Note: I wrote a blog post a while ago that asked the question ‘History,’ History In the following post, I take a different perspective.
What is history? When you visit a new city or country and take a tour, the guide often tells you about the history of the place. I love that. Perhaps my enthusiasm is based on being the daughter of a father who was a high school history teacher and a mother who was a reading teacher. So, I have been a student of history for basically my entire life. But that doesn’t answer the question of what it is. What does a tour guide include in their presentation?
I am thinking about this because we just returned from a trip that took us to some very interesting places with long, long histories. It is hard not to conclude that when we learn about history, we are often told about wars, and if not outright wars, then power struggles. Is history really a narrative of power? It appears to be so. And, when you dig into it a bit, you sometimes find that those power struggles and wars are about personal things – insults or slights.
This is a stretch, but if Hitler had been accepted to art school, could that have changed the course of history? Would his ego have been assuaged enough? Would he not have needed to go on a quest to prove himself with such horrific and destructive consequences?
The trip we took was D-Day themed, so perhaps it was inevitable that the places we saw were chosen based on the role played in that momentous event, or in World War II in general. Perhaps my perception that history is often the recounting of conflicts or wars is colored by the type of tour we chose.
We took a Viking river cruise that was organized around D-Day. We visited London, Paris, and Normandy. Each place we visited was the site of intense World War II action. Gary and I share a fascination with the topic. Our families were impacted, if not shaped, by those events. Gary has watched countless documentaries about the military battles. I have read innumerable historical novels set in that era. With that said, I learned so much on the trip, and Gary would say the same.
First, I did not understand the scope of the D-Day invasion. It covered 72 miles of France’s coastline. I thought of it as a single beach, perhaps because of the way it was portrayed in movies. In fact, even that beach, Omaha Beach alone, was six miles long. Aside from breadth of the operation, it also involved so much in the way of logistics and coordination among the allies. They built a temporary port to facilitate bringing in more troops and supplies. It was quite an undertaking.
Asnelles – part of Gold BeachGold Beach with remnant of temporary harborPart of Omaha Beach
It was also clear that the difference between success and failure was very narrow. The Allies were on the brink of failure. It is scary to think about the consequences of that possibility. One can’t help but be moved by the extraordinary sacrifice made by the young soldiers who carried out that mission. Standing in the cemetery, which overlooks the English Channel, looking upon row after row of crosses and Stars of David, is overwhelming.
A small portion of the cemetery
The land in Normandy still bears the scars of the battle, too. There are craters in grassy areas, and they have left the remnants of the German battlements. The coastline is also dotted with monuments. The statues, sculptures, and museums express the gratitude of France and Europe for their liberation and tell the story of how that was achieved.
German bunkerAnother German Bunkersculpture on Omaha Beach Monument at Utah Beachsculpture near Pointe du Hoc
Perhaps the most powerful aspect of visiting this sacred space is its breathtaking beauty.
I stood on the cliffs, it was so peaceful, the only sounds were birds and the waves. The stark contrast to what it must’ve been like on June 6, 1944, with the pounding of artillery and bombs falling, is striking. When I looked at the cliffs that the soldiers had to scale, I couldn’t help but be amazed by their strength and bravery.
The cliffs at La Pointe du Hoc
The towns, which withstood the onslaught, are charming. Some have modern elements that reflect the rebuilding effort, but many of the structures, which date back centuries, are still standing. I could have spent a great deal more time there. We visited for two full days, and it didn’t feel like enough.
These photos are from the old part of Rouen, considered the capital of Normandy.
I can’t recommend a visit strongly enough. We need to be reminded of all that went into fighting fascism and what people were willing to sacrifice for freedom. It would be tragic if we allowed our country to continue to slide into authoritarianism. I’m not sure Gary and I needed reminding, but I came away with a renewed sense of responsibility for doing what I can to prevent that from happening.
If one of the reasons we study history is to learn from it and avoid making the same mistakes, I urge everyone to revisit what World War II and the rise and fall of fascism have to teach us. War, even a just one, is brutal and exacts a steep price.
Almost two years ago, September 4, 2023 to be exact, I posted a blog entitled “Walking or Hiking?” It recounted an experience Gary and I had at Minnewaska State Park. We took a trail that was more demanding than expected and it was a hot day. We made it, but not without struggle, and not without Gary providing me necessary support. You can read that account here.
This past Friday we went back to the same park with the intention of doing the same trail. When we got to the visitor’s center and asked about the condition of the trail, we were told it wasn’t a wise choice because they had gotten over three inches of rain the day before and that route, which crossed a stream, would have taken a beating. We decided to take a different trail that would end at the same view but would likely be in better shape.
The reason we returned to the scene of that challenge was that some things were different this time around. I am 52 pounds lighter and more fit. I wanted to test myself. I told Gary a few months ago that when I had reached the 50-pound milestone I wanted to try the demanding hike again.
This weight loss journey has been an interesting one. A little over a year ago my bloodwork revealed I was prediabetic. I was not especially surprised given my family history. Diabetes is epidemic in my family. In some ways I knew it was just a matter of time. I hoped the fact that I was always active would stave it off, but the Covid lockdown had added yet more weight to my already heavy body, so I was losing the battle. I needed to do something.
I have done many diets over the years and found some success with Weight Watchers but I had never been able to sustain it. The Covid shutdown, which wreaked havoc with my emotional state and limited my exercise, did me in and I never recovered. It was time to consider a new option. In the past I had always been leery of fad diets, surgery or meal replacement approaches because I didn’t think any of them addressed the root problem. Now the weight-loss landscape has changed with the introduction of medications (GLP1’s). My doctor recommended Wegovy. After much consideration, and consulting with my husband who has hundreds of patients using these drugs, I decided to try it.
The first hurdle was getting preapproval from my insurance company. There were hoops and loops to jump through, but the reality was that I met the criteria, and they did ultimately approve me.
The second hurdle was that it is an injection. That turned out to be a non-issue. The medication is not delivered by syringe, it is a pen. You barely see the needle and it comes pre-measured. It wasn’t particularly painful either. That was a relief.
Next issue, was side effects. This I did have to deal with. When I started, I felt some queasiness, but that resolved. The bigger issue, and this may be TMI for some readers, was constipation. I am prone to that to begin with and this made it worse. Some folks have the opposite problem on these drugs. Anyway, it took a while to work that out – making good dietary choices and generous amounts of Metamucil or sometimes MiraLAX helped. Eventually I got to a tolerable place.
But there were other side effects that built up. I have reflux (heartburn). These medications slow digestion. Again, I have a slow system to begin with. The food sitting in my stomach created more reflux. That is my unscientific explanation for what was happening. For a while this was manageable. As time went on, it became worse. The low point was when I experienced episodes of water brashing, a situation where your glands overproduce saliva not unlike what happens before you vomit in order to neutralize the acid in your esophagus. (My doctor explained this to me when I asked what was happening.) It was very unpleasant. Three weeks ago, I decided to stop taking Wegovy even though I believe I still need to lose weight – at least 15 pounds. But the discomfort was too intense to continue. Thankfully, within a week I was so much more comfortable! I had been on Wegovy a little over a year.
For me, Wegovy was not a miracle drug, even in terms of the weight loss. Yes, I lost 54 pounds and my recent bloodwork showed that I was no longer prediabetic. But it wasn’t magic. Aside from the side effects, it didn’t entirely change my appetite or remove my issues around food. I still wanted more pasta than protein or vegetables. I still have a sweet tooth. And, the impulse to eat for emotional reasons is still present.
It is interesting to me how this drug has different impacts on people. According to Gary, who has prescribed GLP1s for soooo many diabetic patients, some folks entirely lose their appetite and are unable to eat. They have to stop taking it since it becomes risky. Some folks have no impact on their appetite and experience little weight loss. Others report that the noise in their head about food, the craving or the urges, are greatly reduced or for some is gone entirely. I had the experience of the noise lessening. If there were cookies in the house, they were no longer calling to me, at least not loudly, more of a whisper.
I still had to make choices about my diet. I have heard from some friends that they know people who took Wegovy (or Zepbound, another weight loss drug widely prescribed) and would order mozzarella sticks or some other similarly unhealthy item for dinner, but just not eat the whole portion. In other words, they made poor choices, but lost weight. Or other people who only ate one meal a day. I didn’t do either of those things and wasn’t tempted to. The biggest change for me was in portion size. I am a carb addict. This is where I have my toughest challenge. I love carbs in all their forms, particularly pasta, bread and rice. Potato is low on my priority list, but I still love me a baked potato with butter. Anyway, controlling the amount of intake is a major hurdle for me. This is where Wegovy was most successful. I could have a reasonable amount because I would get full more quickly, I could feel that I was full (before taking the medication, I didn’t necessarily perceive fullness until it was way too late), and I knew that I would be terribly uncomfortable if I continued eating beyond fullness.
In sum, from my experience, the medication helped me to adhere to a Weight Watcher style eating program. I ate what I wanted, more or less, but modestly. Before Wegovy I had a relatively healthy diet, just too much of it, with the added bonus of having a sweet tooth. If it was up to me every meal would include dessert. With medication, since I was feeling full and the noise around cravings had quieted, I was able to control the sweet tooth. That’s how I found success.
When the side effects became too much, I stopped taking it. Now it remains to be seen if I can sustain the good habits. I already am aware of the increase in wanting sweets. I am trying to keep the portion sizes moderate. So far, and it is way too soon to reach any conclusions, I am managing it.
I am continuing to weigh myself. It isn’t hard to weigh yourself regularly when you are seeing weight loss. Other than going to the doctor, when I couldn’t avoid it, I probably hadn’t weighed myself at home for five years or more until I started taking the Wegovy. I was in denial. I can’t let myself do that again. After a week of being off the medication, I had gained two pounds. I freaked out. I told Gary I needed a pep talk. He is very good at that. He said some very useful things.
First, he pointed out that two pounds is a small fraction of what I lost. He told me not to panic; it was to be expected. He reminded me that I needed to give myself more time to adjust – that I had spent a year developing good habits, not only making healthier food choices, but incorporating more exercise (I took up yoga, as I also have written about). Even if I gained some of the weight back, I would still be better off than I was before. He reassured me that regardless of my size, he loved me (yes, he said that, and I needed to hear it). And, he suggested we go to Minnewaska and see how different I felt climbing that mountain.
Last Friday we went. Though we didn’t do the Millbrook Mountain footpath that we had done before, we took the carriage road to another footpath, Gertrude’s Nose, which was higher up and involved fewer streams/creeks. It was a demanding hike that was about 6.5 miles round trip. It was not as hot as it was two years ago, but it was probably longer and certainly as physically demanding with a couple of scrambles. I managed to sweat profusely. We brought more water this time. We reached Gertrude’s Nose, which has a great payoff with a beautiful view, and I was in good shape. I wasn’t winded and my legs were strong. Very different from how I felt the other time.
The view from Gertrude’s Nose
We returned the way we came. We stopped twice briefly to sit but otherwise got back to the car without issue. It was a spectacular hike, and I felt proud of myself. My body was tired, but it should have felt tired.
2025 -I made it2023 – before the climb and the weight loss2025 -My hiking sticks resting. I needed them!
Hopefully the reward of being more fit, of fitting into my clothes and feeling overall better about my body will provide enough motivation to stay on the course.
I am continuing to navigate this path – I have weighed myself and it bounces around. I lost the two pounds I gained, then went up a pound. Maybe these are normal fluctuations. The weight loss wasn’t a straight line downhill either. I am trying to be honest with myself about portion sizes. I am trying to listen to my body to recognize fullness. It isn’t simple. And, I reserve the right to try the other weight loss drug, if I need to (and insurance approves it). Please don’t judge me.
Use of weight loss drugs is a sensitive subject. I see no reason to keep it a secret, but it is something people have opinions about. I could write a whole other essay about that and maybe I will. For now, I will end with this thought: taking care of yourself can be a complicated issue. Most of us struggle with it one way or another. Let’s wish each other well on our journeys. If we have something genuinely helpful to say, great; if not, spare the judgment.
What was I thinking? That was the question I was left with after a conversation with some family members. What was I thinking when I didn’t assign my kids chores when they were growing up?
A small group of us were talking about how old we were when we learned to cook, if we learned to cook. Some of us, myself included, learned quite young. I remember being in third grade when I made my first roast chicken. Mom was bedridden, either because of ongoing menstrual problems or a flare of arthritis, and she gave me instructions how to prepare it. Others in our conversation came to it early, too, most learned as they helped their mom, and some didn’t recall being taught at all.
In the context of this discussion, my son asked, “Mom, you knew how to cook. Why didn’t you teach me?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t teach your sister either, so it wasn’t a sexist thing,” I responded.
The topic moved to the broader subject of all types of household chores. One person commented that their father viewed his children as worker bees, thus they had a myriad of responsibilities that were rotated among the siblings.
In the house I grew up in, we had chores, but they were unevenly divided. Things were assigned based on sex – I did the tasks that were thought of as women’s work, my brothers took out the trash, moved the garbage pails, and swept the driveway. I set the table and did the dishes after dinner daily. I was in junior high school when I staged my rebellion. It was clearly an unfair distribution of labor. At least my parents were persuaded by my argument and things changed. My brother Mark has still not forgiven me.
I admitted to the group that Gary and I had not required our children to do chores. Before they went to college, I showed them each how to do their laundry. We were fortunate in that for most of the years they were growing up, we had a person come to clean the house either weekly or every other week so the cleaning of bathrooms, washing or vacuuming floors, changing bedding was taken care of. I did the day-to-day straightening, laundry, dishes, etc. Gary did the gardening – the kids would sometimes help him with that. If I asked my son to help me bring in the groceries from the car he did so willingly.
As I sat there, I wondered: why didn’t we give them some responsibilities? I don’t think I did them any favors by not having them know how to cook, iron, clean, etc. Of course, I wasn’t particularly good at those tasks myself. I didn’t believe in ironing, unless absolutely necessary (still don’t). I don’t know how to sew. I can sew on a button in an emergency, but Gary takes care of that for himself. Cooking was probably the only area I really could have offered them something.
As I look back, I think I wanted to spare them the drudgery. I resented the chores I did as a child, though my father had explained to me that as a family, we each needed to contribute. I understood his point and accepted it, but I didn’t like it. I must have also carried some resentment for the years that things were so unbalanced with my brothers.
Another element was that starting when my kids were in first and third grade respectively, I stopped working. I took on some freelance jobs outside the home here and there, but I was essentially a homemaker for a dozen years. Gary worked long hours, and we were well provided for thanks to his efforts. I almost felt guilty, even as I intellectually knew that I was supporting Gary’s career by doing all the housework and managing our family. Emotionally, though, it felt ‘less than,’ or not particularly valuable or admirable. I figured children only get so many years to be carefree so I’d let them be and I would take care of the chores.
It occurs to me now that I may have also been avoiding the inevitable conflict that goes along with assigning chores. It wasn’t a conscious thing at the time, but I was probably unwilling to take on the fight. This thought doesn’t make me proud but there is likely some truth in it.
Interestingly, both kids are well functioning adults. They might not have come into adulthood having a lot of the skills or knowledge necessary to take care of a home, but they are doing it, they are quite competent. They would have to say whether they feel they were ill-prepared and if it created problems for them, though they haven’t complained to me. They make good use of Google and YouTube. Somehow, they are both figuring it out with their respective partners.
I come away, after thinking about this, believing that there isn’t one right way to handle this issue as a parent. Children becoming competent adults involves a lot of things falling into place beyond how this one thing is handled.
I understand the value of giving children responsibility and having them appreciate the importance of helping as members of a family. Perhaps, my children would be better off today if I had assigned them chores, but we will never know. Each of them got the message that a work ethic was important, and more than that, they don’t exhibit a sense of entitlement. Maybe the behavior they saw modeled was the most powerful factor in shaping them into adults – that and good luck (being lucky in health and not experiencing trauma are immeasurably important).
One last thought: Gary would remind me periodically that our respective parents raised us very differently, yet we function in the world pretty well. I found that thought comforting. There is room for a range of philosophies and a range of mistakes.
Carefree days
Please feel free to share your experiences as a child with chores and/or your parenting approach. I’d love to hear!
I am a grandmother, called Nana by my granddaughters, which makes me smile.
I ask myself, how much of my life do I want to shape around theirs?
I grew up with my Nana living upstairs in the apartment above mine in a two-family semi-attached house. She was a gift to me.
I am not in the same situation. I am 2 and ½ hours from one granddaughter, three hours from the other. My children did not grow up in the situation I had either. They saw their grandparents maybe monthly in the summer, once in the winter months when we would fly down to Florida during the February break from school. They still knew their grandparents, and knew they were treasured. Most summers my kids would spend a week at my folks’ house in the Catskills. I think that was an especially bonding experience.
Is that enough for me?
These days we have FaceTime. We can see each other more frequently – in between in-person visits. What will that mean to them?
Then there is my relationship with my children. There are rare occasions when I see each of them separate from their families. It is precious time when I get to see them one-on-one. Do I shape my life to maximize the opportunity to visit them?
Or do I lead my life?…commit to volunteer work, commit to writing, commit to political activism – instead of filling in with those activities.
I don’t know how to balance it.
And then there is the mundane business of life. It is common to hear people who retire say, “I don’t know where the time goes. I’m always so busy. How did I fit in a full-time job?”
I am finding that taking care of myself as I age has become a full-time job. More frequent doctor visits, more frequent medical tests, physical therapy, exercising multiple times a week, picking up prescriptions, and all the paperwork that supports that stuff. Then there is the expansion of household tasks, some of which I crammed in or let fall by the wayside when I worked so there is catching up to do. Between taking care of the house, the car and my body, there isn’t that much extra time. Plus, my capacity or energy for all of it isn’t what it used to be.
I admit I am disappointed in a way; retirement isn’t quite a free as I thought it would be. I know I am lucky – unbelievably so in that I am not facing serious illness, just the nagging things that happen as the bones, joints and systems wear. I am even more blessed that my children are independent, capable humans who have families of their own. They live very full lives without help from me.
Some of my peers appear to be happy to center their lives around their children and grandchildren; others appear to be happy centering their lives on their own activities and maybe some have found the secret of balance. If you have, please share! Or maybe I assume folks are happy because that is the face they put on, especially on social media.
Between my own desire to remain engaged in meaningful growth, contributing to the world, and to have fun (which for me means traveling, being active, walking among trees, smelling flowers, being social, and, most importantly, deeply connected to my family), I feel like I don’t know what I am doing.
But, maybe I am doing it. This is it. I answer a call from my son who has an extra ticket to a Met game on a Monday night and I figure out how to make that work (it was a great game and we had a blast!). I schedule my various medical appointments and follow their instructions as best I can. Babysit for grandchildren and grandnephews when asked. Fit in yoga and tennis where I can. Take a walk with a friend. I write when I can, post a blog when I can. I don’t worry about getting published (easier said than done!). Let tasks in the house sit a while longer. I have lunch with a friend here and there. Plan a trip or two each year. Celebrate my granddaughters’ birthdays. Sounds pretty awesome really. So why do I feel uncentered? Perhaps it is just a matter of accepting it – the fragmented nature of it, the unpredictability of my schedule (or the absence of one) and the idea that I write mostly for myself and whatever audience reads my work. And most importantly, to believe that in being there for friends and family, I will have done something worthwhile even in the face of this very troubled world.
Looking for perspective in the woods of Central Park or maybe just admiring the birds.
My family has a movie club. It functions the same way as a book club. A member picks a movie, and we get together on Zoom to discuss it. The person who picks the film moderates the discussion. The number of participants varies from month to month, but typically there are about 19 of us. This month we discussed Field of Dreams.
I had not watched Field of Dreams in many years. I remembered enjoying it in the theater when it came out in 1989. I have caught bits and pieces of it on television since it airs frequently, but I am not someone who watches it whenever they come upon it, and I certainly had not watched it all the way through in decades.
For many this film is a touchstone. It is a perennial favorite because it speaks to universal themes: dream fulfillment, regret, father-son relationships, nostalgia for baseball, and redemption. It also features some wonderful actors, James Earl Jones, Burt Lancaster to name two and Kevin Costner qualifies as a genuine movie star (I think he is a fine actor and does a good job in this).
Somehow watching it yesterday afternoon, I was not as moved as I remember being. I wasn’t drawn into the fantasy. I liked it well enough and could appreciate aspects of it, but I found myself doubting the premise. I wasn’t buying it. When we gathered for our discussion, I was in the minority, though there were a few who were also less than impressed. I wondered if I have become too cynical to relax and give in to the sentimentality. One of the premises of the movie is that we long for a simpler, more innocent time. My problem with that idea is that I don’t believe that simpler, more innocent time exists.
I also think that the father-son dynamic, which is central to this story, didn’t resonate with me and I don’t believe that is a matter of gender. Anyone can relate to the idea of having regrets over a parental relationship that wasn’t what you wanted it to be – and having the chance to make amends would be an unbelievable gift, as happens in the movie. While I can relate to that idea and would welcome a chance to reconnect with my parents, I am lucky in that I don’t feel a lack of closure with either my mother or father. I miss them, but I don’t have much in the way of regret. I am grateful for that.
While intellectually I get the potential for how baseball can connect a father and son and how meaningful a catch could be, it still didn’t resonate. My parents were not of a generation where they played with their kids. My dad never had a catch with me – and I have no memory of him having a catch with my brothers. Maybe he did, or maybe they wanted him to. They certainly had catches with their own kids when they became fathers. I think it was a generational thing, though Gary, my husband, would toss a ball with his dad. What’s funny is that my dad was an athlete. He grew up playing ball – all kinds – baseball, basketball, stickball. He continued to be active as an adult, playing tennis and paddleball. But, he didn’t play with us. I think the mind set was different. He didn’t think it was his job to play with us. I had no expectation that he would. I can’t speak for my brothers – they may have felt a longing for that, or maybe they felt as I did that it just wasn’t something to be expected of him. Mom didn’t play with us either – not board games, not sports. We were expected to entertain ourselves.
Aside from the difference in expectation about parental roles that may explain my tepid reaction, the movie relies on nostalgia for baseball. I love baseball. It is a sport I have always enjoyed. I was a huge fan of Ron Bloomberg of the New York Yankees when I was a kid. You can probably guess why. But, I associate baseball with my brothers, my uncles and my Zada (my maternal grandfather), more than my dad. Dad followed the sport but after the Dodgers left Brooklyn before my birth, he was no longer a fan. He grew up as a die-hard Dodger fan and was angry and resentful that they left. In the years that followed he kept track of players, he read the sports page, but he didn’t root for a particular team and had no interest in going to games. If my brothers and I went to a game, it was with our uncles. I do recall a particularly memorable time my dad took us as a family, and it may explain why we went so rarely.
We went to see the Mets play the San Francisco Giants at Shea stadium. It was August of 1969, an auspicious year. Dad was no fan of New York City traffic, so he wanted to leave the game early. It was a close game, no runs had been scored, and we made our way to the exit after the 7th inning. Except when we got outside the stadium, we couldn’t find our car. We combed the aisles. This was long before we had fobs with a panic button. We had no way of flashing the headlights to help us locate the car. I don’t know why none of us had noted the section where we parked. We just kept walking up and down – every aisle looked the same, every section looked the same. Meanwhile the game went into extra innings. I believe we found our car after about an hour. The game went 14 innings before the Mets won, 1-0, so we still beat most of the crowd to our car where we listened to the last inning on the radio. It turned out to be a classic game. Gary Gentry, the Mets pitcher, held the Giants scoreless for 10 innings and was relieved by Tug McGraw who finished out the game. Juan Marichal, the opposing pitcher who went on to be a Hall-of-Famer, took the mound for 13 innings! So not only were we roaming the parking lot for a very long time, but we also missed the end of a truly great game.
It was not the happiest of experiences. Dad was not the most relaxed person under the best of circumstances. He had a temper and a short fuse. You can imagine his fury at not finding the car. Plus, with a family of five, though it was far less expensive than it is today, it was still a lot of money to buy tickets, park and feed all of us. I’m not sure we ever went to a game as a family again. It became an amusing anecdote, but not until many years passed.
[I will rely on my brothers to correct me, if I got this episode wrong.]
The point is that my affection for baseball was not nurtured by my father. So, when I watch Field of Dreams it doesn’t evoke the heartfelt emotion that it does for other folks. I know my brothers feel differently. They participated in the movie club discussion, and the film clearly struck a chord with them. I invite them to comment or write a blot post about the notes that struck home.
If you want to chime in with your feelings about Field of Dreams, please do. I will say that unlike many movies made in the 1980s, it aged well. It wasn’t offensive in any way that I perceived and, in fact, got a lot right. It just didn’t move me the way it does many others. I didn’t choke up and I shed no tears during the final scene. Did you?
Editor’s note: I received the following email from my brother, Mark Brody. With his permission, I thought it merited sharing.
I just read a headline, I only read the headline as that is all I can tolerate, which indicated that federal funding is being cut to the programs which provide tutoring to children. After reading that, or you can substitute any other recent news, such as how research into the cures for Alzheimer’s or cancer, etc. are being eliminated, and I decided that my sensitive, far too brilliant for her own good, sister could enjoy the following essay which, if she chooses, she might wish to post on her blog.
The Hero of Our Own Lives
“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by someone else, these pages must show.” (Opening sentence of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens).
Last night Pam, my wife, and I were babysitting our 5-year-old twin grandsons. After the boys had a bonus 8-minute episode of an animated, parentally approved TV show called Grizzy and the Lemmings, we all scurried up to their bedroom. I declared I would outrun them to their room and for the 156th consecutive time (we babysit frequently) both Connor and Lucas outran their ancient grandpa.
Our usual nighttime reading ritual is that Connor will select books for me to read and Lucas, exhausted from a long day, will lie in his bed and be satisfied with just hearing the story as Connor plops himself in my lap. Before the last book is concluded Lucas will be sound asleep.
Last night, however, Lucas hands me a particular book and asks me to read it.
The first problem with reading to Lucas at night is that he is usually so tired that he needs to lie in bed, and I need to place my old, creaky body on the floor next to his bed so he can see the pictures as I read the story.
The second, potentially equally vexing challenge, is that Connor whose bed is at the opposite end of the room “needs” to climb into Lucas’ bed so he can get an equally good view of the book, or perhaps more cynically, to make sure that Lucas does not get a better view of the book than he receives. This in and of itself is fine, but when reading comes to an end and Lucas is an inch away from being asleep, Connor will invariably decide he should stay in Lucas’ bed and endeavor to keep Lucas awake as there is still much playing and gabbing to be done. Extricating Connor from Lucas’ bed is often an ordeal.
Last night, however, I was delighted that Lucas decided to climb into my lap as I started to read to him. Connor then took his usual perch in my lap (the boys are still young and my lap, unfortunately or not, is quite ample). We read the story. The boys genuinely helped decipher some of the words as the lighting is dim and when the color of the word is red, and the background is black, I have difficulty making out the letters (I am color blind). The bedtime ritual was completed, and Lucas went right to sleep. I tucked in Connor and said, “Good night.”
As I left the room Connor commenced a debate with Pam. Was Grandpa’s “good night” sufficient? “Nana, when I wake up tomorrow Grandpa will not be here, don’t you think you should get Grandpa to come back and say ‘goodbye’?” Despite the debate I did not believe it wise to return to the bedroom.
First, debates with Connor (always Connor, as Lucas is not afflicted with the need/desire to question/analyze absolutely everything) can sometimes be lengthy (remember they already had an extra episode of Grizzy). I could envision much time elapsing before I would again leave the room.
Second, and much more importantly, I recall the infamous evening when I was babysitting sans Pam and her adult oversight. I recall the look of terror in Josh’s face when I showed up alone, and the parents got home to discover Grandpa in the twins’ room well after bedtime, reading/gabbing with Connor. The formerly always serene Mama demonstrated a countenance which can be generously described as something other than serene. As an aside, the Daddy of the twins, who has not yet to my knowledge been described as serene, voiced his considerable displeasure with my judgment that Connor did not need as much sleep as the parents thought necessary.
With that experience in mind and armed with the ability to learn from the past, I promptly made my exit and left Pam to handle the debate with Connor. For some reason, unbeknownst to me, Pam does not seem to test the Mama’s serenity.
Later that evening Pam explained that Connor’s thesis that Grandpa’s saying “good night” was insufficient was predicated on Connor’s observation that upon his saying “goodbye” to me, I should also say “goodbye” to him because when he wakes up in the morning I would not be there. Hence, just saying “good night” is not sufficient. Note taken.
Both grandparents, having safely bid the boys good night or goodbye as the case may be, await the parents return home which they do at a reasonable hour. Pam and I head to our own abode.
We discuss how I used to read to our boys when they were the twins’ age so many decades ago. Perhaps that is why I decided I should re-read David Copperfield. Having made a little headway in the tome, I went to bed at 6:00 a.m.
When I awoke the next afternoon, Pam and I discussed how 35 years ago I would read one chapter of the Dickens’ classic a night to Josh. If memory serves me correctly Sam – age 4 or 5- would be snuggling with Josh and me. She suggested that perhaps one chapter a night might still be a good idea for me. Another note taken, but likely ignored given my track record.
This made me think- about how long it would have taken me to complete the 64-chapter book (each chapter averaging 15-20 pages).
…..And then a memory arose which I had not thought of for many years. I now recall having been so enthralled by the elegant writing, humor and pathos of the novel, one summer afternoon, while we were on vacation in a time share in California, I simply had to read the book to myself. This decision did not end well because Joshua spotted me reading the book…without him! He was outraged and demanded that I not “go ahead of him in the book.”
Three plus decades later, I recall vividly Josh explaining how my betrayal stung him. He probably has no memory of this. My argument that I was going to read everything to him were to no avail. 7 (or 8?) year old Josh’s thesis was that this was a shared experience for the two of us (Sam’s presence was either tolerated or perhaps cynically he did not notice Sam on the other side of me as we read) and my proceeding without him was a grievous abdication of parental responsibility.
…And now a more recent memory- about 4-5 years ago, I am in Josh’s house and he is on the living room floor (he is not yet as antiquated as is his father and can sit comfortably on the floor) with one of the twins and he is reading to his son, not yet one, from one of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings books.
…..And then another memory from two years ago- Sam reading to his then 5-year-old son (Ted) from the Hobbit.
…..And yet another memory rushes in from 60+ years ago of Mom reading to me. I struggle to recall whether it was Treasure Island or maybe The Three Musketeers– perhaps my older brother, Steven will know.
…So, to conclude my essay, my dear sister, as our great expectations (pun intended) of our government is under constant assault, perhaps there can still be a calming perspective about how rich it is when we have the opportunity to share literature (great or otherwise) with children. And perhaps by doing so we can be the heroes of our own lives.
Note from your sister: Thinking about reading stories to our children and grandchildren, or reading literature in general, is far better than absorbing the news. So thank you for sending this to me. I too have fond memories of reading to my children each night, but I was not so ambitious as you. Though I read them chapter books, I never took on Dickens.
I also think about the role books had in our shared childhood. Wherever we were, and, as you know, we spent summers in different college communities while Dad pursued his education, we took a weekly trip to the library. Mom and Dad set us up for an enriched life. As they say in one of our prayers, not that we are religious, l’dor v’dor, from generation to generation. I think we have done just that. Mark, thank you for sharing this.
I don’t have a sister; I have two brothers. But, I find the dynamic between sisters particularly interesting, maybe because I don’t have one. I could be romanticizing it based on Hallmark cards, but it seems that for some it can be a deep, lifelong friendship; a connection different than the relationship between a sister and a brother, at least from my observation. I did have a front row seat to my mother’s relationship with her sister, Simma, and a less intimate but still revealing view of my mother-in-law and her sister, and I saw common themes. Those relationships were quite layered and complicated. I was reminded of that recently because, as I am still in the endless process of going through my mother’s things, I came across a tribute Aunt Simma wrote for my mother that brought up questions. I am sharing portions of that essay because I think it offers insight into Mom and Simma and provides an opportunity to explore whether the relationship described is true of other sisters. This is Simma’s tribute:
Feige Brody: A Life
This is a wholly unauthorized, condensed, selective biography, one which, no doubt, will be considered by its subject to be semi-fictitious. Nevertheless, these are the author’s reminiscences and, therefore, are told from the author’s point of view.
Feige Marian Spilken was born in Brooklyn on November 16, 1933 to Ray Woltz Spilken and Charles Spilken. Her mother was 19, her father 29. She was named after her maternal grandmother who died too young in her early 40s. From the start she was a good girl, a mother’s girl, nurtured by her young mom whom she adored. Feige was everything adults could hope for in a baby. She was exceedingly pretty with dark curly hair, dimpled cheeks, and she was sufficiently chubby, a good thing in those days, to convince her paternal grandmother that Ray was not a bad mother….
The family moved to New London, Connecticut, where her sister Simma was born. Bubba Sarah Spilken was outraged that Ray should produce such a scrawny, straight haired baby who would not eat of her favorite dishes much preferring to eat bugs and dirt. Only Feige’s smiling, compliant presence and acceptance of those heavy, eastern European dishes kept Bubba from banishing Ray from the family. Feige was the good girl.
The great hurricane of 1938 forced the family to move to Jersey City, New Jersey. They lived above Charlie’s bakery and the girls loved bothering the bakers…
Across the street there was a saloon owned by the Landaus, the only other Jewish family in the neighborhood. Before it opened late in the afternoon, Mrs. Landau allowed the girls to play at the bar pretending to pull beer from the taps and serve customers. There were banquet rooms up a couple of flights of very narrow dark stairs. Everything was covered in sheets until the room had to be used. Feige loved telling Simma ghost stories as they climbed the stairs. She said the sheets were actually the ghosts’ clothing and would make appropriate noises to scare the daylights out of her impressionable sister.
Other favorite pastimes were staring out the back window at the not too distant Statue of Liberty and telling stories. Often, they would go to the front window in the late afternoon when the saloon opened. They liked to shout at one particular customer who looked worse for drink and had a fat, red nose. “Salami, Baloney, Pastrami,” they shouted since those were the most offensive words they knew. After the outcry they would duck, afraid the drunk would see them. That was exciting….
No matter where they lived, Feige was like a little mother to her sister. While Ray worked, Feige would entertain Simma and endure her fresh mouth and mischievous ways. One hot summer night all the windows were open when a terrible summer storm occurred… Simma wouldn’t listen when Feige told her to go to bed. Instead, she ran away making Feige chase after her. The rain slicked linoleum floors were so slippery Simma fell. Sliding into the metal radiator, her eye was bruised, turning black and blue, but it was Feige who suffered. She couldn’t stop blaming herself for the accident. She was a good girl.
Simma would refuse to go to sleep… Feige would induce her to come to their shared bed by telling her she would be allowed to squeeze and pull Feige’s copious ringlets. Simma can still feel their soft, springy, velvet luxuriousness. It was a fact that whether they were in Brooklyn, in the country with Bubba and Zada, or at a bungalow in Rockaway, Feige took care of her sister.
She was patient most times, but one lapse occurred in the late ‘40s. Simma was home in bed, too sick to go to school. Those were the days of Forever Amber, but there was no way the girls could obtain that “dirty” book. They got a poor imitation in Kitty. Feige allowed Simma to read the book but made her promise to read it under the covers, the way Feige read every night so their parents wouldn’t catch her.
When Feige came home from school, Simma asked her to define a word she could not find in the dictionary. “Feige,” she queried, “what is a whore?” She pronounced it “war.” “You know. It’s an armed conflict between nations,” Feige replied. Simma was frustrated and said, “I don’t mean a war, a ‘war.’” Feige responded, exasperatedly, “WHO-ER, stupid, WHO-ER.” What was this? Feige lost her cool and never did enlighten Simma as to the definition of the word…
Ray and Charlie always had people in the house. The two sides of the family gathered there as well as their many friends. Feige and Simma were allowed to stay up and mingle with them. One of Charlie’s friends, Jerry Cohen, would show them parlor tricks first fooling them and then teaching them. That was how they learned to read each other’s minds, an act they still perform for amazed spectators.
Days, though, were not always sunny. Feige finally caused her parents anxiety when she was 17. She decided she would like to move into an apartment with some friends. How could a well brought up girl live without her parents’ supervision? Ray and Charlie were distressed. But it was a great time for Simma. It was the only time Simma was told by family members that she was the good daughter, never causing her family any distress. Who were these people? Where had they been for the last 17 years?
When Feige started college her life changed, making it even better than it already was. She met Barry Brody. She was smitten and, indeed, got married to him as soon as they both were graduated from Brooklyn College. Feige is fond of quoting Charlie. Well, one of his precepts was that to have a happy marriage the couple should move away from their parents the first year of their marriage and get to know one another without interference. Feige, ever obedient, moved to Wichita Falls, Texas; Chicopee Falls, Massachusetts; and then back to Brooklyn with two boys in tow and a girl on the way.
Now, Feige was a devoted wife, mother, cook and baker. The girl who in her parents’ house had to be told that the outside of the pots and dishes had to be washed as well as the inside, was suddenly the happy homemaker. She, like Ray, loved to entertain family and friends. There was always lots of good food around which is still true whether the Brodys were home in Brooklyn or in Livingston Manor, or, now, in Boynton Beach. Their houses were and are gathering places for everyone they know, and their hospitality is boundless.
One more point of kindness, showing what a good girl and sister Feige is. A year after Simma’s husband died, Feige and Barry were afraid she would have nothing to do during the summer and suggested they all take a trip to Europe together. They planned to go to London, Paris and Amsterdam but the French changed all that. They would not allow American Air Force planes to use French airspace when they on their way to a bombing mission in Libya. The planes went the long way around. One ran out of gas and crashed killing the American crew. Feige was up in arms while putting her foot down. She would not go to France. She said there were two choices: cancel the trip or find something to replace the Paris portion. There was a replacement, a circle England tour. It was Simma’s first sight of England and Oxford, a romance that continues to this day. Thank you, Feige. By the way, Feige still has not gone nor will ever go to France. You are a good girl, Feige Marian Spilken Brody. Happy birthday with love from your sister, Simma Spilken Sulzer.
Mom (left) and Simma as teenagersMom (left) and Simma in England
Unfortunately, both Simma and Feige have passed away so I cannot ask questions that arise from the narrative. For example, Simma notes that after the great hurricane they moved to Jersey City and lived above Charlie’s bakery (Charlie was their father). I thought the bakery was owned by Charlie’s brother. A minor point in one sense, but not so inconsequential in understanding their economic circumstances.
It’s also interesting that Simma comments in a positive way about Mom’s chubbiness as a baby – at that time, and in their culture, having a plump baby was a sign of good mothering. I think we still believe it’s okay for a baby to have round cheeks, but only up to a point, then we start to worry. The never-ending judgment of mothers continues unabated to this day.
Another recurring theme is the importance of story-telling and reading. Mom was a devoted reader. In fact, as her daughter, I would get frustrated trying to get her attention when her nose was in a book. Often, I would just give up. On the positive side, my brothers and I grew up to be readers ourselves and continue to enjoy good stories.
Simma mentions the parlor trick of reading each other’s minds. Mom and Simma performed that gag many times to the amusement and bafflement of our family. I didn’t know where they learned how to do it, now I do – Jerry Cohen! Very late in life, Mom finally revealed how it was done, though I doubt I could remember the steps well enough to do it with one of my brothers.
Simma characterizes Mom as a happy homemaker after her marriage and arrival of children. I don’t think of Mom that way. She enjoyed cooking and baking for the purpose of entertaining guests (and to a much lesser extent feeding her family), but that was the end of her homemaking enthusiasm. Keeping a close eye on her young children (!), cleaning, sewing, and ironing were not high on her priority list. I don’t think she was a happy homemaker. I don’t hold that against her, but she probably should have been a bit less laissez faire when it came to overseeing her young children.
There are so many other interesting elements to this essay, starting with Simma’s disclaimer at the beginning. She acknowledges that her perspective may be quite different than Mom’s. I don’t think she is referring to the vagaries of memory. When Mom and Aunt Simma would tell a story from their shared past, which may have involved the same people and same incident, they understood it in totally different ways. Mom seemingly came into this world as a glass half full kind of gal; Aunt Simma not so much. Often, Mom saw people through rose-colored glasses and that certainly applied to how she viewed their parents.
I find it illuminating, too, that Aunt Simma describes Mom as a good girl. Mom, by her own description, was compliant and she wanted to please her parents. Aunt Simma was more rebellious, chafing at the restrictions put on them as children. Mom credited Simma with getting them a later bedtime, even though she was the younger one. Simma was the trailblazer, according to Mom. She also spoke of Simma’s insistence on picking out her own clothes. As a young person Simma was given a budget with which to buy her own outfits – she would rather buy one stylish item, instead of several cheaper things. Mom wore whatever her mother got for her.
That brings me to the first of several common themes between Mom and her sister and my mother-in-law and hers. That dynamic, the good one vs. the rebellious one, seemed to play out in both. Paula described herself as obedient – she did whatever her mother asked her to do as a child. Sophia was less cooperative. Unlike my mom, who was the eldest, Paula was the middle child with an older brother, Bernie, and Sophia about three years younger. Years later, when I met them, Sophia commented that their dad told bedtime stories to Paula, not to her (though they shared the same bed – just like Mom and Aunt Simma). Paula claimed that he was telling the stories to both of them, but that was not Sophia’s perception. Paula recalled feeling loved by both of her parents, despite the traumatic premature death of their father (he was murdered by the Nazis). Sophia did not carry the same warm memories of paternal affection. This mirrors the differences in my mother’s and aunt’s tendency to have disparate perceptions of people (though in Mom and Simma’s case not necessarily different views of their father).
Sophia (left), their mother, Lea, and PaulaSophia (left), David, my father-in-law, and Paula
Another similarity between Mom and Paula was their choice of a spouse when compared with their younger sisters. Mom and Paula were lucky in marriage, enjoying long, supportive, loving relationships. No doubt they had their ups and downs, as all marriages do, but they had husbands who were welcomed into the family and were much loved by their in-laws. Simma and Sophia were not so blessed. I imagine that difference in marital harmony impacted their relationship as sisters, as well.
The biography that Simma wrote for my mom is full of love and warmth. Their later years were more complicated. When I visited in Florida, years after Dad died, Mom told me that she believed Simma didn’t like her anymore. I didn’t know what to say. I tried to find fault with her perception but didn’t convince her. So many things might have gone into that – the loss of their respective husbands, deteriorating health, and perhaps long buried resentments/jealousies. At one point, after Simma died and Mom was feeling guilty that she hadn’t been able to offer her sister much comfort at the end of her life, I read her this essay and other cards from Simma that expressed love and appreciation. Sadly, it didn’t seem to ease Mom’s regret.
Paula and Sophia appeared to experience a similar distancing towards the end of their lives. Again, many things contributed to that, not the least of which was physical distance with Sophia living in Tucson, Arizona while Paula split time between New York and Florida. The progression of Paula’s Alzheimer’s disease created an additional challenge.
Sibling relationships are complicated. Though DNA is shared, personalities can be dramatically different and that was certainly the case with Simma and Mom and Paula and Sophia. Many people are estranged from their siblings, and it is understandable given how fraught family life can be. The potential for deep resentment is great – add mental or physical illness, or other serious problems and the bond can break. That was not the case with my mother or mother-in-law, but the end of life challenged the connection. There is no doubt, though, in both cases, the sisterly relationship was one of the most important in their lives. Whatever their differences, they remained deeply tied to one another.
What is your experience or observation about relationships between sisters?
This photo came up as a memory on Facebook a couple of days ago. It was bittersweet to see it. I remember that day clearly. It was only a year ago. Gary and I were in Florida for our annual pilgrimage to see the Mets during spring training. We took a short drive from our hotel to take a walk by the beach. Gary did his thing – he likes to show he can still climb a tree – and I snapped the photo to document it and sent it to our children, who, in turn, would hopefully show our granddaughters.
At the same time that we were enjoying this ordinary moment of levity, I was struggling with a difficult and painful decision. My mother, whose health had been failing, took a dramatic turn for the worse the night before. We had only just arrived in Florida. Though Mom had not been doing well, I had spoken with my brothers, the hospice nurse and her aide before leaving and we thought she was stable. We were wrong. Thus the question: Should I return and go to New Jersey, or should I stay?
Gary and I contemplated that as we walked along the beach. I had several conversations with my brothers before our walk. Both of them encouraged me to stay in Florida. Mark was heading down to Jersey from Albany with his wife, Pam, so he would be there. Steven and his wife, Cindy, lived 15 minutes away from Mom so he visited regularly. Steven was quite insistent that I stay in Florida; they would handle things. I had been very involved with Mom’s care up to that point, they didn’t want me to cut short our brief vacation. We were scheduled to be away for a total of five days, and we were on our second day when things went south.
After much contemplation, we decided to stay, believing that there wasn’t much I could add. My brothers are capable people. Mom was sleeping most of the time. Despite that, I was still torn. Did I need to see her? I decided I didn’t. I remembered how painful it was to see my father during his last days. Those images stayed with me for years, crowding out memories of him as a healthy person. It was also possible that I would get back in time to see her since our trip was so brief. Though I was deeply conflicted, I didn’t have a strong gut feeling, so we decided to stay in Florida.
I was able to enjoy the sunshine and warm air. I had the welcome distraction of the baseball games and dinners with friends. We visited Gary’s mother. In between, I talked to my brothers and thought about Mom and continued wondering whether I was doing the right thing. My brothers and sisters-in-law were handling some rough stuff – administering morphine, watching Mom to see if she was uncomfortable while she mostly slept. I felt guilty leaving this final stage to them, but I was also relieved.
Gary and I flew back north on Monday. Mom was still hanging in there. Before we left for the airport, I called my sister-in-law Pam’s cell phone, knowing she was sitting with Mom. Pam told me Mom’s eyes were closed, and she seemed comfortable. I asked her to hold the phone next to Mom’s ear. I told Mom I was coming to see her the next day but if she was ready to go, it was okay. I told her I loved her, that she was a great mother and that she earned her rest.
We arrived back in Albany late on Monday. Mom was still breathing. I got up early Tuesday morning and was packing my things to drive down to New Jersey when my phone rang. Mom’s aide, Ama, said she believed Mom had passed. She was waiting for the nurse to come to confirm it. I was surprised and I wasn’t. I thanked Ama for all she had done for Mom. I felt lost – now what should I do? After calling Gary, who was at work already, I wandered around my bedroom deciding if I still wanted to go down to New Jersey. For reasons that aren’t entirely clear to me, even now, I wanted to go. Maybe to see visual proof that Mom was gone, maybe to help Steve and Cindy with the details….
Ama was indeed correct. The next few days are a blur, planning the funeral, sorting through her things.
It was Mom’s time – I knew that. I wondered whether what I said to her on the phone made a difference. I didn’t exactly feel guilty about not being there, though I wondered if I would have offered her some additional comfort. I had been with Mom through most of her medical issues over the last years. I think I offered her comfort then. A year later I am still not sure how I feel. I am not riddled with regret, and I have been spared thinking of Mom as the sick version of herself. When I remember her, I think of her vibrant self. I am grateful for that. I still think of calling her to share good news.
I am also grateful to my brothers for protecting me – I think that is what they were doing by encouraging me to stay in Florida. I believe that they thought I had pulled my weight in caring for Mom, and they stepped up to see her through to the end, painful as it must have been.
Aside from knowing that it was Mom’s time, I know one other thing: there is no “right” answer as to how to handle the end of life. There is only doing the best you can and making decisions with love and compassion. After that, if you are a believer, you give it up to God. If you aren’t, and I am not, you give it up to the great unknown.
Note: Mom passed one year ago today – February 27, 2024. We miss her but take comfort in the long, happy life she had.
Apparently, I set goals for 2024. Who knew? I didn’t remember that I had done that until Facebook brought it to my attention as a memory. It was interesting to review! It probably helps to keep them in mind if one hopes to achieve them! That is probably the first step in successful goal management – review them periodically. Considering that I didn’t, it is interesting to find that some were met.
So, what were those goals? The first one was to read Moby Dick. Nope – didn’t happen. Totally forgot I wanted to do that. I did read 27 books and the only reason I know that is that I track it on Goodreads. Though I didn’t read Moby Dick, I did get a lot from reading Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, a very different classic text. As an aside, I also particularly enjoyed Elizabeth Strout’s Abide with Me (I love her books) and The Personal Librarian. I have to admit, I don’t feel bad that I didn’t achieve that particular goal.
Another item on my list was to write almost every day. I noted that I had only written 29 blog posts in 2023. My unstated goal was to update the blog weekly which would mean 52. Well, I wrote 27 in 2024. (Same number as books I read – coincidence?) I seem to be moving in the opposite direction. In fairness, I also suggested on that list that maybe my goal should be to reassess how frequently I put up a new essay. I didn’t do that either. The truth is I can’t decide if it is good to put pressure on myself to produce pieces, or if I am comfortable taking a more freeform approach and write when I feel like it. I go back and forth – feeling kind of guilty when I don’t post for a while and then thinking that there isn’t any particular standard I need to meet. One concern is that I do want to have a readership, and it is likely to be difficult to build and sustain an audience if there isn’t a continuing conversation. I’m not sure where that leaves me. Not surprisingly, I’m continuing to have an internal dialogue on this with no conclusion. Perhaps 2025 will bring a resolution to this! Knowing me, probably not. Let’s be real.
Next on the list was to send 10 query letters to literary agents – this is how I will get my book published. I sent eight and entered one memoir writing contest. I’ll count that as a win. Unfortunately, I literally got zero responses to those inquiries, but that brings me to the next goal: Accept rejection and move onward. Fair to say I achieved that, too. I continue to work toward getting my book published. It is slow going and frustrating, but I haven’t given up. Ultimately, I can decide to self-publish, so one way or another, I will put it out there. I’m not ready to abandon my hope of having an established publishing house pick it up, there are still a lot of avenues to explore. Let’s hope 2025 brings progress on this.
My sixth goal was to stop wanting more. I included a short poem on that topic within the list (https://stories-i-tell-myself.com/2023/12/31/goals-for-2024/). This may be the thing I’ve been most successful with and oddly enough it has happened organically. It wasn’t something I had to work at consciously– something shifted. I let go of some expectations that were not serving me and that was the result of coming to peace with certain realities. Of course that doesn’t mean I wasn’t ever disappointed, but generally I felt more content. I’m glad I reviewed this list and came upon this realization.
I ended my list with two concrete things: plan a trip and sort through the clutter. I’m batting .500 on those. I planned several trips (and loved them) and am continuing to plan more of them. I enjoy both the planning and execution of travel (not the flying part – there is always such aggravation with airports, delays, crowds, etc.), but I continue to love going to new places and they don’t have to be exotic or far away. We took a long weekend to Ausable Chasm, in the northeast corner of New York State, and had a great time exploring (in fact that led to a blog post).
A view from our trip to Ausable Chasm
Sorry to say I made little to no progress sorting through the clutter. I don’t think I’ve added to it, so that is good. I’ve been conscientious about not creating new piles of paper or adding knick-knacks. Gary, with his increased time off, has been cleaning out the garage – can I get credit for that? I’ll take that as a no.
This review was a good exercise, even if it was unplanned. Maybe this should be my approach: make a list of goals for 2025, forget about them and then be surprised when Facebook reminds me. It worked relatively well in 2024.
Do you make a practice of setting goals or making New Year’s resolutions? What works for you?
Aunt Clair’s ashes were sitting in a cardboard canister in the closet of our Manhattan apartment. The third anniversary of her passing was coming up soon. Her final wishes were to have those ashes spread over her parents’ graves. For many reasons, it had not been possible to make that happen, and as her yahrzeit (Yiddish for anniversary) approached, I was distressed.
When Aunt Clair died, I made the arrangements with the funeral home. She had no spouse or children, only nieces and nephews. I was her health care proxy. I had to identify the body before cremation. It was jarring to see my aunt without her spirit, it almost didn’t look like her, but sadly it was. The representative of the funeral home was kind and explained how things worked. I wrote about her funeral and shared the eulogy on this blog previously (https://stories-i-tell-myself.com/2021/11/08/a-eulogy-for-aunt-clair/.)
The first problem with fulfilling her wishes was that when I inquired at the cemetery, I was told it wasn’t permissible to spread ashes there. We could buy a plot and bury the remains, but there wasn’t a spot near her parents, and it was expensive. After consulting with family members and my own conscience, I decided that we would at least spread some of her ashes there discreetly. I imagine that the cemetery had its reasons, but I doubt it was because it would harm anything. I also didn’t want to take the chance of calling attention to ourselves, so I didn’t want to plan to spread all of the ashes there.
One of the things I learned through this process is that the amount of ash was more than I had imagined, though I had nothing to base my idea on. The canister was heavy, and it was tall.
I thought, given her love of biking and the frequency with which she would cycle from her apartment in Greenwich Village to her sister on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, that spreading the rest of her ashes through Riverside Park would be appropriate. I looked on the city’s website and believe it or not, it is legal to spread ashes in city parks*. It is not permissible to spread them in bodies of water within a park.
So, why were her cremains still sitting in my closet three years later? Life and death happened.
I recall when I picked up the ashes from the funeral home, the representative said, “You know how common it is for people to move into an apartment in New York City and find an urn with remains buried in a closet?”
I looked at him incredulously, “No.”
“You’d be surprised. People don’t know what to do, they put them away out of sight, forget, and they sit there for someone, years later, to discover. I’m just letting you know.”
“That won’t be the case here” I reassured him, and as I walked away, I thought, “That’s crazy. Who would let that happen?”
I have a better understanding now.
I had no prior experience with cremation; it isn’t a common choice among Jews, though apparently more are opting for it according to the guy at the funeral home. Aunt Clair wanted to be cremated, but she also requested that a memorial stone be laid at the foot of her mother’s grave. She had arranged for a footstone at her father’s grave in memory of the family he lost in the Holocaust in Poland, so she thought this was possible.
After the funeral, I brought her remains back to my apartment. After a few months passed and thinking that we would have an unveiling for the footstone on the one-year anniversary (and we would spread her ashes at that time), I began the process of ordering the memorial stone. This proved to be complicated to arrange. It was not a typical request. The cemetery didn’t want it to be confusing as to who rested in the plot. After a lot of back and forth that isn’t worth detailing, we came to an agreement about what the stone could say. It wasn’t exactly what Clair wanted, but it was the best we could do. It took more than two years for the stone to come to fruition.
When the stone was finally available, other things were going on in the family. We were not able to arrange a time for the ‘unveiling’ of the memorial and we didn’t spread the ashes. In the interim Clair’s sister, Aunt Diane, passed away, as did my mother. A whole generation was disappearing. Another year passed.
As Aunt Clair’s third yahrzeit loomed, I decided I didn’t want to wait any longer to fulfill her wishes. I wrote an email to my brothers and cousin and said I would like to visit the cemetery and spread her ashes on Friday, November 15th. Jewish cemeteries are closed on Saturdays (the Sabbath) and my Mom’s unveiling was planned for Sunday, November 17th. It would be a good time to make this happen. My cousin, who lives in Massachusetts, responded that her daughter’s due date was November 20th so she would not be comfortable traveling to NYC so close to that time. Aunt Clair would certainly understand that, as did I. It turned out the timing didn’t work for anyone but me and thankfully Gary. Despite that, I decided to go ahead with the plan
November 15th was a cool, sunny day as we drove the Jackie Robinson Parkway, a narrow, curvy roadway that connects Brooklyn and Queens and passes through a series of huge cemeteries. The trees were not yet entirely bare, the yellow and gold leaves shone in the sun. I had the location of my grandparents’ graves written down and we drove to the appropriate section of the cemetery. I thought I remembered my way to their graves. Gary and I combed the rows and couldn’t find them. I checked and rechecked my notes. Finally, I remembered I had taken a picture the last time I was there and maybe that would help. I searched my phone, those smartphones can be quite helpful and in the photograph I found a couple of landmarks that helped – a majestic tree and two large grave markers in front of my grandparents’ more modest ones with the name Feingold on them. We found the spot and now understood why we hadn’t seen them before – they were entirely blanketed in ivy.
Gary and I peeled away the ivy and exposed all the markers. Aunt Clair’s stone was there, as expected. I looked around and seeing nobody around, I took the baggie with a portion of Aunt Clair’s ashes out of my pocket and spread them over the graves. “May you rest in peace, Auntie.” I said. Gary and I paused and stood quietly for a bit. Then we got back in the car and headed back to Manhattan. Part one of my mission had been accomplished.
Gary clearing ivyAunt Clair’s memorial stone
The sun was still shining brilliantly as we made our way to Riverside Park. It was also quite breezy. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this. I carried the canister in a canvas bag. As we walked, a plan revealed itself to me. We passed a garden, now gone to seed until the spring, and I thought this was a perfect spot to provide what perhaps could be fertilizer. I looked around and nobody was paying attention – I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I also worried it might be disturbing to onlookers. I spread a good deal of the ashes throughout the garden, and nobody seemed to notice. There was still a lot of ash left.
We continued walking through the park and came upon a memorial to the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. The shrubs surrounding it presented itself as another opportune spot. Though Aunt Clair was not a religious Jew by any means, she was fiercely proud of being Jewish. This would be a meaningful location, as well. Gary reminded me to stand upwind as I poured the ashes over the bushes. I had not been as mindful of that the first time.
The canister was still not empty, and I knew of one more spot that I wanted to visit. Aunt Clair was an admirer of Eleanor Roosevelt and there is a statue of her at 72nd Street just inside the park. We continued our walk south to find it. I was pleased to see that there were plantings around the memorial. I spread the remaining ashes there.
Walking south in Riverside ParkStatue of Eleanor Roosevelt
Throughout our walk, aside from talking about mundane things, Gary and I shared memories of Aunt Clair. I felt good about what we were doing. I was grateful to have Gary to share it with. He knew her well and shared his own unique relationship with her. We had come darn close to fulfilling her wishes and I think we honored her spirit. Part two of our mission was now accomplished. I was glad she was no longer sitting in my closet.
We took a different route through the park back to our apartment, walking along the Hudson River. I felt peaceful. The sun lowered and its rays glistened on the water. The day was fading, and I was satisfied.
Stories I Tell Myself 