Stories

Fighting Despair

It has been a long time since I’ve written a blog post. I wrote my last one over a month ago. It has been a struggle to motivate myself. The things I have been thinking about are not easily translated to the page. I am fighting despair.

I have written quite a lot on this blog about my identity as a Jew. In fact, my last essay was about Yom Kippur and what it meant to me. Little did I know that just days after I posted that piece a truly horrific outbreak of violence would be perpetrated on the people of Israel.

Like most sentient human beings, I was shocked by the barbarism displayed by Hamas. It was almost too much for the brain to take in. How could people inflict such cruelty on fellow human beings? The stories that emerged – of young people peacefully attending a music festival only to be slaughtered, of Jewish individuals, some of whom dedicated themselves to Palestinian rights, murdered or kidnapped, not to mention the maiming of babies – were too terrible to contemplate.

Many have written that Israel is a small country, and everyone knows someone touched by the violence. Many American Jews are connected with family and friends there. I have a more distant connection. I can’t say the attack hit me as it would if it was my own country. I read many posts from those who were crying and devastated. I didn’t have that immediate reaction, maybe I was numb.

As time has gone by, though, I find my pain deepening. The reaction of the world, the exponential rise in antisemitism, the seeming lack of understanding of the existential threat to Israel, the unwillingness to assign responsibility for this disaster to Hamas, are all beyond my comprehension. I am profoundly disappointed in humanity.

I am not blindly loyal to Israel. I, like many other American Jews and Israelis themselves, have communicated disapproval of the policies pursued by Netanyahu and his administration. Netanyahu, in my view, is as bad as Trump – but smarter. I believe he has done real damage to Israel. Though the lion’s share of the blame for the attack is on Hamas’ leadership, Netanyahu and the positions Israel’s government has taken, has contributed to the rage that Palestinian’s felt and feel. It doesn’t justify the violence, but it likely fueled it.

There is no doubt that the Palestinian people have been oppressed. Where opinions sharply differ is in identifying the oppressor. Most of those who are taking up the Palestinian cause in protests in this country and abroad assign that role to Israel (other than those who subscribe to a broader Jewish conspiracy) and to some degree the United States. I don’t buy that. There are so many examples of failures of Palestinian leadership – going back decades. Time and again compromises have been rejected. And, terrorism has been their weapon of choice for more than fifty years.

While I am not a scholar of the Middle East, I have done some reading. I have paid attention. I am not going to list the litany of times that opportunities were squandered. Similarly, I am not going to detail the errors that the I believe the Israeli government has made. Suffice it to say, I believe both parties bear responsibility for the failure to achieve peace, but in my estimation  Palestinian leadership shoulders more blame for the poverty of its people. Their corruption and their failure to use resources they do have to better the lives of their people, instead choosing to build tunnels and bombs and stockpile munitions, are evidence of their duplicity. And no matter how one parcels out fault, the violence of that attack cannot be excused.

Accusing Israel of genocide in this war is reprehensible and a lie. People throw that term around far too easily. Israel is not engaged in a campaign to exterminate a people. They are trying to destroy Hamas. We know from the tragic wars that have been fought over centuries that civilians die, collateral damage is unavoidable especially in urban combat and guerilla warfare. The United States may well have committed war crimes in Vietnam and Iraq, but we were not carrying out genocide. We may learn that Israel has committed war crimes – I don’t know if they have – but they are not engaged in genocide. Using that term is inflammatory, divisive, and singularly unhelpful in figuring out how we go forward.

Calling for a unilateral ceasefire is also disingenuous. Will Hamas cease fire? Why aren’t those voices loudly calling for a Russian ceasefire? Meanwhile Israel’s defense forces have been conducting humanitarian pauses and creating corridors to allow Gazans to move south. Other countries do far less when engaged in war. Israel is held to a different standard.

We have arrived at a place in our world where we don’t believe newspapers or television reporting. We don’t agree on a common set of facts. Palestinian supporters don’t believe babies were maimed. Maybe they don’t believe there are miles of tunnels under Gaza City – and if they do believe it, they probably don’t attribute them to nefarious purposes. Perhaps they don’t believe that schools and hospitals are being used as shields for military operations. I’m sure there is a narrative that they tell themselves that explains it all away. And, they think I am telling myself a story about terrorists and a constant barrage of rocket fire into Israel to justify my opinions. How do we bridge that divide? It is impossible to have a conversation when you believe fundamentally different things about events unfolding in the world.

I believe there is a truth. I read the Hamas charter – the one written in 1988 (https://avalon.law.yale.edu/20th_century/hamas.asp) and the newer, revised one written in 2017 (https://irp.fas.org/world/para/docs/hamas-2017.pdf). They are frightening documents. They don’t advocate for democracy or freedom for the Palestinian people (despite defining itself as a liberation movement). It states as its goal the end of Israel and the establishment of an Islamic caliphate. The words are in black and white – no one has to interpret them for you. You need not rely on someone else’s understanding. The first version actually goes so far as to advocate for the murdering of Jews (not just Israelis) by all true Muslims.

After I read those documents – and I read them because I needed to understand if Hamas was antisemitic and if its stated goal was the destruction of Israel – I didn’t want to rely on word of mouth or reporting – I became more outraged by the rhetoric we are hearing. Hamas cannot be given a pass. That charter does not provide an answer to the suffering of the Palestinian people, at least not an answer that most citizens of the world would accept.  It has reinforced my belief that Golda Meir was right when she reportedly said, and I am paraphrasing, there will be peace when they love their children more than they hate us. In her statement the ‘they’ she referred to were Arabs, not Palestinians – that term was not in use then – she was credited with saying this in 1957!

Because there is so much misinformation, disinformation, and propaganda, it can be hard to identify right from wrong. But, it can be done. It must be done. I approach all reports with a critical eye, things are rarely black and white. While there are shades of gray, and the fog of war makes it yet harder, there are facts, there is morality, there are choices to be made. There are sides to be taken. I stand with Israel. I will criticize it when I think it is wrong, just as I will the United States, but Israel is on the right side of this. I hope they prosecute the war as carefully as possible, limiting civilian casualties, but Hamas cannot be permitted to succeed. Both the Palestinian and Israeli people deserve better than current conditions and I pray that leaders from both sides will emerge who will take a more humane, reasonable path.

“Why Am I Here?”

Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement, is behind me. It was an intense day for many reasons – it usually is. Especially compared to an ordinary day. After all, if one observes, you fast and spend many hours in quiet reflection. A combination of things came together to make it especially emotional for me this year.

Though I have not written about it directly, I may have alluded to it in other blog posts, I have been facing a bit of a health challenge. Back in June, as part of a CAT scan to determine my calcium score, there was an incidental finding of a cyst in my abdomen. At first my doctor didn’t recommend follow-up, but on closer inspection of the scan, it was determined that it needed further investigation. Over the course of the summer, step by step, we tried to figure out what this thing was. There was a three-to-four-day period in early August where it was thought to be a pancreatic cyst that might not be innocent. During that stretch of uncertainty, I wondered if this was the beginning of the end. My aunt passed away from pancreatic cancer two years ago. I wondered if I was embarking on that journey.

Fortunately, another test result revealed that possibility to be extremely unlikely – they were able to take a fluid sample and the outcome was very encouraging. However, the question of where this cyst originated (it is large – about the size of a baseball, but not the shape of one) is still not clear and it makes a difference in terms of the course of treatment or whether just watching it is sufficient.

As I write this today, after much consideration, Gary and I, along with my doctors, have decided that we will get this thing removed, but it is not an emergency. Gary and I had planned a river cruise ten months ago that is scheduled to depart on October 15th. We have been assured that there is little to no risk in keeping our travel plan. It has been a confusing time and, with all of the back and forth, I am comfortable with our decision.

I am not going into all the details of this medical odyssey– no need to go into the nitty gritty of it. I am sharing it because it contributed to my state of mind going into the High Holy days this year. There had been uncertainty and a good deal of soul searching even before Yom Kippur began.

I am a Jew who is not religious; I am doubtful about the existence of God. Despite this I have taken the ritual of Yom Kippur to heart. Starting with Rosh Hashana, we are asked to reflect upon our behavior over the course of the prior year and admit to our flaws and failings. We ask for forgiveness from those we have injured or disappointed and we make promises to do better in the year ahead. For many, this process might involve asking God for forgiveness and beseeching him or her to allow us to be ‘sealed’ in the book of life for another year, but that isn’t what resonates with me. The practice of, on an annual basis, taking stock, holding yourself accountable and quite literally making amends is powerful – or it can be if taken seriously. It can also be an exercise in going through the motions. If I am honest, there were years that I have done that. Not this year.

Perhaps because of my heightened awareness of the precarious nature of health, I was more open to the message of the holiday. I listened to the sermon of the rabbi from B’nai Jeshrun, a synagogue in New York City that we live streamed, as we came to the close of Yom Kippur and I found his message very profound and more than a little unsettling.

Rabbi Rolando Matalon, who speaks eloquently with the Argentinian accent of the country of his birth, implored the congregants to ask themselves: ‘why am I here?’ ‘what is my particular mission?’ He offered a story from the bible of an unnamed person who asks Joseph, who is wandering in a field, what he is looking for and when Joseph replies that he is looking for his brothers, the man shares what he overheard the brothers say. This sets Joseph on a path to Egypt, a path he would not have otherwise taken, but we know how consequential that was. The rabbi offered a number of interpretations of this interaction, but ultimately the point he made was that every individual has an impact, whether they know it or not. In this bible story, a man only called ‘Ish’ (somebody) plays a critical role in setting events in motion. Rabbi Matalon continued by explaining that each individual is a messenger, each individual has to fulfill their particular mission – we have to do the work of figuring out what we are doing in this world. He noted that it was hard work that takes time and commitment. Whether I felt that the parable he shared was a perfect illustration of that idea or not, I believe his point is correct. That is the work of our time on earth: to discover what I can contribute to repairing the brokenness we see all around us and within ourselves.

In those days of deep uncertainty in August, when I wondered if I was facing a truly life-threatening illness, I asked myself that question. I realized I didn’t know how to answer and that was very troubling. As I listened to the rabbi, I visited the question again.

As a child and young adult, I thought about these things. I was always very introspective. I thought I would find a career that would lead me to fulfillment. I was growing up at a time when girls were encouraged to have careers, to consider alternatives to the traditional role of wife and mother. I believed that it wasn’t enough to be a homemaker. I wanted to make more of a contribution to the world. When I was in college, I remember conversations with friends, particularly with one friend whose mom was very devoted. We talked about how it was important to have a well-rounded life, to not be solely defined by being a mother. At that point, I didn’t even know if I wanted to have children, I didn’t imagine that I would ever define myself that way.

As I went to school, through college and graduate school, and through my first professional jobs, the question of what I was meant to do nagged at me. I had not figured it out. Sometimes I would really struggle – I would not go so far as to describe it as depression, but persistent sadness over my inability to find purpose. Imagine my surprise when I found that the questions stopped after I became a mother. I had no expectation that it would answer that very fundamental issue. While I still grappled with defining myself, a substantial part of me felt settled. I understood what I needed to do. In a day-to-day way my purpose was clear. I thought to myself, ‘I guess the joke is on me because mothering appears to be what I am meant to do.’

My children have been adults for a long time now. My relationship with them has evolved and continues to evolve. Since they left home about 15 years ago I worked at a job that provided some satisfaction. Then I retired to take up writing with very little success, if one defines success as mainstream publications or earning money or fame or large readership. I would not say the question of my purpose has plagued me as it did in my youth, but all is not quiet inside either. There I was all those years ago, smugly talking in my dorm room, about how I wouldn’t be like the women raised in the 1950s, and yet here I am struggling with finding meaning now that the years of active mothering are behind me. The irony is not lost on me. The role that felt the most fulfilling is essentially done – not that I don’t have a meaningful relationship with my children and grandchildren. But it doesn’t feel the same – my soul (whatever that is) is not as well nourished.

I think the rabbi’s question, and the intensity of all the emotion leading up to the moment, led to a bit of a crisis of meaning and confidence. In the week that has passed since then my innards have settled. I am finding comfort in reflecting on meaningful conversations, friendships and experiences.

All of this introspection is not only prompted by the High Holy days. It is also the season of my birthday. The lyrics of that Beatle song “When I’m 64” have come home to roost. That number kind of freaks me out even though I am still a year away from Medicare eligibility. Apropos the lyric of the song, I am confident that Gary still needs me. One of the thoughts that has given me solace over this past week is the idea that I have helped him to make a significant contribution to the quality of his patients’ lives – and that ain’t nothing.

I will leave you with one other important lesson learned from this Yom Kippur. In the spirit of the holy day, I hoped to ease the tension (make amends) in a relationship by calling and discussing the issue. It may be obvious to many that it wasn’t wise to have that kind of heartfelt conversation on a day of fasting – it wasn’t obvious to me. It is now. Perhaps I should have taken a clue from Jewish law which prohibits making phone calls on the holiday – something I have always ignored. It might have gone better in the days leading up to or days following Yom Kippur because the odds of success are greatly enhanced when all parties to the conversation are fed, hydrated and caffeinated. Sorting out fraught emotions while headachy, hungry and tired is not a winning strategy. Tensions have subsequently been eased but we may have arrived there with less agita if I had placed the call on any other day.

Live and learn – something I hope to continue to do every day that I inhabit this earthly realm. And, I believe that is also in keeping with the rabbi’s sermon.

Foggy morning on the Mass Turnpike

A Visit to Saratoga

 Have you ever taken a visual field test? It is part of the evaluation I get when I visit the opthamologist. I take them pretty frequently because I am suspicious for glaucoma and have had other vision issues. The exam involves looking through a lens at a white surface, focusing on an orange light in the center, and pressing a button each time you see a flashing white light anywhere in your field of vision – hence the name of the test. It isn’t painful. It isn’t invasive. But it deeply annoying, especially for me who as a routine matter has floaters and flashes of light. It isn’t easy to distinguish the little white dots from what I usually see and leaves me wondering whether to hit the button.

My vision, on an ordinary day, is like looking through a dirty windshield where there are certain spots that have schmutz (a technical term). Unlike a windshield, though, the spots move. This has been the case most of my adult life and I am used to it. I do worry that it will get worse. I am grateful that I can see, and I don’t take it for granted. Though I have had this issue, among other eye problems, for many years, I have not been diagnosed with anything that suggests that I have  progressive eye disease. I do see two different opthamologists at least yearly to keep tabs on it.

I took one of those tests the other day and in the middle of it, everything went black. Fortunately it wasn’t my eyes. The power went out. Emergency lights came on briefly and then everything else buzzed back to life. A technician scurried into the room and told me I would have to start the visual field test again. Oh well. Not a big deal though I didn’t relish the idea of spending yet more time trying to figure out if what I was seeing was real or my usual visual stuff.

I finished and eventually was taken to the doctor’s office for the actual eye exam. But it turned out that their Wi-Fi was down as a result of that brief outage earlier. I was told I could wait and see if it came back up or I could reschedule my appointment. Apparently, the eye doctor didn’t feel he could see patients without access to the computer system. Really? He couldn’t look at my eyes and take notes? I can’t say I understood, but I didn’t argue. Our reliance on technology can be the topic of another essay.

I decided to reschedule. I was frustrated, but thought ‘how could I make the best of the situation?’

My eye doctor is located in Saratoga County, about a half hour drive from home. I knew the Saratoga Battlefield was nearby. I have lived in this area for over 35 years and never went. It was a crisp, late summer morning. I decided it was time to venture forth. I plugged Saratoga National Historical Park into my GPS and took a lovely 15 minute ride to the grounds. Entry is free!

It turned out to be an auspicious day to go. The first battle of Saratoga, also known as the Battle of Freeman’s Farm, was fought on September 19, 1777. I showed up on the anniversary of that fight – the 246th anniversary to be exact. They were having an educational program to commemorate the date.

I learned a few things. I probably learned some of this before but had no memory of it. I didn’t recall that there were in fact two battles – the first the British won. The second battle was the decisive victory for the Americans that turned the tide of the war. That one occurred a couple of weeks later, October 7, 1777. Benedict Arnold was one of the heroes of the battle, before he switched sides. It is said that if he died there, and he was injured, he would be remembered as a hero of the Revolution.

There is something about battlefields, not that I have visited that many, that is eerie. I had a similar feeling at Gettysburg  – of standing on hallowed ground. The sense that something of import had happened there.  A stiff wind was blowing across the fields and there weren’t very many people around so there was a desolation to it. I can’t explain it, but I felt the weight of history, of the souls that fought there. Maybe it was just my imagination, but it moved me. I’m glad the site has been preserved.

I also learned that the British weren’t only at war with America. They were in conflict all over the globe – with France, Spain and the Netherlands, to name a few. I also learned that the Revolutionary War led to a split in the Iroquois Nation, with most of the tribes siding with the British. The Oneida fought on the side of the Americans. It was also interesting to note that the army of the colonies was integrated. Enslaved people (forced to fight instead of their ‘owners’), freemen (Black), Native Americans and colonists fought side by side. It was later in America’s development that the army became segregated.

Not all Americans supported the cause which led to conflict among the families that lived in the area. One farm couple, the Neilsons, left their home to get out of harm’s way and their farm was commandeered by Benedict Arnold. The main house has been restored and I walked in to take a look. The general had a canopy bed, but there were four other cots sharing the modest space. It was interesting to hear that the couple came back after hostilities ended and raised 8 children there. Here is a picture of the home.

Hard to imagine a family of ten living there! These days we Americans have very different expectations about space requirements.

The landscape is beautiful. The area is a great place to hike or bike. The Hudson River runs along the east edge of the park.

The British, who were advancing from Canada, were trying to get to Albany to get food and supplies. The battles in Saratoga were crucial in preventing them from regaining strength.

Though I did not get to fulfill the purpose of my appointment in Saratoga, my time was well spent. I look forward to visiting again.

Walking or Hiking?

I don’t consider myself a hiker – more of a ‘walker-in-the-woods.’ I frequently take walks on trails in my area (the Capital Region of New York State). Those trails can involve some ups and downs, but not climbing. Because I am always looking for new places to walk, I follow a group on Facebook ‘Hiking the Hudson Valley.’ Folks frequently post about Minnewaska State Park which is not exactly in the Capital Region, it is in the Catskills, but looked beautiful and is less than a 90 minute drive. It was on my list of places to check out. This holiday weekend provided the perfect opportunity.  My main conclusion: my unwillingness to call myself a hiker is well founded.

That isn’t entirely fair. Gary and I did hike, and I did complete the loop, but it was a close call. Here are my lessons learned:

  1. Hydrate even before starting out. I only had coffee and it was a hot day.
  2. Bring more water. I had four 8 ounce bottles of water – in other words 32 ounces for the two of us. Gary was my hero, knowing I was having difficulty he let me drink about 30 of those ounces! I don’t know how he was able to manage given the heat, but fortunately his body functions very differently from mine and he is far more fit. I sweat beyond all reason under most circumstances, never mind when it is hot and we are exercising. My shirt was so wet before we even began our ascent that it looked like I had jumped into Lake Minnewaska. I wish I had. Which brings me to number 3…
  3. Bring a change of shirts – maybe that only applies to a Brody, which I am by birth. We sweat copiously. Dad always brought a fresh shirt when he played tennis. It wasn’t that comfortable driving back home in a still soaking wet shirt.
  4. Research the trail so you understand what you are getting into. We read the description on the sign, but it didn’t ‘grade’ it as easy, moderate or difficult. Of course those ratings, even when I have read them beforehand, don’t necessarily correspond to your personal experience. I have found some trails easier than the rating or far more challenging.
  5. If you are prone to allergies, take your medication before you hike! Fluid was pouring from every orifice (not that one, I am happy to say). My nose was running like a faucet. My eyes were tearing – between sunscreen and sweat I could barely keep my eyes open. Halfway through the hike I realized I had tissues, nasal spray and Claritin in my knapsack! Don’t know why I forgot about that, but at least I found it. The second half of the hike improved, but I had already used my shirt multiple times – yuck. I saved Gary’s dry shirt for wiping my eyes – once again he was my hero!
  6. If in doubt, bring your hiking sticks. This I got right. I would have been in trouble on the trail without them.
  7. Get in better condition! I am quite capable of walking long distances on gentle or flat terrain – when walking in New York City doing five miles is not that challenging. Hiking, even a modest mountain, is another thing all together. It tests balance and leg strength in ways that strolling along a path in Central Park simply doesn’t.

Sounds like we had a great time, doesn’t it? Actually, we did. Despite the pain, it was beautiful. The scenery was gorgeous.

Once we reached the top of Millbrook Mountain, I was able to recover. The way Minnewaska’s trails are organized there are sometimes multiple routes to the same place – a footpath and a carriage road. The carriage road is a gravel, wide trail that doesn’t involve climbing (it isn’t flat, but you aren’t negotiating rocks to go up). In this case the footpath was about half the distance (the sign said 1.2 miles, it felt like 10!) and was the route we took up and involved a good deal of climbing (not scrambling, but lots of leg work) and crossing a stream. We took the carriage road back. It was 2.5 miles and much easier. We covered the 2.5 miles much more quickly – less time than it took us to go the 1.2. At times we felt like we were going uphill both ways, but the carriage path was very manageable. We only stopped once for a break.

All in all, we walked about 5.5 miles. I am proud of myself for completing it. I am also grateful to Gary for being such an encouraging and supportive partner. He also led the way on the footpath so I didn’t have to concern myself with finding the trail markers. I think he was worried about me for a bit there and I felt bad about that, but I rallied. I will be better prepared next time. I do think there will be a next time.

Lions, Tigers and…Octopi?

As is often the case, this post is inspired by a book and the discussion we had about it at our family book club. We read Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt. The story uses an interesting device in that one of the narrators is an octopus named Marcellus. Marcellus is intelligent and insightful. One either buys into the conceit, or one doesn’t. The success of the book for the reader will likely turn on that.

Based on the reactions of the members of our book club, and from what I see on Goodreads, most people had no problem with it and, in fact, were charmed by Marcellus’ voice in the novel. I, on the other hand, had some trouble with it. I think suspension of disbelief only takes me so far. I don’t love fantasy as a genre, though this book wasn’t that, anthropomorphizing (if that is a word) an octopus veered into fantasy, but the author did not create a different world. In reality it was more of a family saga in which lost souls become connected with the help of the octopus. I liked the family part but could have done without Marcellus.

I wonder how much of my issue comes from the fact that I am not that much of an animal person. I have compassion for animals and have loved my cats, but I would not call myself an animal lover. I am not taken by every dog I pass as I walk in my neighborhood. I am not confused about my priorities – humans rank higher for me in the animal kingdom than other species.

We had this discussion with friends just this past weekend. Sadly, they had to put down their dog a few months ago, a beloved pet of many years. The woman of the couple was still grieving the loss and was keeping mementos of him around the house. The guy mostly felt bad for his wife and daughter. “He was a dog to me,” he explained almost sheepishly. He was saddened by the dog’s suffering and wished it hadn’t gone that way, but there was a limit to his grief. I understood what he was saying. For some a pet is equal to a family member. Others may have a range of emotion:  from not wanting anything to do with dogs or cats, to loving them but not the same way as another human, to treating their pet with the same love and attention as they would a child. I would put myself in that middle category. I wrote about my relationship with Raffa, the cat we had to put down months ago, previously on this blog. I couldn’t bear to see her suffer, but it wasn’t anything close to how I feel about family or friends.

Aside from how we view pets, there are other issues we discussed at book club in the context of exploring Remarkably Bright Creatures. Marcellus lived in an aquarium – in a contained habitat. We debated the ethics of zoos and aquariums. When I was growing up little thought was given to how zoo animals were housed. The cage for a tiger might be just large enough for him or her to pace back and forth. It was sad and it was clear the animal was miserable. We have progressed from there. Most modern zoos create large areas for the animals to roam with some configuration of water features and barriers to allow visitors to view them. Even with that, though, the animals are clearly not in their natural habitats. Lions wouldn’t live in the Bronx if not for the zoo, but at least they are not confined to a cage – they get fresh air and they are surrounded by grasses and trees. Some in our group were not comfortable with even this improved arrangement, they felt that animals should be free. At the same time, a couple of points in support of zoos were made.

In allowing people, especially children, to see exotic animals in person it can spur interest and provide an educational opportunity. In doing so, people may be motivated to be protective of the animals – heightening awareness of imperiled species and their environments.

In addition, zoos do research and partner with other entities that enhance our understanding of the animals. Sometimes zoos take in animals that can no longer survive in the wild.

I also wonder if we are romanticizing life in the wild. For example, how long is life expectancy for lions that live freely compared to those in captivity? If the animal has the company of its own species, is well-fed, receives medical care and lives in a comfortable physical environment, maybe they aren’t unhappy at all. Maybe a zoo isn’t so bad. Of course, if the animal is mistreated or neglected, then the calculus changes.

I think we all agreed that we were uncomfortable with animals performing tricks – like whales at a seaquarium. It is one thing to schedule feedings so that an audience can watch, it is another to make the whale, dolphin or seal leap, catch or clap for our amusement and a reward. I remember once going to the Catskill Game Farm years ago where chimps were dressed up in motorcycle garb and rode bikes. I found it very disturbing. I’m happy to say that act no longer exists, and the game farm no longer houses animals. It has been transformed into a campground. Given what we saw there that is a better use of the space.

Like many things it comes down to human behavior and judgment. Zoos and seaquariums can be great resources if the people running them are ethical and compassionate. If humans fail to meet that standard, then the animals suffer and there need to be consequences for that failure. Those individuals need to be held accountable. I don’t think the basic concept of a zoo or aquarium is problematic.

What do you think? If you read Remarkably Bright Creatures, did you enjoy it?

My granddaughter at our local aquarium

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

Lawn Signs

There is a route I take frequently when I run errands. I drive through a neighborhood in Albany when I go to the bank (more likely the ATM), to our favorite bagel shop or to walk at SUNY. Probably 18 months ago I noticed a house had a for sale sign. The brick house sits on a corner lot; it is possible that it is a multi-family dwelling. Anyway, I wondered how quickly it would sell. The reason I wondered, given that the market was pretty hot, maybe not as hot as some areas of the country, but healthy nonetheless, is because of the house next door. That house has a barrage of signs – including the unforgivable ‘Fuck Biden.’ I’m all for free speech, but that is over the line. The house has lots of other signs – back in the day he (and I believe it is a he because I see him mowing his lawn) had a ‘Lock her up’ sign, among others. Based on the signs he displays, he is deep into conspiracy theories about the deep state.

A photo from a New Jersey newspaper – not the house I drive past obviously, and his are a bit more discreet, but the sentiment is the same

I have driven past the ‘for sale house’ for many, many months and now its lawn is overgrown, and it has one of those orange notices affixed to its front door – I imagine that it is in foreclosure. Do you think it has anything to do with the ‘Trumpy’ neighbor? I would not want to live next door to someone who was willing to put a sign out with an expletive directed at anyone, much less our president (even if I hated him/her – in my most outraged state with Trump it would never occur to me to display such a sign). Or maybe something is actually wrong with the structure? I don’t know, but I have mixed feelings about it. Part of me feels a certain satisfaction that the house is going to seed because the Trumper takes meticulous care of his property and can’t enjoy looking at the mess next door. I don’t wish ill to whoever owned the house that isn’t selling, and it isn’t good for the neighborhood to have an abandoned property, so there is that.

That same route that I drive brings me past a house that this month is festooned with pride symbols – just around the block from the Trumper. I wonder if they know each other. I should note that there are no curse words included in their array, just rainbows and hearts. Further down that same block is a house with flags that I associate with extreme Republicans – Don’t Tread on Me, the American flag and some others that I don’t recognize (not the confederate flag, I’m pleased to report). Is it one big happy neighborhood? Somehow I doubt it.

It is interesting to me that folks choose to advertise their politics in this way – it is not election season. I have put signs on my lawn in support of candidates. In fact, my Kerry for President sign got stolen. But, I don’t choose to put symbols out that represent my politics. I admit I appreciate passing homes that fly a rainbow flag – and I like the signs that say, in one way or another, hate has no place here. I’m not sure if I think those gestures are helpful. I defend anyone’s right to put whatever they want on their lawn, though I would like to think people would exercise good judgment. ‘Fuck Biden’ isn’t good judgment. Isn’t there some ordinance against that? I would not want a six year old, who is learning to read, to see that.

It leads me to ask: will we further segregate ourselves by our politics? Cities have historically been blue, though New York City, that bastion of liberalism, has elected any number of Republican mayors. Rural areas have historically been red, though I’m sure there have been exceptions. Can that still happen? As the parties move further apart, will those anomalies continue?

I wonder what impact the divisiveness in our politics has on the real estate market, especially in suburban areas. It can’t be good for our communities. Will our neighborhoods become echo chambers like our social media? Will we instruct our realtors to find properties with like-minded neighbors?

I wish this era of hateful rhetoric was behind us.