celebrations – Stories I Tell Myself

Moments of Joy

I love yoga. I know it isn’t for everyone and that’s fine. I’m not proselytizing for it. To each their own. But for me, it is helpful. I don’t always have the experience I had this last session where I had a moment of joy, but even when I don’t it is well worth the time.

I started going regularly, two or three times a week, last November, so it has been a solid seven months. I have done yoga before, but never this consistently and for this length of time. I think the last time I did it, I had some issues with my wrist, and I stopped and never went back. Now I am more aware of how to work around the various aches and pains and am willing to accept my limitations. It feels more important for my mental and physical health to stay committed to going.

So where do the moments of joy come from? Usually it is during the last part of the class, when we take a comfortable pose and just let everything go. It is called shavasana. You’ve done the harder work of the different stretches and positions and now we rest. The leader will often give a prompt – a thought, an idea – that you can ponder (you certainly don’t have to!), but then we sit or lay in silence for a few minutes with only some soft music playing.

This last time the instructor had started the class by noting that soon we would be starting a new season, and it was a good time to consider letting go of something that no longer serves us. She pointed out that it could be as simple as a sweater that has been sitting in our closet unused for too long, or something major like a relationship. Sometimes when the instructors talk about new months or new moons, it doesn’t resonate with me. It doesn’t bother me – it can get a little woo-woo – but at this school of yoga it doesn’t go too far in that direction. I can appreciate a little spirituality, but if they go too far into the chakras and energy and planets and all of that they lose me. Anyway, in this case, her message did resonate. I do have stuff to rid myself of – and actually it does involve clothing. I have drawers stuffed with things I don’t wear and no longer need. It is a good time to purge, and I know it will feel good to do it – it feels cleansing, like I’ve lightened my burden. Things that don’t get used are clutter and when you see them every day it can feel suffocating. So, in that moment I pictured sorting through my drawer of workout clothing and t-shirts, putting the stuff in bags and either throwing them out if they are too worn or donating them. I felt better already.

But that wasn’t my moment of joy. Once I had decided on that, and I felt lighter, I thought of all that I am grateful for: that my body works well enough that I can get down on the yoga mat (and get back up!) and do many of the poses, and that feeling of gratitude led me to thoughts of my family. Part of the reason I am motivated to be here in yoga class is to be in as good health as I can muster, being with my children and grandchildren for as long as possible. As I thought of my kids an image came to me from my granddaughter’s birthday party from last week. My son and his daughter were playing Bananagrams. Some of the older kids at the party joined in. They were just playing the game, laughing, having fun, looking healthy and happy. I was proud of my boy – he’s a good father and a good man. We were all together for a celebration. As I lay on my yoga mat with my eyes closed, I saw their faces and it brought me joy.

It isn’t that I couldn’t have that image come to me at another time. It can and it has. But, most of the time it is in the midst of other things, other tasks, other responsibilities. After doing about 50 minutes of yoga, when we wind down and relax into shavasana, my mind is clear and my body feels good – having stretched and exercised to the extent that I am able. There is more space to reflect and cherish the image. It is a gift I give myself to make the time to go to yoga. While I can’t say that when I leave, I carry that positive feeling with me for the whole day, it does help. I need moments of joy to get through the many challenges we all face.

Maybe yoga won’t do it for you, but I highly recommend finding ways to claim that moment of joy for yourself.

An Unveiling

We gathered at Riverside Cemetery in Saddle Brook, New Jersey. In Jewish tradition, a year or so after a person is buried, you have an unveiling – literally the unveiling of a headstone or footstone that is the marker commemorating the individual’s life and death. Though it has been less than a year since my mother passed, my family gathered to observe this ritual for her on Sunday, November 17^th, one day after what would have been Mom’s 91^st birthday.

19 of us stood around her grave on a brilliantly sunny day, unusually warm for mid-November in the northeast. It was appropriate weather given Mom’s sunny disposition (she was an eternal optimist, though, for better or worse, she shared her fears and complaints with me). She is buried between her mother, my Nana, and her husband, my father. The plot is part of an area that was established by the burial society founded by immigrants from Strickover, Poland where her father was born. Ironically, he is not buried here, he rests in Florida. But, other family members surround Mom, her brother, grandfather, aunts and uncles. There is something comforting to me about them all being together.

We began the ceremony by reading the portion of Ecclesiastes that tells us so eloquently that to everything there is a season – reminding us of the cycle of life. Then we uncovered the stone which reads:

Feige M. Brody

Nee Spilken

November 16, 1933 – February 27,2024

Cherished Wife, Mother, Grandmother, Sister and Aunt

Life-long Learner

Standing beside me were representatives of all those roles – her children, brother, sister-in-law, grandchildren ( a great-grandchild, too), nephew, nieces, and great-nephews.

I read these words: “On behalf of all of us, we consecrate this memorial to Feige Brody as a sign of our eternal love and devotion. May her soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.”

The cemetery had provided a booklet with selections that could be read, and it offered the following passage which I am transcribing here because I thought it was insightful, comforting and appropriate and might be helpful to others who are grieving a loss:

“We gather here today at the final resting place of our beloved mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, Feige to unveil this grave marker dedicated to her memory and to call to mind our cherished memories of her. When Feige passed away, we assembled here to pay our respects. At that time our grief was deep, and we felt intensely the pain of loss. Now, with the passage of time, the pangs of our initial grief have softened, yet we still feel sorrow in our hearts whenever we remember her.

Jewish tradition teaches us that those memories of Feige, which each of us cherish, can provide us with a measure of comfort. Those memories also serve as a form of immortality that comes to those we love when we remember them, and when we live our lives in emulation of the virtues they taught us by example.

Our presence here today is already an indication that Feige has achieved that immortality that comes through remembrance. Our presence is also a sign of the respect and admiration in which Feige is held by us. We still feel an emptiness in our lives when think of her because she played such an important role in each of our lives as a beloved family member and friend to many. Feige was devoted to us as we were devoted to her, a relationship of love and affection that we recall today.

Throughout the months since Feige passed away, we have each had occasions to remember the impact that she had on our lives.

We are comforted by our memories of the joys she brought to people and by the contribution Feige made to the betterment of our world.

In the biblical book The Song of Songs we learn that “The bonds of love are stronger than death.” Our memories today prove the truth of that teaching.

Even though Feige is no longer present in person, the love that we shared and the way our lives were touched by her continue to be felt. The pain of loss and separation is the price we have to pay for the years of Feige’s love and devotion.

Therefore, it is with sorrow, yet at the same time with a deep sense of gratitude, that we thank God for the years during which we were privileged to have had Feige as part of our family’s life and as a member of our community. We thank God, as well, for the love that bound us together with Feige in life and that inspires our cherished memories. It is with these thoughts in mind that we now pay tribute to Feige by dedicating this grave marker to her.”

That passage provided comfort to me. I am consoled by the notion that we attain a measure of immortality by being remembered – it helps me to reconcile the loss of my mother and father, as well as other people who I have loved in my life and still think of regularly. And, it is meaningful to me to think of how, by carrying forward their values, by emulating their integrity and generosity, I am helping to preserve their legacy. Those thoughts help me to come to peace with my own mortality. Hopefully I will have touched friends and family in a way that merits remembrance.

After reading that passage, we said a concluding Hebrew prayer and Uncle Terry read a touching poem he had written in tribute. Aunt Barbara, as a self-described “out-law” welcomed into the family by Mom, offered her heart-felt perspective on Mom (and Dad’s) generosity and the importance of our family bonds. Terry noted that he had Barbara would, when the time came, rest in this same area of the cemetery, just across from where we stood. I said a silent prayer that that would not be any time soon.

Another Jewish tradition when visiting the grave of a loved one is to place a rock on the marker. This is to signify a visitor’s presence, that the person who has passed has not been forgotten. Several years ago, when we gathered at my father-in-law’s grave, my sister-in-law Doreen painted some rocks with pictures of things that she shared with her Dad or represented him. I thought that was a wonderful gesture. I decided to do that for my parents. I painted one rock to look like a bookshelf with items my dad read regularly: Economics, Puzo (he loved The Godfather and read it multiple times), L’Amour (he loved westerns) and History. I painted another stone with Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (my mother’s favorite of her novels, and she read Austen every summer until dementia made that impossible) and a final stone with a blueberry bush (when my parents lived in the Catskills and the grandchildren came to visit, they went blueberry picking and baked muffins). I felt good placing those rocks that embodied precious memories, knowing that they would sit there for a while at least before the elements wear them away.

No Spilken/Brody gathering would be complete without partaking of food. So, we adjourned to the diner that was just outside the cemetery. Though the service was painfully slow, and we had to wait, and the orders got mixed up (no day goes by without some aggravation), we enjoyed each other’s company before going our separate ways and returning to our lives – some in New Jersey, some in Massachusetts, some in Connecticut and the rest in Albany, New York. Hopefully our next gathering will be a happier occasion, but I am left with a feeling of warmth, believing that Mom and Dad rest easy knowing that our familial bonds are strong and that we are doing our best to live out their values.

Joy in Mud(Met)ville

Note: The following was written by my husband Gary Bakst, lifelong Met fan, which means 65 years, except the Mets are actually 3 years younger than that. But you get the idea. Anyway, I hope you enjoy his prose as much as I did.

I put Gameday on my laptop as I saw my afternoon patients yesterday. I was nervous, anxious, worried. Dan, my son, texted to ask if I was stressed and that is exactly what I was feeling. The Mets gave up 2 runs in the 3rd inning and another in the 6th and were down by 3-0 going into the eighth inning. It was looking like yet another of those miserable late season games in Atlanta. We have been here before. We have seen this movie. And we never liked the ending.

Then, out of nowhere, the Mets erupted for 6 runs in the top of the eighth inning capped by Brandon Nimmo’s two run home run way deep into the right field stands. Finally, a better ending was coming into view. All of those demons would be erased. The Mets were just 6 outs from the postseason. What could possibly go wrong?

And then came the bottom of the eighth. Maton came in to pitch it and was ineffective and they brought in Edwin Diaz to try to get a 5 out save coming off a thirty something pitch save Sunday. Diaz failed to cover first on a ground ball to Pete Alonso and one double later, the Mets were suddenly down by 7-6 heading into the ninth inning.

Of course. Of course the Mets couldn’t just lose by 3-0. They couldn’t just fail in an ordinary way in front of the brainless Braves’ fans. They had to first get our hopes up with an historic eighth inning only to give it away in the bottom of the inning. They had to take our hearts out. They couldn’t just let the patient die mercifully. They had to make it painful, long and heartbreaking.

This could not be an ordinary loss. This had to be a Mets fan special. I was almost sure that blood was coming out of my skin, my pores and slowly spilling onto the floor of the exam room. The ninth inning would surely be just one, final, painful chapter in a sad, tragic story.

And then. And then, with one out, Starling Marte got a base hit and suddenly, our guy, our MVP, back from his back, strode to the plate. Francisco Lindor, batting from the left side, hit a ginormous home run. Perhaps the second biggest home run in Mets vs Braves history (Piazza, of course). The ball was well struck and carried deep into the Atlanta late afternoon gloom. It seemingly broke open a new dimension. It carried hope and joy and goodness and love and was itself carried by will and determination, by desire and honor and the conviction that, in the end, goodness will triumph over evil. It was propelled by a force both divine and human and when it landed angels called from the heavens, doves flew overhead and lions lay down with lambs.

And it sailed over the right centerfield fence and suddenly, out of nowhere, the Mets were up by 8-7 and only three outs separated them from the post season, from an opportunity to celebrate right there on the turf of their most arrogant nemesis. And it left one giant question: Who was left to get those last three outs? It couldn’t be Diaz. He had thrown a ton of pitches on Sunday and a bunch more in the 8th inning. And yet, the sad reality is that they really don’t trust any other reliever.

And then. And then, emerging from the dugout with the look of a man on a mission, came Edwin Diaz. He was back and he was going to find a way to finish the job. And somehow, despite the fact that it looked like his right arm came onto the field well after the rest of him, he got it done.

The Mets were in the playoffs. A great miracle happened there. It was not the ending Mets fans have been accustomed to, not the ending we have been trained to expect. And it was just so sweet and so amazing. I had to look at the screen on my laptop for a while to make sure that it was real. Wait, they’re gonna call for some kind of do over, right? Somehow, they’ll say it can’t be over until the Mets lose. But it was real. And it was good.

The Mets are in Milwaukee today for a 5:30 PM (eastern time) wild card playoff game).

#LGM

It all started back in Spring Training and we were there.

Breathe

Life can be crazy. So many ups and downs. Times when you are too busy; times when you aren’t busy enough. Celebrations followed by funerals. Health scares. Plans ruined by weather. A fabulous vacation. Profound disappointment when an effort (a job, a project, a relationship) fails. All of these things can happen in the course of a year or even a month. It can be unmanageable.

Often the roller coaster that is life feels out of control. We don’t control the weather, disease, the behavior of others. We are left to cope – how we respond is the choice we make. That is the challenge. Sometimes I am not prepared to rise to it, but I have no alternative. I soldier on.

A few months ago, I started planning a weekend away with our family. My husband’s 65^th birthday was coming up in April and he was also beginning semiretirement after more than 30 years as a very fulltime endocrinologist/internist. I thought those milestones merited a celebration. I invited our children to a lovely lodge in the Catskills and arranged a dinner that included our siblings. It promised to be a fun time.

Our kids and grandkids were due to join us late Friday afternoon at the lodge. Friday morning I got a call from our daughter, Leah, that our granddaughter, Lenny, was running a fever and they needed to adjust their plans. We hoped that she’d rally and maybe they could come for the dinner Saturday night.

The rest of us went ahead with the plan. We left Albany under cloudy skies. The weather wasn’t promising for the weekend. The route took us past Kaaterskill Creek on a scenic winding road. Unfortunately, the weather gods decided that was the moment for the skies to open up. Rain poured down in sheets. The creek looked like a raging river. It was beautiful but also a little scary as we wondered whether the road would wash out. We were glad to be traveling during the daylight and hoped that things would improve before our other guests were making the trip.

We arrived at Scribner’s Catskill Lodge, across from Hunter Mountain, and were not disappointed with our accommodations. Even with the leaden skies and intermittent rain, the scenery was beautiful.

We explored the premises and looked for a place for dinner. We texted with Leah every so often, getting updates on our granddaughter’s condition.

As the afternoon progressed, Lenny’s fever rose. Now we weren’t so much thinking about whether they would be able to come, now we were worried about what was wrong. We know little ones can run hot, but it is scary when their temperature goes above 103 and continues to climb – especially without an evident source of infection.

It was strange to be in this lovely setting, ostensibly celebrating, but having a part of my heart and mind elsewhere. Of course this wasn’t the first time I’ve been in that situation. Just a couple of months ago, we were in Florida for Mets’ spring training when Mom’s condition took a turn for the worse.

My rational mind knew our granddaughter was not in grave danger. She was taken to urgent care, and they diagnosed a virus. All her vital signs were good, and she was breathing well. I knew that Leah and Ben were taking excellent care of her – keeping her hydrated and nourished as best they could and watching to ensure that nothing else emerged. Knowing all of that didn’t mean my imagination couldn’t get the better of me. My stomach churned.

We did manage to enjoy our company and the delicious dinner. We had a wonderful time with our son, daughter-in-law and other granddaughter. She was a delight – full of energy and enthusiasm, a tonic for my worries. But when I returned to the quiet of our hotel room, the worries returned in full force.

We said our good-byes on Sunday and headed home, still waiting for Lenny’s fever to break and debating whether I should head to Somerville to lend a hand. Since I retired my time is generally my own and I don’t have that many commitments. The week ahead was unusual in that I had several things scheduled. I kept expecting Leah to call or text with news that Lenny was on the mend, but that wasn’t happening. In fact, Sunday night they went to the emergency room when her fever went up to 104.3. Once again, they could find no source, recalibrated her dose of ibuprofen and Tylenol and sent her home. My stomach kept churning.

Last year I did a 30-day meditation course using an app on my phone. One of the main useful ideas I took from that exercise was to recognize that my thoughts were not ‘real,’ in other words thinking something didn’t make it so. Worrying about the future or what might happen was counterproductive. Not that you can stop yourself exactly, but you could recognize it and bring yourself back to the present and breathe. I was trying to remind myself of this practice when I was fretting about Lenny, but it wasn’t working very well. There was still a pit in my stomach, and it was hard to concentrate on anything else.

I didn’t want to cancel my plans. In one case I had already postponed because of bad weather, and the other was an unusual opportunity to hear someone interesting speak. But, if things didn’t improve, I thought Leah and Ben needed reinforcements. It is exhausting caring for a sick baby – sleep is interrupted, and the little one needs constant comforting. I knew they could use another set of hands, if only to take care of things around the house. They were on their fourth day of spiking fevers. I knew what my priorities were. If things didn’t get better by the next day, I would call my friends to cancel and head to Somerville.

The next morning Lenny woke up with a temp of 101.7, which was actually lower but hardly normal. She was still out of sorts. They would take her back to the doctor. I decided I needed to be there to help. My friends were very understanding (shout out to Alison and Colleen!), not surprisingly. That’s why they are my friends – they share the same priorities. They know family comes first.

I drove to Somerville and arrived to see Lenny sitting on the couch next to Leah not looking like her usual lively, happy self, but not terrible. Turned out that she had developed double ear infections. The doctor hypothesized that the virus was running its course and winding down when, possibly as a result of being in a weakened state, her ears became infected causing the fever to spike again. An anitbiotic was prescribed. Lenny already had one dose and Leah and Ben noted some improvement.

I was grateful that we had a treatment and an explanation for why the fever had come back so vigorously. I was also glad to be there – Leah and Ben both looked exhausted. Ben’s mom had been there that morning, bringing food, and allowing them to attend to work responsibilities. I would pick up the slack.

I spent the next couple of days lending a hand where I could, watching Lenny for a few hours so they could do their work. I returned home when she was ready to go back to daycare.

I am left with some thoughts. While I respect those who are able to be ‘zen’ in difficult situations, I am not one of them. I’m fine with garden variety disappointments or annoyances. I don’t know if I can overcome my nature when it comes to the health of my children and grandchildren. I cope, I function – I don’t curl up in a fetal position, but I haven’t figured out how to calm my innards.

I hold on tight to those I love, and it seems this is the price I pay. I don’t know if I can loosen my grip. I think some are able to give the worry up to God, or a higher power. That doesn’t work for me. Others, like my mom, just didn’t worry that much – that wasn’t where her mind went, especially about her own health. I’m better about my own health scares; children and grandchildren are a whole other ballgame.

I was thinking about how things must’ve been in the past when infant mortality rates were higher and life, in general, was harder. I don’t think in those days people expected happiness or ease. Just surviving required effort. The very rich always had more options but for most people leisure time was a luxury. Today we have so many conveniences and improvements in health care. Our expectations are so much higher for the quality of our lives. But I wonder if we have become unreasonable, thinking we will be happy, engaged in work we are passionate about, healthy, etc. Life is still unpredictable. It is still challenging. There is heartbreak. Knowing that hasn’t made it easier for me to roll with the punches.

Meanwhile I will remind myself to breathe.

The sun did come out for a bit on Sunday morning. I stood here, enjoying the view, and breathing

A Poignant Celebration

“There was a lot of warmth in that room,” Gary said to me as we left a celebration in honor of his uncle Sol’s 100^th birthday. I readily agreed.

It was an interesting gathering. If one reaches that auspicious age, it is almost certain that you have outlived your spouse (possibly spouses), siblings and most, if not all, friends. This is true of Sol. So it can be bittersweet to plan a party. Who do you invite? Sol’s son, Ben, faced this question.

Sol is a Holocaust survivor, like Gary’s parents. I have written a great deal about Gary’s parents, David and Paula and their remarkable story. I don’t know the details of Sol’s experience. Sol married David’s sister, Batya, in America. The two couples were part of a tight knit survivor community. There were about five or six families that socialized regularly, centered in Rosedale, Queens. Their children grew up together.

Gary told me stories about those years – how the mixture of family and friends would gather at his house most weekends – the kids playing various games while the adults chatted (and maybe argued, especially about politics). How they went to the Pennsylvania Dutch country with the Majewskis, who lived down the block, and how the Majewskis had all the coolest toys – they often hung out at their house. As often happens with college and adulthood, the kids went their separate ways, maintaining only occasional contact.

I didn’t know what to expect when we arrived at the party. I wondered who would be there. Ben and Rochelle, Sol’s step-daughter, set up displays of photographs of Sol that captured his life over the many years. We studied the pictures, looking at the young faces. When we sat down at a large rectangular table that sat the 25 guests, Ben welcomed everyone and explained that when he thought about who his father would want to share this momentous milestone with, he thought of that core group of survivors. Since the original members have passed on, Ben reached out to the second generation to gather to celebrate Sol, the one who remains. They all represented the heart of Sol’s life.

Sol lives in Florida. When we go to visit Gary’s Mom, we see Sol as well. Until about a year ago, he was in remarkable shape. It is only these last months that there are signs of his age, his short-term memory is starting to fail, and his strength is waning. When Ben extended the invitation to us, after briefly discussing it, we realized it was a milestone that should be recognized so we would both attend. After all, as several observed at the party, it was an opportunity to gather for a happy occasion, not a funeral which is more often the impetus for second and third generation survivors to gather.

I do not know the details of Sol’s journey, I don’t believe he participated in Steven Spielberg’s Shoah project, so there is no testimony to watch, as I have watched my in-laws’ videos. Based on the research our niece Laura did as part of writing her book, The Shoemaker’s Son, I do know that Sol suffered horribly. One of the factors that made his situation even more challenging is that his family was poor to begin with. The Nazis did not differentiate between rich Jews and poor Jews, but having some resources to bribe or trade could buy time when one was on the run, hiding in the woods. Sol bears the scars of his painful experiences. I believe he and his brother were the sole survivors from his family. Once he got to America, he had a successful business as a glazier, but the memories of deprivation were never far from his thoughts. His tightness with money is legendary in the family.

Several of the attendees made remarks, sharing memories of Sol, honoring his tenacity, and his love of family and friends. Jokes were told. Some of the speakers managed a great imitation of Sol’s accent – an echo of their own parents’ accents of blessed memory.

Sol sat at the head of the table. He enjoyed himself. He made his own remarks: he thanked everyone for coming and expressed his love for all. He told us that this was likely his last birthday. Everyone pooh-poohed that and Ben pointed out that he has been saying that for the last 40 years, so he took that as a good sign. Of course, no one knows what tomorrow will bring for any of us.

Gary was moved to be in the presence of that group – the familiar sounds of the voices of the past, the warmth of the connections, the strength of the bond that links them – even if they haven’t kept in close touch. Not only were they honoring Sol, but they were acknowledging the legacy of the survivors who were no longer physically present – though they are kept alive in their collective memory. Despite the fact that I don’t share their history, I was happy to be part of the poignant celebration.

Sol Feder, with his remarkable head of white hair, surrounded by family and friends

Fruit of the Vine

Alcohol was not part of my consciousness for most of my growing up years. My Dad did not crack open a beer when he watched the Giants play football on Sunday afternoon. Wine was not part of dinner, unless it was a very unusual occasion, like the Passover Seder. I don’t recall a time when either of my parents said, in the midst of a stressful time, “I need a drink!” I didn’t see alcohol in either of my grandparents’ homes. If I did, it was a dusty bottle in a cabinet. It had almost no role in our culture. Our celebrations involved food – that was the reward, that was the comfort. Ice cream or cookies were much more of a celebratory thing than making a toast – even for the adults.

It changed after Mom and Dad took a trip to California with their friends to celebrate their 20^th wedding anniversary. When they came back, I distinctly recall that wine or a cocktail might be enjoyed as part of a meal, or as part of socializing with friends. That trip was in the summer of 1974, and I was almost 15. The combination of the influence of their friends, who knew a bit more about wine and liquor, being on vacation and not having their children around, made them open to enjoying the fruits of the vine.

Given how things had been, I noticed this change. In fact, by the time I went to college, two years later, I was a bit concerned that my mother was enjoying wine a little too much. I saw that she had taken to having a glass of wine more regularly – not even on a special occasion, it could just be an ordinary dinner! Or as part of a late afternoon snack with cheese and crackers! I was still not ‘of age’ so I had not partaken, and I wasn’t particularly interested in this new ritual. I wondered whether Mom was headed for trouble.

Then I went to college. My attitude changed somewhat. I appreciated the fact that alcohol could be a good social lubricant, though in my experience, the more I drank the more withdrawn I became. Getting buzzed was good, going further than that didn’t make me feel better and could get me sick. I seemed to have a natural defense to over doing it. I also never developed a taste for beer, which was the cheapest option and the beverage most often offered at college parties. I could enjoy wines, particularly Liebfraumilch (a semi-sweet white wine – Zellerschwarzkatz was especially popular in my day) or sangria; or a cocktail (I loved white Russians – still do). Fortunately for me, though, I did not have that predisposition that some are cursed with to not be able to stop drinking once they start. A couple of glasses and I was done.

When I returned home, I wavered in my judgment of my mother. It made me a little uncomfortable that she seemed to enjoy a glass of red wine so much, or a scotch on the rocks. But, in retrospect, it was also clear that she was capable of limiting her intake on each occasion – I can’t say I ever saw her drunk. My Dad would frequently have something along with her, but he never seemed to be as taken with it. And, I never saw him drunk, or even tipsy, either.

While I was growing up, I thought this attitude toward alcohol was the norm. I had an inkling, through my friendship with Susan, that some families were more liberal in their usage. Her dad offered her a sip of his beer when I was visiting (we were probably ten years old at the time). They had wine with dinner on the weekend. They were Italian. I thought that explained it. Maybe it did, but as I have gotten older, and as my family has evolved, I realize that my experience is not the norm. I think for American Jews of a certain age (I am 63), alcohol was not routinely consumed in their childhood home (perhaps it was part of ritual or part of Shabbat dinner, but not much beyond that). As with anything, I am sure there are exceptions. But, I do believe the incidence of alcoholism was lower among American Jews. I’m not sure that is still the case.

I have had occasion to think about this any number of times over the years. I just finished reading Matthew Perry’s memoir, Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing, which details his harrowing struggle with alcoholism and drug addiction. I feel quite fortunate to not be afflicted with the disease. I struggle with my relationship with food, but I still wouldn’t characterize it as an addiction for me.

The question, though, that I still ponder is: what is a healthy approach to alcohol, and since marijuana is now legal, weed? There is a gray area, no? There is recreational use, plain and simple; using it occasionally or even regularly but not where it interferes with anything. Then, there might be a place where one uses too much, but it still isn’t abuse. Or, by definition, is over-use abuse? I imagine there is space between drinking too much and being an alcoholic. Is it a question of reliance, or craving? Is it a matter of how much it changes your behavior? I know people who become belligerent; I also know people who love everyone once they have had more than a few. What does ‘healthy’ use look like? According to dietary guidelines put out by the U.S. government: “adults of legal drinking age can choose not to drink or to drink in moderation by limiting intake to 2 drinks or less in a day for men and 1 drink or less in a day for women, when alcohol is consumed. Drinking less is better for health than drinking more.” One drink is defined by the Mayo Clinic as 12 ounces of beer or five ounces of wine. I’m not sure what that means if you don’t drink daily. Can you drink a week’s worth on a Saturday night?

I don’t know what the answer is. I know for me, I don’t like the idea of ceding control of my behavior to any substance. I like being in command of my faculties – like I said before, a little tipsy, or buzzed is enjoyable – more than that is uncomfortable. I have come to peace with not being the life of the party (that is a joke: I have never been the life of the party, nor wanted to be), though sometimes I wonder if I am just no fun at all! On balance, I’ll take it – it is better this way.

With my one libation at a family celebration

Reflections on Our 40th

Sunday, July 30^th, 2023 will mark Gary and my 40^th wedding anniversary. So many thoughts and emotions run through my mind. We have been together for more than four decades! Wow! I have written an open letter that I am sharing here. This letter is open in more than one sense: it is public for you to read (obviously), and it is honest.

Dearest Gary,

I am oh so grateful. I am grateful to have a partner in this difficult world. I never would have made it through the Reagan, Bush (Dub-ya) and Trump years without you! I know you are there for me, come what may. If I face a health or emotional challenge, I know I can count on you. You haven’t always been perfect, but who is? Sometimes you have surprised me by understanding me better than I understand myself.

I am proud of us. It hasn’t always been easy. The rough times were when we were each stretched to our limit – where there was little to no margin in time or energy and there was anger and/or resentment as a result. But, even when those times occurred, we stayed committed – to each other, to our family. The foundation of respect remained. Fortunately, more often when one of us was stressed to the max, the other had something left to give and gave. I don’t know if other couples give up too soon. The truth is we never really know what goes on behind closed doors, in the privacy of a home. I only know our life together. I think our effort has been well worth it. The good times have far outweighed the bad (and I can say that as someone who has a tendency, when things are bleak, to not see the light – luckily this is not a quality you share).

I have so many memories – we have shared so much. You know my oldest and newest friends– it is worth noting that even my newest friends have been around for decades. You know my family and I know yours, including those who have left this earth but remain in our hearts. There is so much we don’t have to explain to each other.

When we started this journey, I had no idea we would be so lucky. When I was a kid, I could not imagine having such a rich life. We have shared our children’s bat and bar mitzvahs, their weddings, the birth of grandchildren. We have traveled across this country and abroad (with more yet to come!). We have shared professional success. You have had an especially admirable career, making a difference in many lives. I take pride in your many accomplishments.

We’ve gone to concerts, movies, plays, ballets, museums, and all kinds of performances. We have had meaningful discussions about all of it. Once you retire, I look forward to adding books to our conversations (no pressure – well, maybe a little pressure)!

We’ve looked at magnificent scenery, searched for rainbows, laughed our asses off (just this morning I laughed till I cried at a parody you wrote of one of those drug commercials) and eaten more meals together than we can possibly count. (And, let’s not forget that I have cooked more meals for you than you can possibly count!)

We have also maintained our own interests and identities. We have given each other space for that, too.

It is amazing to me that our love has continued to evolve and ever deepen. In the beginning of a relationship, when you first fall in love, it is an intoxicating thing. I remember my friend in graduate school, after spending time with us, told me she wanted what we have – she said she wanted to have someone look at her the way we looked at each other. I think the romance is hard to sustain. As our lives have gone on, through the drudgery, the ups and downs, the losses, I don’t know if we have always looked at each other that way, but I know sometimes we still do. When those moments occur, they are even more precious, more meaningful since they have been hard-earned.

40 years feels like a milestone worth celebrating. I don’t know what the future will bring. I hope we will get to keep loving, talking, laughing, exploring, comforting and learning for as long as our health will allow. I am grateful, proud, and fortunate that we have come this far. Thank you for all you have given me.

Happy anniversary, my love.

Your Linny

The Threads that Bind Us

Our family gathered in Groton, Connecticut for a wedding this past weekend. We converged on the Mystic Hilton, coming from upstate New York, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Virginia and California. On Friday as we were each on our way, my brothers and I received a text from our aunt reporting that she and my uncle ‘made a stop to tell our loved ones the good news about our trip,’ meaning they visited the cemetery in Saddle Brook, NJ where my father, uncle and Nana (among other family members) are buried and shared the happy news of the upcoming nuptials. She included several pictures of the graves. I appreciated that they had done that, as irrational as the gesture may be.

I don’t believe that going to my father’s gravesite puts me closer to his spirit, but at the same time visiting is a demonstrable show of respect. In the Jewish tradition, when you visit the grave, you leave a small rock or pebble on the headstone as a tangible sign that someone was there – at least that’s the reason I have in my head and heart when I do it (there is likely some obscure reason for the ritual that dates back to ancient time, but I have no knowledge of it). I was glad that my aunt and uncle did it on our behalf. When we gather for these milestone events, it is bittersweet. We are thankful that we have something so special to celebrate, but also painfully aware of those who are no longer with us.

While chatting with one of my cousins, I mentioned that my aunt and uncle had done this, and she explained that for her going to the cemetery was an empty experience. Her mother died 35 years ago, and she still feels her mom’s spirit with her all the time, she is in regular communication with her (just to be clear, she didn’t mean that literally) but she doesn’t feel anything at her gravesite. I know other people feel the same way and have no need to go. My cousin wasn’t casting judgment on those who find meaning in a visit, but it just doesn’t do anything for her. On the other hand, I have a friend who visits her parents’ graves regularly – she finds it comforting. I’m trying to decide how I feel about it – not just with respect to loved ones who have died, but also in terms of what I want for myself.

This isn’t a subject most people want to talk about – all topics revolving around death tend to make people uncomfortable. I have always found it interesting and, more than that, important. I want to sort out my conflicting emotions, in part to plan for it so my children aren’t left with painful decisions when the time comes.

I have a recollection of an irreverent George Carlin comedy routine where he lamented that cemeteries were a waste of space. He suggested the land could be better used for affordable housing! (He was equally merciless about golf courses). Seriously, it is reasonable to ask whether our burial practices make sense from a use of resources and an ecological point of view. Is it sustainable?

Some of our feelings about this are probably the product of the traditions, either religious or cultural, we observed growing up. In my mother’s family, when she was a child, they went to the cemetery at least annually to pay their respects. She even remembers picnicking there! For her those were warm memories. The departed were still included in their lives. Though that tradition was not continued in my childhood, we never picnicked, I was aware that Mom and her brothers went at least yearly to the cemetery. As an adult, after my dad died, I took Mom to the cemetery a few times. Dad is buried in Mom’s (the Spilkens’) family plot, he lies near his mother-in-law. In life he loved being part of their family, it seems appropriate that he rests there. There is a spot for Mom, when the time comes, next to Dad.

The photo my aunt, Barbara Spilken, sent

Cremation was not considered when Dad died. It is my understanding that cremation was frowned upon among Jews. That attitude seems to be changing, and apparently was not rooted in agreed upon Jewish law. More Jews are choosing that option these days. Then you have to decide what to do with the cremains – scatter, bury/place in a mausoleum or keep in an urn somewhere. For other Jews, like my husband, irrespective of tradition or law, the legacy of the Holocaust makes this an unacceptable option.

On our drive back home from the wedding I asked Gary what he thought about all of this, including whether it was meaningful to visit the cemetery. He finds comfort in the idea of leaving a marker behind. He also expressed a desire to go to visit his dad, who is buried in Liberty, about a 2 hour drive from our home. Regardless of whether we go regularly, or not, Gary believes it is fitting that his dad’s existence has a marker, a place and a stone that memorializes his life that will be there for decades, maybe centuries, to come. He wants that for himself, too. Gary noted that he had not visited deceased family, he was thinking especially of his Bubbe, who are buried on Long Island in many, many years. He would like to, but couldn’t see making a separate trip, it is long and inconvenient, only for that purpose. If we were traveling in the area, then he would make a point of going. The location of the cemetery is obviously a factor in the frequency of visits.

Though I can’t articulate my reasons, it is important to me that I visit Dad’s grave once in a while – I can’t say how often it should be, though annually feels about right. I think of my dad all the time of course, but there is something about the visit to the site that formalizes it. Time and effort are carved out to honor my relationship with him by being there, looking at the inscription on the stone and placing a pebble on it to signify my presence. I am glad I can pay my respects to Nana and Uncle Mike at the same time.

I am of two minds for myself. I like the idea of being scattered in the wind, in a particularly lovely spot. I also see the appeal of leaving a marker, even if my children and grandchildren don’t visit. There would be a place where my existence was noted. I suppose the two are not mutually exclusive. Perhaps that is the answer I’ve been looking for – my cremains strewn about a lovely spot, (could they fertilize a garden?), and a memorial marker somewhere (a bench in Central Park?). Maybe I’m on to something here.

Do you visit loved ones at the cemetery? Does it feel meaningful? What do you want for yourself?

It is ironic that this piece started with the family gathering for a wedding but explored our recognition of death, but that is the nature of life. We gather for these events. The judge who officiated the ceremony, and it was a beautiful one, began with “Dearly beloved….,” just a word away from “Dearly departed…” It is all of a thread.

Gary and I enjoying the view after the ceremony

Another Monday

I have been missing in action blog-wise – life has been happening. I shall return.

Christmas in America: House Hunters Home for the Holidays Edition

Note: The following essay explores a theme that can be a third rail: Christmas in America. My intent is not to impugn the holiday. I hope friends, family and readers who celebrated this past Christmas had a wonderful, meaningful holiday. I understand and respect its importance. I have a perspective, as an outsider, that some may not have considered. I offer my thoughts in that context. I welcome constructive criticism, other insights and reactions. Please feel free to comment.

I was watching a holiday version of House Hunters recently. The idea was that a family wanted to find their dream home in time to be settled in it for Christmas and have time to decorate for the season. The family was shown homes by a real estate agent who looked like Santa Claus (yes, really). Okay, I figured, let’s see what this is. I love these types of shows – whether it is Lakefront Bargain Hunt, or House Hunters International, I find it entertaining and mildly informational seeing a range of housing options across the globe. This variation seemed interesting enough.

Though I do not celebrate Christmas, I enjoy the light displays very much. As we begin the dark descent into winter, the lights are a bright, cheerful spot. Growing up in Canarsie (Brooklyn) we would take a ride around the neighborhood to see which houses had the best lights. The funeral home, Guarino’s, did a particularly spectacular job. I could enjoy the efforts of my neighbors but did not feel deprived that we as Jews didn’t decorate our home.

I settled in to watch and early on felt surprisingly uncomfortable. My hesitation with this episode of House Hunters: Home for the Holidays was that the family featured was Indian (from India originally) and they were Hindus. First, to be clear, I have no issue with the show featuring non-white, non-Christian families! One of the things I appreciate about the House Hunters franchise is that they present a fairly diverse group of individuals – families, couples or singletons of every color and orientation. It may not be perfectly representative, but there is a cross section of humanity on the show. I have been watching it since the Bush (Dubya) administration and they incorporated diversity early on.

The thing that troubled me – and I could have missed something that would have explained it – was the premise that this family needed to have a fabulous Christmas display, though it didn’t seem like they celebrated the holiday. The show began with an explanation of the Hindu holiday of Diwali – a festival of lights. They were going to incorporate the colors of Diwali into their Christmas decorations. Mind you, at least as best as I can tell, Diwali does not fall at the same time of the year as Christmas so I’m not sure there is a natural fit, but maybe there is. The family explained to the Santa-look-a-like realtor about their holiday, and he was delighted to learn about it. That’s great, if only they left it there. Maybe the house hunt could have centered on how well it met their needs in celebrating Diwali, or other Hindu festivals.

But, then they went on this journey to find the perfect home for their new Christmas display. It didn’t sit right, though I readily acknowledge every family’s right to celebrate whatever holidays they want in whatever way they want (assuming they aren’t hurting others in the process).

I had a friend in graduate school whose family (her parents) immigrated from China to escape Communism. Her parents were not raised with religion. When they got to this country they converted to, I think that is the right word, or maybe they simply became Catholic. They raised their children in the church accordingly. They did this of their own free will. I didn’t ask why her parents chose Catholicism, or why they chose religion at all. The beauty of our country is that they could make that choice. They celebrated Christmas. They did not shed their Chinese customs either – in food and family traditions they maintained their identity. I’m sure there were difficulties adapting to American life, but they seemed to be forging a path that integrated different elements into a whole that worked for them. So, the idea of coming to America and embracing Christianity is not what I am questioning.

I was not convinced this was the case for the family featured on House Hunters: Home for the Holidays. If this family got joy from adding Christmas to their family traditions, good for them. Something about the way it was presented didn’t come across that way. It felt like a competition to outdo others with their Christmas lights. It seemed to have nothing to do with the actual meaning of the holiday.

I would love to hear from readers who are of other faiths, or those without any faith tradition, who have navigated this. Did your family adopt Christmas? If so, how does it feel for you? I know many people who intermarried (Jews and Christians are common pairings in my family) – which is also a journey that requires compromise and negotiation. But, I am not really focused on that here. This t.v. show was not highlighting a ‘mixed’ family. There may be parallels but it is a little different.

I find Christmas in America to be very confusing – and I was born here (third generation as my grandmothers were born here) and have never lived anywhere else. On the one hand, people seem to want Christmas to be everywhere – on t.v., on the radio, in the mall, even in public schools. They want it to be an American holiday. But then they complain that Christ has been taken out of Christmas. If Christ is at the heart of it, then it should be for believers. Not everyone is a believer, though. Perhaps many in this country are happy to celebrate Christmas as a secular holiday. But then why the attachment to “Merry Christmas?” If it is secular, why is it so important that everyone observe it? You can’t have it both ways.

I can imagine that for some the holiday is about family traditions which is a powerful attachment. Putting up a tree, decorating the home, exchanging gifts, gathering with those you love are all beautiful traditions. I respect that, but it still does not explain why it should be expected of others who don’t share the faith or the family history.

I wondered if the family on this show felt pressured to adopt Christmas as a holiday. Muslims, Hindus, Jews, atheists and other non-Christian people should not have to participate in Christmas. If they choose to, for whatever reasons (though hopefully not to keep up with the Joneses), that’s their right. And, they don’t owe me an explanation for their participation. I just hope it comes from a healthy, expansive place and not from feeling looked down upon, or judged as less than by other Americans. And, Americans should not start from the assumption that everyone celebrates Christmas.

	Gary on The Power of History: Insights…
	The Power of History… on History
	lindasunshine22 on Reflections on Life in America…
	lindasunshine22 on Reflections on Life in America…
	lindasunshine22 on Reflections on Life in America…

Category: celebrations