Category: memoir blog

Fruit of the Vine

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

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

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

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appreciated the fact that alcohol could be a good social lubricant, though in my experience, the more I drank the more withdrawn I became.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

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

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

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

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

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

With my one libation at a family celebration
that is way more beer than Gary usually consumes!

Reflections on Our 40th

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

Dearest Gary,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy anniversary, my love.

Your Linny

college graduation
my master’s graduation
our wedding
June 2023 in Croatia

Planes, Boats, Buses and Automobiles

Travel can be fraught under any circumstance. No matter the mode of transportation there can be curveballs. Traffic, due to construction or an accident, can stymie progress. Weather can create havoc. Air travel has its own set of challenges. This past weekend our family faced all of that. The good news: we survived! The bad news: nerves were frayed and I’m pretty sure I can speak for all of us when I say we are exhausted. But, if that is the worst of it, we can count ourselves fortunate.

We were invited by our daughter and son-in-law to join them on a family vacation to a cabin on Georgian Bay (on Lake Huron in Canada). The plan was for them to fly from Boston to Toronto with their 13-month-old baby. We would pick them up at the airport in Toronto and drive the rest of the way – about 2.5 hours to a remote marina north of Toronto where we would be met by our son-in-law’s father in a boat. He would ferry us the rest of the way – to a place called the Iron City Fishing Club (more about that later). Unbelievably, that travel went smoothly for all of us.

The kids’ flight was on time. We found the little city airport (Billy Bishop Airport  – named after a World War I Canadian flying ace) which sits on a small island in Lake Ontario just off the shoreline of Toronto).

That’s Gary – we walked along the lake, the airport is just across the waterway, while we waited for the kids’ flight to arrive

We loaded up the car and didn’t get lost finding the marina just outside of MacTier, Ontario. The last 15 minutes of the ride involved a curvy, narrow road that Gary had to take very slowly and naturally that was the one time our granddaughter got fussy. But, it was brief, and we arrived at the marina in good spirits to find Ben’s mom and dad waiting for us with the Iron City boat. We loaded our stuff – we were all remarkably efficient in packing, so we didn’t have that much baggage, but it did involve supplies for four adults and one baby so it wasn’t light either. We had a delightful boat ride in the late afternoon sun over calm waters of Lake Huron. The smoke from the Canadian wildfires, the fires themselves were not near our location, had cleared earlier in the day.

We thanked our lucky stars that everything had gone so well. We enjoyed our five full days at Iron City. I will write another blog post about that experience another day.

We began the return trip on Friday at noon. It was the kind of day that made us reluctant to leave. The air was crystalline, very low humidity (finally!), with a strong breeze. The clarity of the air showed off the blue of the lake and sky, and the rocky shore.

Despite our reluctance, we got on Ben’s father’s boat and once again enjoyed a delightful, refreshing ride back to the marina.

It took Gary a bit to find the car, but he did and again we loaded up. We settled in for the 2.5 hour journey. Leah asked Ben how he felt about the vacation – how did he feel about the experience since it was the first time he was making it with his own child. Ben has been coming to Iron City for his whole life, the place has been part of their family for generations. He had been there with Leah in the year before Covid (summer of 2019), but not since. Ben replied, “The trip isn’t over yet. We still have to get home.” I don’t know if Ben had a premonition, but truer words were never spoken.

All went well on the first leg. Our granddaughter slept for almost two hours and woke up in a fine mood. We dropped them at the airport after hugs and good-byes. It is always painful to leave a grandchild, but we had had a wonderful week with her.

Gary and I got back in the car and continued our drive back to Albany. We weren’t sure if we would stop overnight and decided to play it by ear. It was about 3:30 in the afternoon when we left the kids.

The first hint of trouble came with word that their flight was delayed. It didn’t sound too bad…at first. We continued our drive uneventfully, crossing back into the United States at Lewiston without too much of a line. I have a history of having some difficulties when crossing back into the United States – once when the border agent questioned if the two children traveling in our car were ours and I got annoyed and another time when I didn’t understand the instructions we were given about where to stand at customs at JFK. Gary requested that I not say a word and let him handle this interaction with the border agents. I handed him the passports, he was driving, and I kept my mouth shut. We had no problem.

The real problems started when the kids’ flight was cancelled, which they learned some time after 6:00 pm. We felt terrible for them – and at this point it made no sense for us to go back. It is their story to tell about the different permutations they tried, but they were distressed because their dog, oddly named Douglas (a formal name for a very small dog), was at home in the care of a friend, who had a flight herself and was due to leave Friday afternoon. Leah and Ben expected to be back Friday night. They were scrambling for coverage for their dog and an alternative way to get home. The airline offered them their next flight – on Tuesday! Obviously, that was not going to work.

We were texting with them and had decided we were tired; it was now almost 7:00 pm and we had been up early and began the trip with the boat ride at noon. We decided to take a hotel room outside of Rochester.

After many frantic calls and texts, another friend was able to go over to their apartment to take care of Douglas over night. They explored many options: other flights, renting a car and taking a train, all of which presented insurmountable problems, they decided to take a bus to Rochester. It was due to arrive at 1:10 a.m. Their 13-month-old was holding up remarkably well, but they had not taken supplies for this long of a delay. We went to the market and bought milk and formula. We booked another hotel room.

Gary and I went out to dinner and then relaxed in the hotel room. Gary was suffering with heavy congestion so we decided that I would be the one to go to the bus station. He went to bed. At least one of us would be rested for the drive tomorrow. Leah texted around ten o’clock that they were crawling in traffic and that she would text when they got to the station before Rochester, Batavia, so I could go to sleep. I tried to and did close my eyes for a bit. At 2:30 a.m. I got the text that they were in Batavia, about 35 minutes away from Rochester.

Thank goodness for GPS. I plugged it in and drove the desolate streets to the bus station. I was thinking about the spate of violence that hit Rochester years ago when it was down on its luck. The last time I was there for work, which was probably a decade ago, it looked depressed and unsafe. I was anxious but focused. From the little I could see in the dark, with my eyes glued to the route, it did look better, though totally deserted. But that is probably a good thing at 3:00 in the morning. I pulled into the parking lot, kept the car doors locked, and was comforted to see other people waiting, too. There were no further delays and the Trailways bus pulled into the station as expected (a mere two hours late). Later Leah explained that there was construction on a bridge in Canada that created a crazy traffic jam. They traveled two miles in two hours!

After a few minutes of the bus pulling in, Leah climbed down the steps with the baby in her arms. She wasn’t asleep, but she was calm (both of them were). Ben came down a few minutes later carrying the car seat and backpacks. What a day for them! Once again, we loaded their baggage in the car.

Due to their dog, they decided that Ben would take an early flight (5:15 a.m.) to Boston and that we would drop him at the airport. It would make no sense for him to go to the hotel for an hour. Leah thought that taking that early morning flight would be a disaster for her and the baby so she would come to the hotel, get some rest and ride with us back to Albany. We would figure out how to get them to Boston, but they wouldn’t have to worry about Douglas, so they wouldn’t be as stressed.

We got to the hotel and made up a few bottles. They settled into their room, and I went to bed in mine. Ben was left to try to make himself comfortable in the airport. It was now close to 4 a.m.

We woke later in the morning to learn that Ben’s flight was delayed. They debated whether he should just come with us and bag the flight. They decided he would stay with it because, assuming it wasn’t cancelled, and the airline was assuring him that it was going to go by noon, he would still get back before we could possibly drive there, especially taking account of the baby’s needs.

We left Rochester (Henrietta actually) at about 10:00 am after a successful breakfast. We arrived in Albany just before Ben’s flight took off! He had been in the airport for 10 hours, instead of the 90 minutes we expected. What a misery! Our drive was uneventful. Once again, the baby was awesome. She chatted adorably for the first half hour and then fell asleep for the next two. She needed to be entertained for the last half hour. We stopped at our house in Albany, let the baby play, wander around and had lunch. Then we got back in the car.

Ben had successfully arrived home. He got to shower and walk Douglas. Then he and Douglas drove to meet us outside Worcester to save us about two hours of driving if we took them all the way home. We met at a Dunkin’ Donuts in Grafton, MA. Iced coffee is helpful in these situations. The baby lit up when she saw her daddy. They were happy and relieved to be reunited. Douglas was especially happy, his tail wagging, nuzzling Leah’s legs.

It had been an ordeal. A trip, difficult to make under normal circumstances – involving boat, plane and car –  that should have taken 9 hours door-to-door took about 31! Only Ben can answer the question Leah posed Friday afternoon, but I might wait a while before asking again. For my part, though it was a lot of time in the car, we had an awesome vacation. I’m glad Gary had Sunday to recover before heading back to work.

Though I love seeing other places, I have more understanding for those who find the process of traveling overwhelming and choose to stay local. So much can go wrong! Add a baby and pets to the mix and it can be nerve-wracking. You need a very Zen attitude – which can be hard to maintain in the face of unexplained delays and seemingly unhelpful staff. It’s still worth it to me, but as I get older that calculus could change.

A view I wouldn’t get unless I was willing to travel. That’s Leah kneeling to take a picture from the Iron City dock.

Sunshine

I don’t normally post on Friday, but my schedule has gotten all out of whack! I’ve been working on my book and a first draft is complete, but it has taken energy and time away from the blog. We’ve also been traveling – more on that soon. Thank you for bearing with me.

Does everyone who is lucky enough to have a grandchild see rays of sunshine when they look at them? Do they see sparks of light in the child’s eyes? An aura of yellow joy surrounding their head?

Grandchildren don’t always behave perfectly, I will acknowledge that, but they are sources of delight. Even when they are crying, they are adorable (it is much easier for a grandmother to say that!).

I see and feel my granddaughters’ radiance when I look at them. They are full of energy and curiosity. They emanate light and are full of life.

It is interesting because it seems to be a cycle – there is a feedback loop at play. A newborn baby arrives, you look at him or her with wonder. They in turn do the same. As a Mom or Dad it may take some time to fall in love with the little being – though for some the feeling is instantaneous; an almost chemical reaction upon first seeing the baby. For me it took time. I felt protective immediately, responsible for this vulnerable life, but I can’t say I felt the bond of love as soon as they emerged. That happened over time and grew in intensity. As your love grows, and you shine it on the baby, it seems to be reflected back in full measure. Unfortunately, this may not happen for everyone – if it did in every instance, the world would be a better place. It was my experience, though, and it seems to be happening for my children.

As a grandparent, in some ways, it is simpler. We don’t bear the awesome responsibility. We can simply bask in the wonder and love. Our grandchildren may prefer to be held by their mom or dad, but we get to build a bond, too. The feedback loop of love develops. I think babies know when someone is looking at them with deep love, enjoying, valuing their very existence.

I can appreciate the charm and adorableness of other babies and toddlers. I love my great-nephews tremendously. And I am delighted by my friends’ grands.  I have to be honest, though, the phenomenon of light beaming from their eyes and smiles is reserved for my granddaughters. I imagine that is true for other grandparents – they see it in their own but not so intensely when they look at others.

I was thinking about this the other day after one of my granddaughters left after a weekend visit. She spent the weekend charming everyone who came in her orbit – especially me and Gary. One of my daughter’s friends stopped by with her perfectly adorable little one, but I was struck by how I was only seeing that halo of light around my granddaughter. I was thinking about this phenomenon when I had an ‘aha’ moment.

When I was growing up my maternal grandparents lived upstairs from us. I’ve written about my relationship with Nana in many blog posts. I recounted how each day I came home from school, put my stuff in my room, and went up to visit. I was greeted, on a daily basis, by “Hello, Sunshine.” Nana called me Sunshine with such regularity that I thought it was my middle name. My parents named me Linda S. Brody, they didn’t give me a middle name, just the initial (apparently they couldn’t agree on a suitable ‘S’  name; I was named after my father’s grandmother, Lifsha Surah – in Yiddish). For the longest time I thought the ‘S’ was for Sunshine.

I didn’t think of myself as a source of light growing up – I felt I was kind of a sad kid. I think I was dismissive of Nana’s term of endearment. I liked that she called me that, but I didn’t internalize it. It occurs to me now that perhaps my view was distorted. Nana saw something. Now I think I understand it. It gratifies me to reflect on that; to believe that she felt what I feel. I wish I understood this sooner, there is something validating in the realization. But, I guess you know when you know and certainly better late than never.

My granddaughters are my sunshine.

Nana and me – on our front porch in Canarsie – sometime between 1969-71

Travel: Why Croatia?

When I told my mother that Gary and I were going to Croatia for vacation she looked at me puzzled and asked, “Why?” I explained that Croatia’s coast, which sits on the Adriatic Sea, is reputed to be beautiful and has become a tourist destination. “But, where is it?” I started by saying that the Adriatic is the sea that borders Venice, Italy and if you go across from there, you get to Croatia. She was still having trouble picturing it. Then I told her it was part of the former Yugoslavia. “Oh, now, I understand where it is.” Interesting, for a woman of her age that reference clarified things.

Croatia was indeed part of communist Yugoslavia until 1991 when it fought a war for its independence. Yugoslavia was never part of the USSR, but it was under its sphere of influence. When the Soviet Union fell apart in the late 1980s and early 1990s, Yugoslavia broke up into six separate countries as well. If our experience there is any indication, it appears that Croatia has embraced the West.

The Croatians we met, and it is true that they were mostly involved in the tourism industry and may not be representative of the whole country, were quite enthusiastic about the United States. We perceived no resentment or negative vibes. In fact, several of them commented on how much they admired America. Everywhere we went there were tourists from all over – Italy, France, Germany, Asia and the U.S. Clearly tourism is a critical part of their economy. They also expressed pride in their country and way of life. Several told us that Croatians take their time – if they want to have coffee they will take 2 hours to sit, relax and enjoy.

We started our adventure in Split. We learned that it was the birthplace of the Roman Emperor, Diocletian, who ruled from 284 to 305 A.D. He built a ‘retirement home’– palace is more accurate – in Split. He is the only Roman Emperor to step aside willingly – he planned for his succession. Most were overthrown or murdered. Anyway, his palace still stands. Today it is home to a church, monastery, apartments, restaurants and shops. We took a tour, and it was fascinating to see how it has evolved. Different eras are demarcated by the different materials used – blocks of limestone, bricks, stones show how things originated and were then repaired centuries later.

Our tour guide for Diocletian’s palace, Yakob, was very knowledgeable. He is a native of Split, expressed pride in his city and country, and shared a great deal about the history and current politics of his nation. He explained that all students in Split learn English. He told us he grew up watching U.S. television shows. His favorite was Seinfeld! We were shocked. I wouldn’t have thought that humor would translate to another culture. He loved it and could reference specific episodes and funny tidbits. I wasn’t sure how I felt about Jerry, Elaine, George and Kramer representing us. They aren’t the most admirable folks. Apparently, though, it entertained Yakob and honed his English skills.

It was so interesting to travel around and see and hear the mix of cultures. American music, Croatian radio stations, Muslim influences.

Gary and I made the trip with our friends Merle and Dale. Merle had done the vast majority of the research and gathered recommendations about historical sites, hotels and restaurants.  We took tours in some places, but we were not part of a tour group going from place to place. There can be pluses and minuses to that approach, but it worked for us. In a country where so many speak English, it was totally manageable.

We traveled from one location to another by ferry. There are many islands off Croatia’s Dalmatian coast and ferries offer the most efficient means of getting from one to another. After Split, we visited Hvar. It has a busy, crowded port that looked like what one might expect of a Mediterranean resort, filled with restaurants, bars, souvenir shops and churches. We didn’t spend much time in that section of Hvar – we chose a hotel in a quieter, smaller town.

Everywhere we traveled we noted the orange ceramic tile roofs and beige stone buildings. It made for beautiful views of waterfronts and hillsides – perhaps a cross between Italy and Greece. Here are some views of Milna, Hvar (the small town where we stayed instead of the main port area):

The weather this time of year is supposed to be optimal with sunshine and temperatures in the 70s. When I checked the weather in the week to two weeks before the trip, it consistently showed thunderstorms. We started looking for indoor activities in case our other plans derailed and we packed accordingly. It turned out to be unnecessary. When we arrived we were told that weather forecasts for the Croatian coast are meaningless, the forecasters are always getting it wrong. We were glad they did!

We did face one morning of rain and it was during our tour of a national park – Plitvice Lakes National Park was about 3 hours inland (north and east) of Split. It was sunny in Split and remained that way for the first two hours of our bus ride to the park. We emerged from a tunnel through a mountain to cloud cover and by the time we got to the park it was raining. It poured for a few hours. It did not dampen our spirits or ruin the views and fortunately we had packed ponchos for just this situation. We took a 9 kilometer walk that wound around lakes and waterfalls. I can’t remember being anywhere more lush. It was spectacular. They had gotten substantial rain in the days leading up to our visit and the waterfalls were full and powerful. It was breathtaking. The rain stopped in time for our boat ride and the sun came out when we stopped for lunch. Someone was looking out for us! When we resumed hiking after lunch, it was dry.  Here are some views of our visit to Plitvice:

We also visited Dubrovnik, an ancient city at the south end of the country. We took a cable car ride up to the top of a mountain that overlooks the old part of the city. The view was like something out of a tour book. The walled old town could have been the setting for a fairy tale – it was the setting for parts of Game of Thrones (so was Diocletian’s Palace). The water of the Adriatic is clear and varies from blue to green. The orange tile roofs pop next to it. We timed our ride on the cable car to be up there as the sun set. It was magnificent.

Here are some shots from there and from atop the walls of the old city:

We had some excellent meals. The national dish of Croatia is ‘peka.’ Merle had gotten a recommendation for a restaurant that specializes in that dish and it was a one mile walk from where the cable car left us. That walk was so special – the sun was low in the sky, the light was soft and yellow. The countryside was dotted with purple, yellow and white flowers (see the second photo above). The road wound down the hillside and opened up to vistas of Dubrovnik and the Adriatic on one side and mountains on the other.

The restaurant did not disappoint. Peka is made with either beef or lamb and I am not a fan of either, so I didn’t have it – you had to pre-order because it takes so much time to cook. It was interesting for Merle, Dale and Gary because  peka reminded them of comfort food they grew up with in the best possible way. The restaurant slow cooked the meat under an iron bell and it is served with roast potatoes. The seasonings tasted familiar to them. We hypothesized that since Croatia traces its roots to the Slavic people of Eastern Europe, as we do as Ashkenazi Jews, that perhaps the cooking style was shared. It was quite a moment for them, Merle in particular, to have such a strong sense memory, to be so many miles from home and so many years since last tasting it, but be taken back to her grandmother’s cooking.

Sadly, all good things come to an end. It was time for Gary and I to return home. Our trip back was long and tiring, only to be greeted by a line that snaked up and down a cavernous hall at JFK to get through customs. That line alone took an hour – just to show our passports and be admitted back into the United States. People on the line were remarkably well behaved, though. It took 18 hours of travel time from our hotel in Trogir, a charming, old town near the airport in Split, to get to our apartment on the upper west side of Manhattan. On the one hand, it is kind of miraculous to be able to travel almost 4,400 miles that quickly. But, on the other, in this modern era of jets, it shouldn’t take that long – especially when you consider the amount of time spent waiting on lines to get through security and passport control at various airports. If Gary and I plan to travel more overseas, I will definitely look into the expedited programs they have for international flights.

Now it’s back to the grind, especially for Gary. I will look back at my pictures and treasure our memories of the beautiful places we saw, the people we met, the shared laughs and the experiences we had. We are lucky to have taken many wonderful trips and hope to continue to do so as long as we are healthy enough and have the resources to do it.

Sunset on the ferry back to Split

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.