t work. I was betwixt and between because I needed to make money over the summer, so I didn’t want to cut short my time at Perfumer’s Workshop. I also wanted to work the convention and I would be starting graduate school early in September. But, how many opportunities would I have to go to London and have a place to stay for free? The trip would cost me only airfare and meals. But, how many opportunities would I have to attend the Democratic National Convention?

It was a tough decision.

After weighing the merits of each, I decided to go to London. I have vivid memories of that trip. I probably spent more time with my brother Steven during that week than I had in my life up to that point, or since. We took Brit Rail to Bath and saw Roman ruins and where Jane Austen lived. We went to museums and saw a play, Mousetrap. We also snuck into the second act of the play, Norman Conquests! I did some exploring on my own, too.

Most memorably, though, we took a one-day trip to Paris. When I arrived in London, Mark and Pam were concluding their own visit. (As mentioned previously on this blog, my two brothers married two sisters. Mark and Pam were engaged to be married in the summer of 1980.) We overlapped for one-day, quite an auspicious day. My plane landed at Gatwick, I took a train to Victoria Station and found Steven waiting for me. We went to their apartment, met Cindy, Mark and Pam and dropped my stuff off. We left immediately to catch a bus. We took the bus to the ferry to cross the channel (the Chunnel didn’t exist yet). We arrived in Paris as the sun was coming up. We had a little over 12 hours to tour Paris on our own before we caught the bus back to London.

I have a picture in my mind’s eye of us crisscrossing Paris, trying to see as much as possible in our limited time. My sister-in-law, Cindy, has very long legs and covers a lot of ground quickly and efficiently. Steven, with years of experience as her partner, matched her pace. I lagged behind them, but kept them in sight. Mark and Pam were quite a bit behind me. We trooped through Paris in that alignment. The Eiffel Tower, the Tuileries, the Pompidou Center, the Champs de Elysees, and the Arc de Triomphe. Mostly we just walked by the various sites. We did go into the Louvre. I couldn’t believe I was seeing so many iconic places.

It was exhausting! We met up with the others from the bus at a restaurant where we had dinner before boarding for our return. I sunk into my seat, beyond tired, barely able to keep my eyes open. Next thing I knew, there was a bit of a commotion and some male passengers, including my brothers, were coming down the aisle of the bus. It was pitch black as I looked out the side window, but there was a huge bonfire ahead of us blocking the road. There was some shouting in French. I didn’t understand what was going on. I heard my brother Steven explaining to the bus driver that he had previously traveled back to England through Ostend (in Belgium), which wasn’t too far. We were scheduled to get to the ferry in Calais in France, but we were thwarted. Steven was giving the driver directions so we could find another way back!

I came to understand, later, that French fisherman had created a blockade at Calais so that boats could not cross the English Channel. The bus driver was planning to ram the bus through the bonfire! Fortunately, the passengers, including my brothers, convinced him that going to Ostend was a better option. The blockade later spread to other ports. It was a dispute about fishing rights. We made it to Ostend and got on a ferry back to England. It turned out to be the last ferry for something like two weeks! We couldn’t believe it. Thank God Steven had a great sense of direction!

We got back to London. Mark and Pam returned to the United States. I slept for a day and then went about touring London and some of the surrounding areas. I didn’t regret my choice, though I believe that 1980 convention may have been the last time there was a contest on floor. Ted Kennedy challenged President Carter for the nomination, though he gave up after the first day.

A couple of months after I returned from my London adventure, I got this letter from Zada for my birthday. The letter included another story – his experience at the 1920 Democratic National Convention! In true Zada-fashion, it is a little off-color, but it was my 21st birthday, after all. I may have missed my chance to attend a convention, but, unbeknownst to me, Zada had attended one 60 years earlier.

October 3, 1980

Dear Linda,

At one time the age of maturity was ’21.’ Now I understand it is ’18.’ I think that you have matured a lot earlier. You have proven this not only to my satisfaction, but to everybody around you. We all are proud of the net result.

Although we will wish you the best in all succeeding birthdays, this one according to custom, is a check, that we hope you use to your advantage. I had vowed that I would send a check to grandchildren up to the age of 21. So far, I have lived up to my vow.

I promised you that because you missed the Democratic National Convention I would write of my experiences at the 1920 Democratic Convention that was held at the old Madison Square Garden, at that time situated on 23rd and Madison Ave. I will set the scene so that in your mind you will realize that this has happened 60 years ago. The morals and mores of the times then were a lot different than they are today…But if a U.S. president can say publicly, “I will whip his ass!”, what I have to relate is mild in comparison.

I was 16 years old, and on the street where we lived there was a young man who had worked with the Sells-Floto Circus. His boss there was in charge of the concessions at the convention. There was a need of hawkers (salesmen). So naturally he asked a few of us if we would be willing to work at the Garden in this capacity. And, as you know, I always possessed a yen for all kinds of adventure. I eagerly accepted. What I am going to relate is only one phase of all the important events I encountered. Some day, if fate decrees that we are together and if you are interested, I will recount the events that made such an impression upon me.

The delegates are assembled in the vast auditorium, there is a mixture of lady delegates, but predominantly they are mostly of the male species. As you know they have come from all parts of our great country. There has been a deadlock between Alfred A. Smith, governor of New York State and Williams Gibbs McAdoo, Secretary of the Treasury and also a son-in-law of President Woodrow Wilson. The battle raged hot and hectically. Neither one would accede to the other. It was necessary for the boys in the ‘smoked filled rooms’ to break the deadlock so they came up with an alternate choice which I will name later. As you have seen when a candidate is announced, all in his favor will start parading around the arena shouting and singing to the blaring music, the chant, We want Smith or whatever candidate is nominated. This repeated time and again for as long as their voices hold out.

The political ‘big wigs’ had come up with the governor of Ohio, namely James E. Cox. He was nominated and the band began to play an Ohio song (which I vaguely remember a few lines like “Round on the ends and high in the middle, that spells Ohio.). As they were told, the delegates arose with the cry, We want Cox! We want Cox! We want Cox! We want Cox! And above all the tumult, as if by prearrangement, all the male voices and the band stopped dead. All you could hear from the various locations, female voices shouting the slogan We want Cox! We want Cox! We want Cox! And with the same suddenness, realizing the double entendre of what they were saying, they ceased. And for a moment or two there was a complete hush over all of Madison Square Garden. Followed by gales of laughter emitting from the throats of 20,000 voices. You really had to be there to realize the impact of the occasion. So that is all for now. I promise that someday I will tell you little vignettes about Franklin D. Roosevelt, William Jennings Bryan, Secretary of War Newton D. Baker and Isabelle Jewett Brown of S. Carolina. All that I witnessed at the 1920 Democratic National Convention.

Have a happy birthday and a healthy new year.

Lots of Love

Laura* and Zayda**

*Laura was Zada’s second wife. He remarried when he moved to Florida. From that point on he always including her in the close.

**We called my grandfather Zada, a Yiddish term. I believe this is the only letter I have where he spelled it with a y. Since it not an English word, and Yiddish uses a different alphabet, there is no correct English spelling. Our family most commonly used Zada, but I have seen many variations.

‘That Girl’

Click on this link to hear the theme song and opening sequence: That Girl

I loved “That Girl.” I wanted to be Ann Marie, the lead character. She had great hair (I’ve written about my struggles with my hair before in Hair: Not Long, Not Beautiful). Hers was shiny and straight with a stylish flip at the bottom. Her bangs were perfect. My bangs always curled – the least bit of humidity or sweat and my bangs were history, just frizz and curls. She also had a cute figure, like a real-life Barbie doll. She had a boyfriend who was devoted to her, despite her sometimes-exasperating adventures. She was bubbly and had a great smile. She lived in Manhattan and her loving parents lived in a nice suburban house. Oh, why couldn’t I be her?!

I was seven years old when “That Girl” first started airing. It was on for five years. No matter what I did, my hair would not look like Ann’s. No matter what I did, my body was simply too thick. I come from Eastern European peasant stock, after all. The closest person, in real life, that I knew who met that ideal was my Dad’s cousin, Carol. Somehow the peasant stock was noticeably absent in Carol. She was petite and had fabulous hair that she wore in the same style as Ann Marie. She lived on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and she was a lawyer. I was in awe.

But, and this is big, she wasn’t married! While it is entirely possible she had a boyfriend, I was not aware of that as a child. This was a major problem, in my young mind. It confused me. According to my sophisticated world view, she should have either been married or had a steady boyfriend, since she was the epitome of what a woman should be.

The messages I received as a girl growing up in the ‘60s and ‘70s were conflicting. I was paying close attention to the women’s movement and I bought in to the idea that women can and should have it all: career and family. That message turned out to be incomplete – maybe we could have it all, but not at one time. It was also unrealistic given the need for all of society to change – men, the world of work, families, our institutions. It was a tall order that hasn’t been fulfilled yet – 50 years later.

Even with those ideas about changing roles for women, my notion of romantic relationships remained quite traditional. I thought a woman should marry a man, have two children and a cat. The idea of having a cat may have been revolutionary, but otherwise, I was quite traditional.

I got the message that a woman should be attached, that something was amiss if she was without a husband. Even as a girl, I felt that pressure. I could not separate what was societal, familial or my own neuroses.

In my family, the dating status of single female adults was not spoken of. Generally, you had to be engaged to be married for the relationship to be recognized. And, while that is understandable, in terms of welcoming someone into the family, it doesn’t explain the silence on the subject. I took the silence to mean there was something wrong with being a single woman. In our extended family, there were a few who fell into that category. Oddly enough, there was only one single male, my Uncle Mike, and it was understood that he certainly wanted to be married (which he did, eventually). We had no ‘confirmed bachelors.’ In retrospect, I wonder if the silence around the women who weren’t married was more about wanting to avoid any conversation about sex.

All of this contributed to my great fear that I would not marry. If Carol wasn’t married, pretty as she was, how would I ever ‘catch’ someone. Why, as an adolescent, was I preoccupied by this fear?

I remember a conversation I had with my brother when we were teenagers. For a couple of summers, Mark and I worked at the same summer camp. One time there was talk on the girl’s side about a counselor, Robin, coming back to her bunk with grass on her back and in her hair. There was some joking and teasing about who she had been with. Rumor had it that she was with my brother. That was weird for me to hear. Some brothers and sisters may talk or joke about their dating lives, but that was not the case in our family. After hearing the scuttlebutt, alone with my brother, I asked him if he thought Robin liked him. He responded that he hadn’t really thought about it.

That was an ‘aha!’ moment for me. He hadn’t thought about it!! That is all I would have been thinking about. It was all I ever thought about when it came to guys: does he like me? Not, do I like him? I would worry about that once I knew that he liked me! Now, my brother may be unusual, actually, I know he is unusual. But I do think there was something to this. I spent endless hours with friends parsing words, body language, tone of voice to determine if the guy was interested. While I don’t doubt that guys were concerned with whether they were liked, I think their priorities were elsewhere – like: What’s for dinner? How did the Mets do? When would they next have sex? Maybe that is an overstatement, but I think there’s truth to it.

So much of my self-worth hinged on whether there was a guy interested in me. Or at least that’s what I thought during my teenage years and well into young adulthood. The irony is I came to learn that having a boyfriend or husband didn’t fix that self-worth issue. As author Anne Lamott said in her recent TED Talk (which I highly recommend watching here), that is an ‘inside job.’ No outside validation can silence the persistent voice in your head that tears you down. You have to find a way to do that yourself.







Is it socially acceptable for women to express anger? I have thought about this forever– long before Senator Kirsten Gillibrand was called to task for dropping the f-bomb in frustration the other day. My first reaction to Senator Gillibrand’s outburst was, “Way to go! You tell ‘em, sister!”

Anger is a mysterious emotion to me.  As a girl and then as a woman, it was/is difficult to express. There is a caveat to that. I have had no problem expressing anger with my mother or my husband. Aren’t they lucky?! While they might prefer it be otherwise, I choose to think of it as a mark of how comfortable I am with them. They are the recipients of the full range of my emotions. That is the positive spin I’m putting on it and I’m sticking with it. (Perhaps I’m letting myself off too easily.)

My children might say that I freely express anger with them, too. (Leah and Dan, you can take this opportunity to offer your first public comments on this blog, if you wish.) That may have been true when they were children, but it is much more complicated now that they are adults. The truth is, I don’t often get angry at them. More frequently I can be hurt or frustrated, emotions which are also difficult to express.

Which brings me to the question: what is anger? Isn’t it the result of fear, frustration or hurt? Is anger actually a separate thing? Turns out these aren’t original questions, as the image below reveals.


I reflect on my Dad’s temper (which I wrote about previously here) when we were growing up.  I think 95% of the time his anger was a manifestation of frustration. Driving the car in New York City traffic, where other drivers did dumb things, where rubbernecking could cause endless delays, where the Van Wyck Expressway was under construction for my entire life, the aggravation sent him over the edge. Add Mark teasing me, telling me I was adopted or calling my shoes canoes, and me responding by hitting him or whining to my parents; it was a toxic mix. “Don’t make me pull over!” he screamed. Dad’s voice was deep and intense – in a small space like the car, the sound reverberated. We got in line quickly. Until the next provocation.

It also seems that some people are born angry. I don’t know if that was the case with my dad, but it seemed to be the case with my son. Perhaps it was low frustration tolerance, or over-sensitivity, but Dan was angry a lot. If something didn’t taste the way he expected, or if a fabric was rough on his skin, he objected strenuously. Gary and I tried various strategies to help him manage it and find outlets for it. I wouldn’t presume to speak for Dan, but by the time he was in high school he seemed to have a much better handle on it.

For me, anger was often expressed in tears and sometimes when I least wanted them. I couldn’t cry in grief, but I could cry in anger.

I was working for the City of Pittsburgh’s Finance Department in 1984. Computer systems were being implemented and there was resistance from staff. One of my jobs was to train the city’s auditors on the new system. The audit department was comprised of about 15 men (zero women), who had been doing their jobs, on average, for more than 10 years. I was 24, right out of graduate school, from New York City and Jewish. And, at that time many of the Finance Department employees, even in the audit department, only had a high school diploma. I was an outsider for many reasons and my message of change was very unwelcome.

I walked the group through the new system. I don’t remember exactly how it started to devolve, but it became a gripe session. They vented all of their anger and frustration on me. The department supervisor, a man at least 30 years my senior, stood by silently. I almost wondered if he was taking pleasure in the display, after all it was directed at me, not him. I tried to stand my ground, explaining how this was a tool to help them, explaining how I was not the decision-maker here but the messenger, how I would share their concerns with the higher ups. After a while, although I was angry, I got shakier and shakier, my voice cracking. Eventually some tears rolled down my cheeks. I wished I could have channeled my father’s rage. Finally, mercifully, the session was over.

I went to my office to collect myself. Then I went to see my boss, the treasurer. I told him he might hear some things about the training session and I wanted him to hear it from me first. While at that point I was composed, I was still shaky. The one thing that came from that meeting was that he spoke with the audit supervisor about his failure to step up and help, given that he was a member of the management team.

A few days later, I ran into one of the auditors on the staircase. He apologized for his behavior, explaining that I was the unfortunate recipient of their built-up frustration. I accepted his apology, but something about it made me uneasy. I felt like he was patronizing me. He was one of the most aggressive offenders at the training session –  his last name was Heckler.  Unbelievable! How appropriate.

It wasn’t the first time and it wasn’t the last time that a workplace experience played out that way. If I felt that my integrity was in question or if criticism was unfair, it resulted in tears, rather than anger. I hated that about myself. Fortunately, the circumstances didn’t arise very often. I was in my late 40’s when I finally could stand my ground without tears.

Actually, standing my ground in the workplace, even without the tears, didn’t work out that well either. I never did figure out how to successfully express disagreement or frustration (if success is measured by changing minds of those in power).

As I got older and less concerned with what other people thought, I was freer in stating my opinion. This didn’t always go over very well. When I worked for the school boards association, if the organization was taking a position that I thought was not in the best interest of students or my fellow employees, I could be quite passionate in expressing my views. I wasn’t very effective in changing minds, which could reflect the weakness of my argument, or it could have related to how I delivered the message. I came to believe that it was at least partly because strong opinions expressed by a strong woman were not welcome.

Research, at least in one study reported on in Psychology Today,*  suggests that when women show anger, they lose credibility, while men gain credibility when they do. That finding is certainly consistent with my experience.

For both men and women anger is a tricky emotion to manage. But for women it seems to be a no-win situation. If you come across too strongly, it turns people off. If you are too meek, you get walked over or patronized. I don’t know how this will ever change, but I am hopeful that awareness is the first step.

*Salerno, J. M., & Peter-Hagene, L. C. (2015). One Angry Woman: Anger Expression Increases Influence for Men, but Decreases Influence for Women, During Group Deliberation. Law and Human Behavior, doi:10.1037/lhb0000147)

Life’s Mysteries


Her skin smelled different as I gave her a hug. Nana was just back from a vacation to Florida. Her freckles had blended from the sun, her face and arms a burnished copper. I felt a little sad, a bit distant. I wanted her familiar scent, her familiar skin. But I was grateful that she was home at last.

That trip to Florida must have been longer than others because I remember writing a letter to her. I remember thinking I was quite clever because I wrote, “Everyone misses you, but I miss you most of all.” A variation of the line from The Wizard of Oz, the one where Dorothy tells the Scarecrow she’ll miss him most of all. Though I don’t think I had that in mind when I wrote it.

More commonly, we were the ones leaving – at least for the summers. My Dad, a teacher, used his summers to attend graduate school. We spent, as a family, one summer in Worcester, MA at Clark University, and three summers at the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana (I have written about our road trips and time in Illinois here and there).

One summer I was especially uneasy about leaving home because I was taking care of a cat. We didn’t have pets in my family, my mother was deathly afraid of all animals. I always wanted a cat so I befriended a neighborhood stray that I named, creatively, Cutie. Mom allowed me to feed her in the garage and I could bring her in the basement to play with now and again. I considered Cutie to be my cat. I didn’t want to leave her when it was time to go to Illinois. Nana agreed to look after Cutie.

While we were away, unbeknownst to me, Cutie was injured. I later learned that the neighborhood kids were mean to her (not all that surprising given how they treated me), throwing rocks and taunting her. Nana tried to protect her, but she wasn’t outside much. Cutie recovered, but she was left with a scar. When I came home and saw it, I was devastated. She had a patch of fur missing on her neck and there was an ugly scab there. Every time I looked at it, I felt sick to my stomach. I was so upset, I didn’t want to handle her anymore. Rather than holding and comforting her, I rejected her. My nine-year-old self couldn’t cope with the disfigurement, which made me feel worse. My Dad stepped in and explained that since I couldn’t care for Cutie anymore, it would be best if we took her to an ASPCA shelter. I reluctantly agreed.

Dad got in the front seat of the car and I held Cutie on my lap in the back. We didn’t have a carrier. Cutie got agitated once the car started moving. I managed to hold her for a while, but eventually she wriggled out of my arms and climbed on the back of my Dad’s seat. At that moment, Dad opened his window. Cutie leapt out. I screamed. I think we were on Utica Avenue, or a similarly busy thoroughfare. I didn’t see where Cutie went, though at least I didn’t think she had been hit by another vehicle.

“Stop the car!” I pleaded.

“I can’t, not right here,” Dad said firmly.

“You did that on purpose!”


“You opened the window on purpose! Now what will happen to her?” I was crying.

“Linda, I didn’t open the window on purpose, but it may be for the best.”

“Shouldn’t we look for her?” I asked desperately.

At this point, Dad pulled the car over. We were looking out the windows in every direction, but we didn’t get out. There were so many people crowding the street, so many cars blocking the view of the sidewalks, shops with racks of goods outside, buses coming and going; general chaos. It was hopeless. There was no way we would spot her.

“We were bringing her to a shelter, anyway, Linda,” Dad offered. “Maybe this is better. I’m sorry. Let’s go home.” He circled around the block. I was still looking frantically, through my tears. I didn’t see her. I didn’t really believe that it was better, but I didn’t know what to do.

It was a painful episode for everyone. I think we all felt guilty. I was mostly disappointed in myself and how I reacted to Cutie’s injury. One thing I don’t recall doing: I didn’t blame Nana. I knew that even if I had been home the same thing could have happened.

I always wondered if my father opened the window to let her out. That will remain one of life’s mysteries. Maybe it was for the best. At the time, I didn’t understand how shelters worked. Thinking about it now, it is unlikely that she would have been adopted. She had always been a street cat. I tried to convince myself that she figured out how to survive in a new neighborhood.

I still loved cats, but it would be quite a while before I took care of another one.

Another one of life’s mysteries began with another trip. This one Nana took – to Portugal. That seemed like quite an exotic destination to me. People I knew didn’t travel to Europe. She went with her older sister, Sadie. I had a sense that this was a big thing – maybe a once in a lifetime opportunity that Nana felt she couldn’t pass up.

Naturally Nana came back bearing gifts. She brought back a gold filigree bracelet. I marveled at its intricate pattern and delicacy. She also brought back an embroidered bag. It was black with bright flowers and the word ‘Portugal’ sown on. I kept my doll collection in that bag for years.

Unfortunately, she also brought back an infection in her big toe. People with diabetes often have difficulty healing, especially in their extremities. I didn’t understand that at the time, I only knew that this toe infection became a serious medical problem that required hospitalization. Once again Nana went to Unity Hospital in Brooklyn.

For a time, it looked like they might have to amputate her toe, or maybe even her foot. Nana, who was looking forward to dancing at Uncle Terry’s wedding in a few months’ time, flat out rejected that possibility. She was determined to keep all her toes, perhaps even at the risk of her overall health. She was released from the hospital with all her toes. She danced at Terry and Barbara’s wedding in January of 1971. Three months later, in April, she died. I don’t know if there was a relationship to the infection. I didn’t think so at the time.

To an 11-year-old, three months is a long time. It is strange how the perception of time changes the older you get. The infection and her death seemed too far apart to be connected. Now I’m not so sure.

Jewish tradition doesn’t generally permit an autopsy because of the belief that the body is sacred, shouldn’t be desecrated and should be buried intact. There are exceptions if the law of the land requires it or if a physician determines that new knowledge could be gained to help others. Neither exception applied, so we never fully understood Nana’s death. An embolism or an aneurysm were suspected. Perhaps the adults knew more but, if so, nothing was shared.

These events left me with many questions. Why would anyone harm an animal? Why didn’t I have the stomach to care for Cutie after her injury? Did Dad deliberately open his window to let her escape? Did the infection hasten Nana’s death? Could things have been different for Nana if she had taken better care? Of those questions, there was only one I could do anything about. I could do better with my next pet.

I suppose we all carry questions that we can’t answer. I look for meaning in the losses and I think I find it, even if I don’t have answers. As a child, I learned to love and cope with loss – the two are inextricably connected.

Roger and Raffa posing in my bedroom May 2017