Category: memoir blog

An Appreciation

I am sometimes critical of Albany, New York. I have lived here for 37 years but in some ways, it has never felt like home. Maybe there is something about not being born in a place, not having spent your childhood there making memories, not associating your family of birth with it, that means you never quite feel connected. Of course, the place where I grew up, Canarsie of the 1960s and ‘70s, doesn’t exist anymore. The people I knew, the stores, even the landscape has changed. That may be why they say you can never go home again. What is home after all? That may be a topic for another blog post.

Anyway, my point is that for all that I might joke about ‘smAll-bany,’ there are a number of wonderful things about it. Saturday was one of those days that reminded me what is charming. Mother’s Day weekend is when the Tulip Festival is held each year. It is a chance for Washington Park to show off – the city gardner(s) do a wonderful job of planning a vibrant display of tulips of every variety and color. Below is just a sample:

There are also booths of crafts and food. There is music. All of it is free – well not the items sold at the booths obviously, but there is no entrance fee. The festival lasts two days. This year I noticed that one of the bands performing was Guster. We, as a family, enjoyed Guster back when the kids were teenagers. They play melodic tunes with fun beats and lovely harmonies, and we listened to them frequently when we were on one of our many long car rides. We saw them as a family at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center back in the early 2000s. I told Gary they were playing as part of Tulip Festival, and we agreed we’d try to go. They were going on at 4:30 on the mainstage at the park on Saturday according to the schedule printed in the newspaper.

Saturday afternoon Gary was weeding the garden, I was immersed in a book. At 3:45 Gary came in to get changed. We got in the car at 4:00 to head toward the park thinking we might not make it to the performance, but we had nothing to lose. It usually takes 10-12 minutes to get to the park. We hit traffic and had trouble finding a spot, but we found one on the street. It was a bit of a walk to the site. With all of that we arrived on the lawn at 4:35, just as the emcee said, “Please welcome to the stage…Guster!” There was a large crowd, but there was space – especially where we happened to come in – off to the side.

Ryan Miller of Guster saying hello to Albany

Where else can you do that? Leave your house a half hour before a performance at a large public festival and get there on time. In what city or small city is that possible? As we took our spot amid the crowd, Gary and I smiled at each other. “Isn’t Albany great?” I asked. Gary nodded emphatically.

The sun was shining brilliantly, the air was warm and there was a refreshing breeze. It looked like confetti was falling from the sky in celebration – it was some kind of small leafy substance coming from the trees. Though the ground rules said no marijuana, concert-goers paid no heed. Smoke wafted through the air and the police who were on duty on the periphery seemed unperturbed. Everyone appeared to be in a good mood – especially the guy in an orange t-shirt dancing dreamily with a broad smile on his face. Guster was great – they were in fine voice. The music brought back terrific, happy memories. The crowd enjoyed it. They played for just under 90 minutes. When it was over, we walked back to our car and drove home.

Earlier in the day we met my niece and her family at a local farmer’s market for breakfast. There too things were easy. We parked. We got a table. There were plenty of people, especially young ones, but it wasn’t packed. There were few if any lines at the booths. A group of musicians were playing what I might call American roots music – I’m not sure if that’s the right label, but it was all delightful. In the New York metropolitan area, attending a farmer’s market like this would never be that stress-free.

I imagine for folks who grew up in more rural areas my day might have felt different. They might not have been willing to venture out to the festival in the first place! Perhaps looking for street parking in the city of Albany and seeing the crowds of people in the park might have created anxiety. To be fair, the street we parked on has seen better days – the surrounding buildings were rundown.  Gary and I were okay with it. It is all a matter of perspective, I suppose.

Anyone who knows me knows that I still love New York City. I look forward to spending more time there. It’s good, though, to stop and smell the roses (or tulips) where I am. There is a lot to like about living and raising a family in the Capital District.

It Got Me….Finally

Hooray! I moved back into my bedroom this morning. My period of isolation is over! Ten days is a long time – at least in some contexts. After three years of avoiding it, Covid caught up with me.

I went to Boston to give my daughter a hand as she was dealing with a sick husband and child. We thought, based on the diagnosis at the hospital, that her daughter had croup, and that Ben was just under the weather. I figured I would mask while I was there, hoping to avoid getting whatever bug they had. What’s that saying? Something like, ‘woman plans, god laughs.’

I arrived at their apartment, said hello, and picked up a prescription that needed to be filled for the baby, and their insurance card. I went to a pharmacy and then got sandwiches for lunch. When I returned, I helped fold laundry. I removed my mask to eat lunch but sat distant from Leah. We opened a window to increase the airflow. Leah was relieved to have me there. So far so good.

About two hours into my visit, Leah’s phone rang. It was the Somerville Health Department telling her that someone in the household had tested positive for Covid. The baby had been to the hospital the night before. As part of the examination of the baby, they swabbed her for Covid. Given that she was diagnosed with croup, Leah and Ben hadn’t given it a thought. The news came as a shock.

Leah and Ben did a home test and, lo and behold, they were both positive. They called the pediatrician to share the information and find out if it changed anything in terms of the care of the baby. Turned out, it didn’t, which was a relief in some ways. We discussed what I should do.

I decided I would stay at a hotel for that night – I certainly wasn’t going to stay at the apartment. I told them I would bring them dinner and other supplies that evening. I left. Ben, who was feeling pretty miserable at this point (totally exhausted), was going to call his doctor to see if they recommended treatment.

I double masked everywhere I went. I decided I would go home the next morning. If I got sick, I didn’t want to be in a hotel in Boston and I didn’t want to feel too poorly to drive the three hours home. I stayed at the hotel that night after picking up Paxlovid for Ben and dinner for them. I felt fine.

I brought them breakfast in the morning. I was double-masked. Said my good-byes. I felt terrible leaving them, everyone sick. At this point, Leah was having symptoms, too. Great – a cranky baby and two parents who felt like shit. Plus the anxiety of not really knowing how serious Covid would be for the baby. But, what choice did I have?

I still felt fine as I drove home. I tested when I got home – negative. Maybe I would escape. I tested the next morning – still negative. But, now I’m starting to feel poorly. Headache, sore throat, tired.

Covid is a strange virus. It behaves differently in everybody. Plus, you can test negative and still have it. You can test positive and have no symptoms. You can continue to test positive long past the infectious stage. It so hard to know what to do. You hear horror stories about people having long-haul covid.

I went for a PCR test that morning (Saturday) and got a positive result within 24 hours. During the height of the pandemic, it could take 3 days or longer to get a result (which made the test almost useless) – so at least that is better. By the time I got the result, it was clear I was sick. My body hurt all over. I felt exhausted. I started coughing. I called my doctor. They recommended Paxlovid. I have several risk factors for serious illness, so though I am always a bit anxious about taking a new medication because it isn’t uncommon for me to have strange reactions to things (rash, anyone?), I decided it was worth it.

Meanwhile, it is now Sunday, the day I am supposed to read for the Brooklyn Nonfiction Prize. I didn’t want to miss it. I had a strategy. Though I was coughing, it wasn’t that bad (yet). I decided I would take cough medicine in advance. I had throat lozenges at the ready. I took Tylenol, too. I napped for an hour beforehand. The adrenaline kicked in. I was next to the last to read – of 15 people! I did not win. Nothing to be ashamed of – the other essays were good. I was still disappointed. I have to admit, I kind of crashed afterward. I was exhausted. It didn’t help that I was facing 7 more days of isolation.

I moved into Daniel’s old bedroom for the duration. I used what had been the kids’ bathroom. We are lucky to have so much room. Gary is serious about this isolation and masking stuff. He has masked at work from the beginning of pandemic and continues to do so now (he just recently stopped using goggles). We ate separately. We would watch t.v. in the same room, but distant and masked and, as long as it wasn’t too cold, we had a window open. It appears that he has not gotten it. When he had it last Fall, he still blames Las Vegas (we will likely never go back there!), I didn’t get it from him after we followed much the same isolation protocol.

I’m glad I took the Paxlovid. I did have a very unpleasant taste in my mouth for the five days I took it, and my digestive system did not enjoy it, but I recovered pretty quickly. The fever, severe headache and body aches were gone within 24 hours. The fatigue lasted a bit longer and the cough lingered. As of today, ten days into this, the cough is almost entirely gone. That is always the last symptom to go when I have a respiratory illness.

Though I was clearly recovering, I woke up each morning feeling sad. Another day isolated. I felt okay, but not so good that I had the energy to be productive. In theory, there are always things to do in the house – junk drawers to sort, stuff to organize. I didn’t feel up to it. Instead, I binge watched Top Chef. Thank god for that!

Fortunately, the baby, Leah and Ben have recovered well, too. I could hear them cheering all the way from Somerville when the baby could go back to daycare. Ten days cooped up in a relatively small apartment with an 11-month old who is healthy enough to be active, but fussier than usual, with no reinforcements, and little sleep, is an ordeal. They rose to the occasion, as they always do.

One piece of good news: we should all be immune for the next few months! Gary and I have a trip planned at the end of May. I should be able to travel without worrying about Covid. Leah and her family should be able to go out and about the rest of this Spring and early Summer without thinking about Covid, too. And we appear to have weathered the illness without lasting effect. It is always a matter of perspective – and finding the stuff for which to be grateful. It doesn’t come naturally to me to do that, but eventually I figure it out.

The view out my kitchen window. I looked at that a lot over the last ten days. I’m lucky to have such a lovely view

Side-by-Side on the LL

NOTE: I submitted this piece to the Brooklyn Nonfiction Prize and it was selected as a finalist. Yesterday was the reading and though I did not win, I am proud to have participated. It always feels a bit risky to put yourself out there, but if you don’t you can’t grow. My family has been very supportive and encouraging and I thank them for that!

  Rockaway Parkway was my subway station, where I got on the LL (today the L)  to go to The City. In Brooklyn we referred to Manhattan as The City. End to end the LL traveled from Canarsie as a mostly elevated line through Brooklyn and ended up at 8th Avenue and 14th Street, the upper reaches of Greenwich Village. I rode that line countless times growing up in the late 1960s and 70s.

            After the train left Canarsie it headed into East New York, followed by Brownsville, went underground in Bushwick, continued on to Greenpoint and Williamsburg. It traveled under the East River and emerged in Manhattan. In the 1970s it amounted to a grand tour of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Brooklyn.

            The LL sat at the open-air Rockaway Parkway station waiting for passengers, the trains arriving and leaving the station according to some mysterious, unpredictable schedule. The cars were covered inside and out with graffiti. It looked and felt like chaos.

            Aside from the physical appearance, the trains were unreliable. Countless times it would lurch into a station along the route, followed by a garbled announcement that it was going out of service. I heard the collective groan of my fellow travelers. Everyone would exit and crowd onto the platform to wait for the next one. Standing in the bitter cold or sweltering heat -it never seemed to be a moderate temperature – I tried to place myself strategically so that the doors would open in front of me. This was not a time to be timid. When the doors opened, I readied my elbows, and walked with purpose to claim my spot. This is how a New Yorker is made.

            I rode that subway line acutely aware of the danger. In the ‘70s, when it was on the brink of bankruptcy, New York City was the murder capital of the world. Muggings were common. On the subways, chain snatching, where a person would grab hold of a necklace and yank it off, fleeing as the doors slid shut, became a fad. We put our jewelry in our purses and held them close to our chests; when we arrived at our destination, we put our rings and necklaces back on.

            Since the LL traveled above ground, I could see pigeons perched on the fire escapes of the tired tenements that abutted the tracks. I watched the subway doors open and looked at the people who got on the train from those stations, almost all were brown and black, joining the white folks who had boarded in Canarsie. My neighborhood was 80% white, in fact the block where I lived was 100% white. I wondered about the lives of those who got on the train at New Lots Avenue, how was it for them to live in a neighborhood with such a bad reputation. Here we were, side-by-side, but living in different worlds. 

            I was 12 years old the first time my friend Deborah and I took the LL, just the two of us, into Greenwich Village. We emerged from the station to see a protest – people carrying signs, chanting, marching in a circle. We didn’t know what they were protesting but we thought it was the coolest thing in the world. It scared us at the same time. We looked around and quickly headed away from the hubbub, looking for bookstores, of which there were many.

            When I was 16, I got on the LL by myself to go to downtown Brooklyn to apply for my learner’s permit. There was only one Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) office to service all of Brooklyn and the DMV was spectacularly inefficient so you had to plan to spend hours there. After I got on the train, I realized I had forgotten my birth certificate. I was too afraid to get off at any of the stops until Broadway Junction.  I wouldn’t turn around at 105th St., New Lots, Livonia, Sutter or Atlantic Avenues – five extra stops. Each time the doors opened, I looked at the platform and thought, “Should I risk it?” Each time I decided I wouldn’t. Even though it added so much time to my trip, I wouldn’t take the chance.

            In my travels from Canarsie, I frequently changed trains at Broadway Junction where the A and C lines met the LL. I descended the stairs from the elevated platform, took a deep breath and held it as I walked as quickly as possible through the underground passageway, which was damp and reeked of urine. I gulped the fresh(er) air when I got to the other side.

            One late afternoon I was riding the LL when there was an announcement over the PA. Those announcements were usually so static-y as to be indecipherable, but this one came through quite clearly. “Move away from the windows! There are reports of gunfire. Move away from the windows!” There weren’t very many of us on the train at the time. Most of the people looked incredulous, a few moved tothe windows to see. Some ignored the message entirely. I shifted down on the bench so the wall of the subway car was behind my head. Fortunately, nothing happened.

            Riding the L today reveals almost a whole new Brooklyn. Several neighborhoods have gentrified, especially Williamsburg and Greenpoint. Parts of Bushwick have become desirable real estate, as well. Brownsville and East New York are still impoverished. Compared to the 1970s, the crime rate has fallen all over Brooklyn, but the problems in those communities persist.  The neighborhood of my youth, Canarsie, has also changed. Though it is still middle and working class, the racial composition has flipped. Today it is 90% black.

            The more things change, though, the more they remain the same. People living side-by-side, riding the L, the haves and the have-nots, perhaps still leading segregated lives.

An ‘Aha’ Moment

I’m not sure what happened exactly, but something has crystalized for me. I have been writing this blog, participating in writing groups, taking classes online and in person and spending countless hours thinking over the past 7 ½ years, but it is only in the last month that it has become clear to me that I do have a book I want to write. Actually, there are three of them (I think)! But I have chosen one theme to pursue because it feels ready. That is why my blog writing has been sporadic. I have been channeling my writing energy into the book.

Maybe it isn’t exactly accurate to call it an ‘aha moment’ because it wasn’t a single moment really – more of an accumulation of moments. It is a funny thing because I have toyed with this idea – exploring how the Holocaust has influenced Gary and myself and the family we have created – for years. I felt like there was something there, but I couldn’t get at it. I couldn’t figure out the arc of it. I was writing all around it. Finally, I see it. At least I hope I do! I hope I can sustain the vision to see me through to the end of this project.

It has been a lot of work. I would have thought, with all the blog posts I have (over 300 of them!), that it wouldn’t be that difficult to piece it together. But there is a lot missing – big chunks are needed to knit the story together. The process of filling it in has brought a lot more memories and a lot more questions.

I’ve also wondered if I should share these new pieces on the blog. There is a part of me that wants to keep it for the book. There is also the practical matter of sharing some of these stories with the people involved before I make it public. With the blog, my policy has been if another person is being written about in any significant way – other than a tribute to them – I email them the piece to get their feedback. Fortunately, everyone has been supportive – there have been essays that have benefited from another perspective and only one that I killed all together. I am not interested in writing anything that is hurtful – certainly not deliberately – and if there is some pain in the story, it has to serve a purpose and permission of any of the involved parties. Gary and Mom are the two that this has really applied to, and they have been unbelievably supportive, encouraging me to write my truth.

I have no idea whether I will be able to find a publisher for this book, or whether I will publish it myself, or whether, once I finish it, I will feel satisfied to share it with friends and family and leave it at that. We’ll see. I don’t want to get ahead of myself. There is a lot involved in that process that can be overwhelming, so right now I want to focus on the story.

One of the things that may have contributed to clarifying my purpose was visiting YIVO, the Institute for Jewish Research. I took some of the documents and photographs that had been stored in my in-laws’ house, some from their war years – to YIVO to see if they were appropriate to be archived there. I met with an archivist and he was quite receptive. He also offered insight into some of the items that brought more of it to life. Some of that may or may not find its way into the narrative I am writing, but the importance of documenting their story, but not just their story, became more evident to me. Yes, their story must be preserved and to a large extent it has been by Laura Bakst, Gary and my niece, who wrote and successfully published The Shoemaker’s Son (available on Amazon, among other places), which details Paula and David’s journey. My focus isn’t to document their story, though I will recount it in less specificity, but on what it has meant to Gary and myself in terms of our Jewish identity and what we tried to pass on to our children and their children. My family of origin was also deeply impacted by the Holocaust in a wholly different way, and I want to share that as well.

Over these years that I have been writing I struggled with the merit of our story – not Paula and David’s, there is no question that it must be preserved (and has been in several ways). After all, there is nothing extraordinary about me or my family (of course I think my children and grandchildren are extraordinary!). But, going to YIVO made me reevaluate the idea that it isn’t worthwhile.

We live in a world where antisemitism continues to thrive. We live in a world where people are traumatized – by violence, by hate, by war. Ordinary people must cope with those realities, and they pass it on to their children, sometimes in the form of fear, but also resilience, as well as a myriad of other impacts. As an ordinary Jew, the Holocaust, even though it happened before I was born and long before my children were born, has shaped us in important ways, including my relationship with faith. I am exploring that in my book. I just hope I can fulfill my vision for it.

In the meanwhile, I will try to keep up with the blog. I want to keep the conversation going and keep my connection with those of you who have been reading over these years. If you have suggestions, if you want to comment on whether I should share chapters of the book as I go, I welcome your thoughts.

Queen of All She Surveyed

It was a painful week. We made the agonizing, distressing, heartbreaking decision to euthanize Raffa, our cat. It was the right decision; she was suffering, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t question whether it was the right thing to do, whether it was time to do it, whether there was any hope she could recover. It wasn’t entirely clear what was wrong, despite visits with the vet and testing.

Aside from the difficulty of making that decision, I knew I would just miss her.

Raffa, a black cat, came to me as a Chanukah present from my children 14 years ago. She was a rescue, six months old at the time. She came with her crate-mate, a male gray tabby. We named them Raffa and Roger, after the great tennis players Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer. The two kitties were as different as the two tennis players. For those of you who don’t follow tennis, Federer is all grace and precision on the court, while Nadal is brute force and sweat. The kitties’ characteristics didn’t correspond to their namesakes, but they had very different personalities from the time they arrived. Roger is shy and skittish, and not very graceful. He is protective, especially of me. When I go to bed at night, he stands guard. Raffa was friendly with all visitors, leapt up on every surface, climbed in every box and explored every scent. Roger has his charms and I love him dearly, but he is the quintessential cat. Raffa was more like a puppy.

When I ate breakfast at the kitchen island, Raffa jumped up with ease and sat watching me eat. I know some people might be horrified that I allowed a cat to sit on a kitchen counter, but there was no training her otherwise. I took to putting a large cup of water on the counter – she liked drinking from a cup – to dissuade her from sticking her nose in my drink or food. Mostly I kept nudging her away so I could eat in peace. After a bit she would settle and just watch me, keeping me company. Over the last couple of weeks, she still wanted to join me but found it increasingly difficult to leap up, she would use a stool as a steppingstone, until she couldn’t do it without help. She was getting weaker and weaker, sleeping more and more.

Raffa had a magnificent black coat, long haired and soft. One of the clues that she was deteriorating was that I would find clumps of fur where she had been sitting. Her coat and her body were thinning. Gary liked to say that Raffa was a beautiful cat, and she knew it. She did kind of preen as she strutted around the house. She was queen of all she surveyed. But she was playful and sweet at the same time. She wasn’t aloof. I never heard her hiss at anyone. She just knew this house was her domain and she was comfortable in it.

Since I retired, over 7 years ago, I spend a lot of time at home – reading, writing, doing chores. Raffa often followed me from room to room. If I sat in the recliner to read, she climbed on and sat behind my head, positioning herself so she could look out the window. I could hear her purring. If I sat at the kitchen counter doing a crossword puzzle, she sat next to me, and I’d hear her little motor going. In the last week she stopped purring. I did get one final purr when I was scratching her neck and saying my goodbyes – a bittersweet moment to be sure. Gary had to remind me that her purring was a good thing, a good sendoff.

The few days that have passed since she has been gone have felt very strange. The house feels emptier. Sometimes I glimpse something out of the corner of my eye, and I think for a moment that it is Raffa, but I catch myself.

I know for some people their pets are as beloved as children. I didn’t put myself in that category, and I still don’t. But the loss is profound. I am grateful that I had such a loyal companion for 14 years. She was a happy kitty and I’m glad she isn’t suffering. She had such a light, good nature, it wasn’t right for her to be robbed of that.

As Gary said when we were saying goodbye to her, rest in peace, my little friend.

Using our Voice

As is often the case for me, I was sorting through papers (oh, the endless supply of paper!) and found something I wrote early in 1994.  To give some context, Leah was in first grade, Dan was in pre-k (daycare at the Albany Jewish Community Center) and I was working full-time for the state Department of Taxation and Finance.

January 24, 1994

Leah ready for t-ball in 1994

Leah came home from school saying she felt sad. After talking about it for a bit, Leah explains that she feels left out – her teacher isn’t paying that much attention. She gives a concrete example of an oversight by the teacher. She ends by asking, “Would it be okay if I told Mrs. Brennan that I feel left out?”

Sometimes Leah asks really hard questions. On the one hand, I am pleased that she is willing to consider the possibility of speaking to the teacher herself. I couldn’t imagine having the confidence to do that – fearing rejection or humiliation. On the other hand, I am concerned that Leah not come across as whiny and demanding. It is also a reality that children who are capable will not get the close attention that those who fall behind get.

The other issue is that Mrs. Brennan has been teaching the class for only one week – since the original teacher went on maternity leave. I urge Leah to give her a chance to get settled.

Leah doesn’t heed my advice. Good for her. She spoke to Mrs. Brennan the very next day in fact, telling her she felt sad and left out. She tells me she feels much better and has no complaints for the remainder of the time Mrs. Brennan handles the class.

I later learn from Mrs. Brennan that she had been overcompensating with Leah – consciously not attending to her out of concern that she would be showing favoritism. She said her heart sunk when Leah approached her.

So, Leah’s instincts were right. She spoke for herself and resolved the problem. What a great lesson! I hope she always has that ability to speak up for herself – to get her needs met. What a terrific skill – but there are certainly going to be challenges ahead. How will she fare in adolescence when attitudes towards girls change? She will need to be strong to retain the identity she seems to be carving out for herself now. I hope she has the strength. I will try to support her. So much pressure to conform, though, to not be difficult…She is a treasure – a hope for the future. Keep your fingers crossed.

—————————————————————

I read what I wrote and I have to smile, remembering how precocious Leah was. (When is it you stop being precocious, anyway? Safe to say she wouldn’t be described that way now, almost 30 years later). But, she was always attuned to her feelings and could put words to them, even as a two-year old!

I would take issue with at least one of my observations. I’m not sure that children who fall behind get more attention. As I watched my kids go through school, I think it is more accurate to say that children at either ends of the spectrum, those that are most capable and those that are truly behind get more attention, and the ones in the middle most often get overlooked. But, maybe you can’t make generalizations about any of that.

My fear that things would change as Leah got to adolescence were well founded. Things did change. Perhaps as much because Leah, like most girls, became much more focused on her peer group when she got to middle school. The approval and acceptance of friends became more important than the judgment of teachers. She still wanted to do well in school, but negotiating her social interactions absorbed most of her attention. Those relationships were much more fraught and complicated than her communication with Mrs. Brennan. Her self-confidence definitely took a hit in those middle school years. If only things could have remained so straight-forward!

Things may have gotten more complicated, but like her mother, Leah retains her voice. Like me, in settings where opinions are solicited or being shared, she is not shy. Her father and husband, among others, can attest to her strong-mindedness.

I do think some progress has been made for girls, especially compared to my mom’s and my generation. I believe girls have taken incremental steps toward expecting to be heard and respected in different settings – school and the workplace particularly. We haven’t arrived at equality, obviously, and there is work to be done in improving the lot of both men and women, but I believe things are better for my daughter and granddaughters. I hope they will continue to take steps forward.

Baseball and Life Lessons

Baseball is a thread through my family history. Zada, my maternal grandfather, was a fan and as a result my mom grew up going to games, most often at the Polo Grounds. Zada took the opportunity to impart life lessons to his young daughter. One time a player on the New York Giants pitched poorly and as he was coming off the field my mother yelled, “You’re a bum!” Zada was appalled. He told her, “You never kick a man when he’s down.” When they got home, he insisted she write a letter of apology. She did. Another time they went to a game and some ominous clouds threatened. Mom asked, “Daddy, do you think we should leave? Look at the clouds.” Zada pointed to the other part of the sky, the part that was blue and told her to focus on that. Mom took that advice to heart, always preferring to look at the bright side of things.

Baseball also played a part in my parents’ relationship, nearly sinking it. When they met in 1950 at Brooklyn College, Dad helped Mom through their required freshman physics class while they rooted for rival teams. Dad was a die-hard Dodger fan, Mom rooted for the New York Giants. They enjoyed discussing their respective teams, and Dad was tickled by Mom’s knowledge and interest. Their burgeoning romance was tested in 1951, when Bobby Thompson of the Giants hit the shot heard round the world that sunk the Dodgers playoff hopes. Mom was overjoyed, tossing her books in the air as she heard Russ Hodges jubilant call, “The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!” Dad was crushed. Mom and Dad didn’t speak for a while. Thankfully for me and my brothers, they got past that.

Six years later both the Giants and Dodgers left for the west coast. With that move, my father lost his love of baseball. He hated Walter O’Malley, the owner of the Dodgers; he felt O’Malley betrayed the loyal Brooklyn fans. Dad now saw the sport as a business. He still followed the game but not with a genuine rooting interest. Mom didn’t hold the same animus toward the Giants. The general consensus was that the New York Giants were legitimately losing money and needed to relocate. The Dodgers were not in the same predicament.

Despite those shifts, baseball remained part of our family life, largely thanks to Zada, and his sons, my uncles, Michael and Terry.

Those who have been following this blog know that I grew up in a two-family house in Brooklyn. Me, my parents and my brothers occupied the first floor unit, while my maternal grandparents and my two teenage uncles lived upstairs. In 1962 when the Mets came into being, Uncle Mike adopted them as his team. Uncle Mike was always a fan of the underdog. Like many Met fans, he hated the Yankees.

As a child, and I do mean child, I loved the Yankees, particularly Mickey Mantle. By the time I was four years old I was enamored of the Mick – I think maybe the rhythm of his name first caught my ear. Whatever it was, I was hooked. The Yankees of my childhood were losers, though I was aware of their winning tradition. Mantle was at the end of his career by the time I was old enough to meaningfully follow the games. The Mets were the team in ascendence, much to my distress. I hated Tom Seaver, in particular. Not surprisingly, my brother, Mark, my nemesis, the thorn in my side, loved Seaver and the Mets.

So, as I recall, the rooting interests in the house lined up as follows:

Me – staunch Yankee fan; I didn’t hate the Mets, other than Seaver.

Mark – rooted for both the Mets and Yankees, but more of a Met fan.

Steven – I couldn’t tell which team he preferred; he went to Met games with my uncles, I don’t recall him joining me in my Yankee obsession.

Uncle Terry – Met fan, didn’t hate the Yankees

Uncle Mike – staunch Met fan, don’t even mention the Yankees!

Zada – rooted for both

Mom and Dad – indifferent, but wanted New York teams to win

Looking back, I think in deference to Uncle Mike, it is possible that my brothers and Uncle Terry were more vocal in their support for the Mets in the 1960s and 1970s. As the years went by, and we no longer lived in the same house, other allegiances emerged. Today Steven and Terry are avowed Yankee fans. Mark continues to root for both teams.

Today I am a Met fan. I made the switch in the interest of marital harmony. When I first met Gary, I continued to follow the Yankees. Over the years, though, for reasons I’m not sure I fully understand, though Gary has said something about obnoxious Yankee fans (not me), my husband developed an antipathy for the Bronx Bombers. The truth is my passion for sports in general has waned over the years. I enjoy watching most games – I draw the line at Australian rules football – but I am not emotionally invested in the outcome. I used to be a die-hard Knick fan, but I just can’t summon the energy anymore. It just isn’t that important in the scheme of things. So slowly but surely, my interest in the Yankees fell away. It made it easier for Gary to immerse our children in the history and culture of the Mets if I simply joined forces. Gary says being a Met fan is also a good life lesson – you learn to deal with disappointment. Like the Dodgers before them, we live with the hope that there is always next year.

So, the lessons baseball has to teach continue on to the next generation. We will see if they get passed on to our grandchildren.

A Gift

Today, December 20th, 2022, my Dad, Barry Brody, would be 90 years old. Sadly, he only got to celebrate his 72nd birthday, and he was not well when that milestone arrived. We did not understand at the time that he had an aggressive form of chronic lymphocytic leukemia (CLL). We thought CLL was an indolent blood cancer that would take years to become a problem and that he would likely die of something else. Now we know there are different forms of the disease. Dad died four years after his diagnosis.

I mention this only because his deterioration was a surprise and a mystery, and for years clouded my memories of him. I wondered if there was more I could have done. Today I am not thinking about that – I am thinking instead of the legacy he left and the gift he gave me.

Dad was strong – in every sense. He was broad shouldered and powerfully built. In my mother’s eyes he wasn’t tall, he was 5’11”, but I thought he was. As much as his physical presence, though, was his strength of character.

I pulled out a box I have of memorabilia – letters, notes and mementos from celebrations. Included among the papers were copies of remarks made at Dad’s funeral by various speakers. One of his friends noted that Dad wasn’t capable of being dishonest. He couldn’t mislead you or play games. Actually, he liked games – real ones – particularly cards and tennis (and he was very competitive even when playing Spit with his granddaughter). But he didn’t play mind games, he didn’t play with your emotions. He said what he thought and behaved in a manner consistent with his words.

My brothers and I were lucky to have him as a role model. He gave us a great work ethic and showed us what it meant to be a partner in life. My brothers and I have reaped the benefits in stable family lives and successful careers. I’ll be celebrating my 40th wedding anniversary next summer, while my brothers have already surpassed that milestone.

Dad had his challenges. As his oldest friend said in his eulogy, he and Dad bonded in fighting off bullies in junior high school. Dad was Jewish in an Italian neighborhood where antisemitism was ubiquitous.  Dad was also overweight. The combination made him a target. Interestingly, the friend who reflected on the bullying episode was Italian. Their bond was strong, lasting a lifetime.

Dad found his way through that, but he carried baggage, like we all do from the hurts and insecurities of childhood. As a consequence, he was sensitive to my struggles. Among the letters I found were several written to me while I was in college.

My first two years at SUNY-Binghamton were very difficult. Though I made some good friends, I often felt lonely and lost. It wasn’t that uncommon for me to call home crying. Dad’s letters were encouraging – reminding me of my worth, his belief in me and that he and my mom were there for me.

Dad frequently said or wrote me the thing I most needed to hear. At my sweet sixteen, I had a sign in book. He wrote, “ Dear Linda, I am sure that you will “cultivate” a most rewarding life. Your sensitivity and sense of justice are your blessing and cross to bear. I hope that you enjoy the years to come as much as I have enjoyed your first sixteen years. Love, Dad”

He recognized my essential qualities and the struggles they created. It is kind of a thing these days to say “I feel seen.” My Dad saw me and he let me know he approved in word and deed. There is no better gift a father can give his daughter.

One of my favorite pictures of me and my dad

Reverberations Through Time

Note: I have been absent for a month! There are many reasons for that – I will write about it at another time. I am glad to be back! I look forward to continuing our conversation about stories we tell ourselves.

December 15, 2022 would be my father-in-law’s 100th birthday. David Bakst made it to his 98th and for that I am grateful. He passed away a week after achieving that milestone.

As I reflect on his life so many thoughts come to mind. In David’s last years, I would often accompany Gary on his Thursday afternoon visits. Gary doesn’t see patients on Thursday afternoons, so it was a good opportunity to spend time with his Dad. They, including his mom despite her advanced dementia, would go out to lunch to a diner near their apartment in Saugerties. I know Gary treasures that time and the memories they provide.

Many of those lunchtime conversations revolved around David’s memories. We would ask him about his youth and World War II experiences. We heard the same stories multiple times, new details might be offered, but even if not, we never tired of hearing them. One particular comment stayed with me, though I am not sure why. As David described his family life before the war, he said that after Shabbos services, the adults (his parents’ family and friends) would gather at his home and talk (argue) politics. David listened in, beginning a long interest in politics that remained for the rest of his days. He told us that his father was a supporter of Jabotinsky, who he described as more of a right winger. The name vaguely rang a bell, but I didn’t know anything about him or the context. I was curious. I tried to imagine what their political conversations might have been about in the late 1920s and early 1930s in David’s shtetl (village) in Poland (now Belarus).

After that conversation, I googled Jabotinsky and learned a bit but didn’t get very far and I set the subject aside, though it still intrigued me. Oddly enough the other day I came across a podcast entitled Jabotinsky and the Birth of the Israeli Right. I thought this might shed light on the topic, plus I am interested in better understanding the politics of Israel and this sounded like it could offer that.

I am very glad I listened. It accomplished exactly what I had hoped. It reaffirmed my belief that learning about our past illuminates our present; the issues that plagued us more than a century ago still percolate in the lives we live today.

The topic the Bakst family was likely discussing during their Shabbos afternoon visits was Zionism. It is appropriate that I write about this now given the intersection between anti-Zionism and antisemitism, and the appalling rise in antisemitic rhetoric and violence.

So, what is Zionism? It is the movement to create and support a Jewish homeland. Its roots go back centuries as part of Judaism, with the idea that since the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem and the diaspora, Jews prayed to return to the Holy Land. This was largely a religious tenet until the late 19th Century. It evolved into a political movement, in part in response to virulent antisemitism in Central and Eastern Europe when Jews were largely confined to living in an area called the Pale of Settlement (part of Russia and Poland). In the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, as pogroms (violent riots perpetrated against Jews in the Pale of Settlement) became more common and feared, some Jewish thought leaders concluded that the only solution to antisemitism was a Jewish homeland. They believed that there was no future for Jews in Central and Eastern Europe and that ultimately, they needed their own country in their ancestral homeland. The father of this strand of political Zionism is generally considered to be Theodor Herzl, who wrote a pamphlet that was published in 1897 entitled Der Judenstaat (The State of Jews). In it he argued that Jews were a nationality, that it was not a social or religious question, but a national one. In order to escape antisemitism, express their culture freely and practice their religion, they needed a state. This idea became quite popular and was widely discussed in Jewish circles, including David’s hometown of Iwie.

As with most political movements, there were factions. I imagine that David’s family debated the different perspectives. One of the areas of disagreement was what kind of country should it be. Some advocated for a socialist state (David Ben-Gurion emerged as the leader of this wing and in fact became the country’s first prime minister in 1948); others wanted a free market approach. I would imagine David’s father, as a successful businessman before the invasion of the Soviet Union in 1939, would have wanted a capitalist economy for the new state. Jabotinsky, the person David referenced, supported the free market, though he also believed that the citizens of the new state should determine their destiny.

Another thread of discord in Zionism is the role of Judaism, the role of the religion itself, in the creation and running of the state. One of the things that is unique about being Jewish is that it encompasses a number of elements: it is a religion, it is an ethnicity, and it is a culture. Some identify with some aspects of that identity, but not others. The Zionist movement included (and still includes) a range of belief about religion. Some are Orthodox, very observant Jews, for whom the religion and the state are inextricably tied. Others are secular Jews who may even call themselves atheists. Neither Herzl, Ben-Gurion nor Jabotinsky were particularly religious. Though I never had a conversation with David about this subject, I believe he would support maintaining the Jewish character of the state but would not support a theocracy. Defining that balance continues to be a challenge.

Jabotinsky also advocated for a strong military capability. He believed that the new state would be fought over, that the Arabs in the area would not relinquish land or power without a fight. Ben-Gurion believed that in return for economic and political considerations, the Arabs could be appeased. In furtherance of Jabotinsky’s belief in the need for military capability, he created a youth group in Poland, Betar, that would instill nationalist fervor in young people for Israel and train them to respond to attacks on Jews wherever they occurred. David Bakst was a member of Betar.

David’s Betar membership card, David in his Betar uniform (far left)

I wonder if any of the training he received, or the faith and support built as part of that group, helped him in his war experience.

There is great poignancy to these issues. Imagine if there had been a Jewish State in the mid 1930’s. Millions of lives might have been saved. Instead of ships being turned away from ports, instead of country after country rejecting Jewish refugees, people would have had a place to go. We will never know what might have been.

The controversies that plagued the founding of Israel are still playing out today. The tensions between its socialist origins and the demands of a free-market economy are still difficult to sort out. The balancing of the different attitudes regarding the role of Judaism in the state creates conflict. The fundamental disagreements between Israel and its Arab neighbors, not to mention its Arab citizens, are as troubling as ever.

And, in an even larger sense, we are still grappling with what to do about antisemitism. It is a pernicious and stubborn prejudice. It is disheartening that over a century after Herzl wrote his pamphlet, and even with the establishment of the state of Israel, lies, misconceptions and hate are still rife. After all he went through, I wonder if David would be surprised by this latest resurgence. In that one sense, I am glad he isn’t here to see it.

Views From My Car Window

Though I don’t consider myself a photographer, I do like to take pictures. I find that, as long as I don’t get too caught up in the mechanics of it, it helps to notice the beauty around me and to solidify the memory in my brain. I snapped a lot of pictures on our trip through the southwest, many from the window of the car as we were speeding down the highway. Gary prefers to drive so I ride shotgun, doing the navigating, but mostly taking in the scenery. Here is some of what I saw as we passed through parts of New Mexico, Arizona and Utah. It seems to me that almost all of southern Utah could be a national park. I hope you enjoy the views.

It is a spectacular country that we live in. I am grateful I got to see a portion of it – and that I got to see it with Gary, the best travel companion I could ask for.