I am a grandmother, called Nana by my granddaughters, which makes me smile.
I ask myself, how much of my life do I want to shape around theirs?
I grew up with my Nana living upstairs in the apartment above mine in a two-family semi-attached house. She was a gift to me.
I am not in the same situation. I am 2 and ½ hours from one granddaughter, three hours from the other. My children did not grow up in the situation I had either. They saw their grandparents maybe monthly in the summer, once in the winter months when we would fly down to Florida during the February break from school. They still knew their grandparents, and knew they were treasured. Most summers my kids would spend a week at my folks’ house in the Catskills. I think that was an especially bonding experience.
Is that enough for me?
These days we have FaceTime. We can see each other more frequently – in between in-person visits. What will that mean to them?
Then there is my relationship with my children. There are rare occasions when I see each of them separate from their families. It is precious time when I get to see them one-on-one. Do I shape my life to maximize the opportunity to visit them?
Or do I lead my life?…commit to volunteer work, commit to writing, commit to political activism – instead of filling in with those activities.
I don’t know how to balance it.
And then there is the mundane business of life. It is common to hear people who retire say, “I don’t know where the time goes. I’m always so busy. How did I fit in a full-time job?”
I am finding that taking care of myself as I age has become a full-time job. More frequent doctor visits, more frequent medical tests, physical therapy, exercising multiple times a week, picking up prescriptions, and all the paperwork that supports that stuff. Then there is the expansion of household tasks, some of which I crammed in or let fall by the wayside when I worked so there is catching up to do. Between taking care of the house, the car and my body, there isn’t that much extra time. Plus, my capacity or energy for all of it isn’t what it used to be.
I admit I am disappointed in a way; retirement isn’t quite a free as I thought it would be. I know I am lucky – unbelievably so in that I am not facing serious illness, just the nagging things that happen as the bones, joints and systems wear. I am even more blessed that my children are independent, capable humans who have families of their own. They live very full lives without help from me.
Some of my peers appear to be happy to center their lives around their children and grandchildren; others appear to be happy centering their lives on their own activities and maybe some have found the secret of balance. If you have, please share! Or maybe I assume folks are happy because that is the face they put on, especially on social media.
Between my own desire to remain engaged in meaningful growth, contributing to the world, and to have fun (which for me means traveling, being active, walking among trees, smelling flowers, being social, and, most importantly, deeply connected to my family), I feel like I don’t know what I am doing.
But, maybe I am doing it. This is it. I answer a call from my son who has an extra ticket to a Met game on a Monday night and I figure out how to make that work (it was a great game and we had a blast!). I schedule my various medical appointments and follow their instructions as best I can. Babysit for grandchildren and grandnephews when asked. Fit in yoga and tennis where I can. Take a walk with a friend. I write when I can, post a blog when I can. I don’t worry about getting published (easier said than done!). Let tasks in the house sit a while longer. I have lunch with a friend here and there. Plan a trip or two each year. Celebrate my granddaughters’ birthdays. Sounds pretty awesome really. So why do I feel uncentered? Perhaps it is just a matter of accepting it – the fragmented nature of it, the unpredictability of my schedule (or the absence of one) and the idea that I write mostly for myself and whatever audience reads my work. And most importantly, to believe that in being there for friends and family, I will have done something worthwhile even in the face of this very troubled world.
Looking for perspective in the woods of Central Park or maybe just admiring the birds.
I don’t have a sister; I have two brothers. But, I find the dynamic between sisters particularly interesting, maybe because I don’t have one. I could be romanticizing it based on Hallmark cards, but it seems that for some it can be a deep, lifelong friendship; a connection different than the relationship between a sister and a brother, at least from my observation. I did have a front row seat to my mother’s relationship with her sister, Simma, and a less intimate but still revealing view of my mother-in-law and her sister, and I saw common themes. Those relationships were quite layered and complicated. I was reminded of that recently because, as I am still in the endless process of going through my mother’s things, I came across a tribute Aunt Simma wrote for my mother that brought up questions. I am sharing portions of that essay because I think it offers insight into Mom and Simma and provides an opportunity to explore whether the relationship described is true of other sisters. This is Simma’s tribute:
Feige Brody: A Life
This is a wholly unauthorized, condensed, selective biography, one which, no doubt, will be considered by its subject to be semi-fictitious. Nevertheless, these are the author’s reminiscences and, therefore, are told from the author’s point of view.
Feige Marian Spilken was born in Brooklyn on November 16, 1933 to Ray Woltz Spilken and Charles Spilken. Her mother was 19, her father 29. She was named after her maternal grandmother who died too young in her early 40s. From the start she was a good girl, a mother’s girl, nurtured by her young mom whom she adored. Feige was everything adults could hope for in a baby. She was exceedingly pretty with dark curly hair, dimpled cheeks, and she was sufficiently chubby, a good thing in those days, to convince her paternal grandmother that Ray was not a bad mother….
The family moved to New London, Connecticut, where her sister Simma was born. Bubba Sarah Spilken was outraged that Ray should produce such a scrawny, straight haired baby who would not eat of her favorite dishes much preferring to eat bugs and dirt. Only Feige’s smiling, compliant presence and acceptance of those heavy, eastern European dishes kept Bubba from banishing Ray from the family. Feige was the good girl.
The great hurricane of 1938 forced the family to move to Jersey City, New Jersey. They lived above Charlie’s bakery and the girls loved bothering the bakers…
Across the street there was a saloon owned by the Landaus, the only other Jewish family in the neighborhood. Before it opened late in the afternoon, Mrs. Landau allowed the girls to play at the bar pretending to pull beer from the taps and serve customers. There were banquet rooms up a couple of flights of very narrow dark stairs. Everything was covered in sheets until the room had to be used. Feige loved telling Simma ghost stories as they climbed the stairs. She said the sheets were actually the ghosts’ clothing and would make appropriate noises to scare the daylights out of her impressionable sister.
Other favorite pastimes were staring out the back window at the not too distant Statue of Liberty and telling stories. Often, they would go to the front window in the late afternoon when the saloon opened. They liked to shout at one particular customer who looked worse for drink and had a fat, red nose. “Salami, Baloney, Pastrami,” they shouted since those were the most offensive words they knew. After the outcry they would duck, afraid the drunk would see them. That was exciting….
No matter where they lived, Feige was like a little mother to her sister. While Ray worked, Feige would entertain Simma and endure her fresh mouth and mischievous ways. One hot summer night all the windows were open when a terrible summer storm occurred… Simma wouldn’t listen when Feige told her to go to bed. Instead, she ran away making Feige chase after her. The rain slicked linoleum floors were so slippery Simma fell. Sliding into the metal radiator, her eye was bruised, turning black and blue, but it was Feige who suffered. She couldn’t stop blaming herself for the accident. She was a good girl.
Simma would refuse to go to sleep… Feige would induce her to come to their shared bed by telling her she would be allowed to squeeze and pull Feige’s copious ringlets. Simma can still feel their soft, springy, velvet luxuriousness. It was a fact that whether they were in Brooklyn, in the country with Bubba and Zada, or at a bungalow in Rockaway, Feige took care of her sister.
She was patient most times, but one lapse occurred in the late ‘40s. Simma was home in bed, too sick to go to school. Those were the days of Forever Amber, but there was no way the girls could obtain that “dirty” book. They got a poor imitation in Kitty. Feige allowed Simma to read the book but made her promise to read it under the covers, the way Feige read every night so their parents wouldn’t catch her.
When Feige came home from school, Simma asked her to define a word she could not find in the dictionary. “Feige,” she queried, “what is a whore?” She pronounced it “war.” “You know. It’s an armed conflict between nations,” Feige replied. Simma was frustrated and said, “I don’t mean a war, a ‘war.’” Feige responded, exasperatedly, “WHO-ER, stupid, WHO-ER.” What was this? Feige lost her cool and never did enlighten Simma as to the definition of the word…
Ray and Charlie always had people in the house. The two sides of the family gathered there as well as their many friends. Feige and Simma were allowed to stay up and mingle with them. One of Charlie’s friends, Jerry Cohen, would show them parlor tricks first fooling them and then teaching them. That was how they learned to read each other’s minds, an act they still perform for amazed spectators.
Days, though, were not always sunny. Feige finally caused her parents anxiety when she was 17. She decided she would like to move into an apartment with some friends. How could a well brought up girl live without her parents’ supervision? Ray and Charlie were distressed. But it was a great time for Simma. It was the only time Simma was told by family members that she was the good daughter, never causing her family any distress. Who were these people? Where had they been for the last 17 years?
When Feige started college her life changed, making it even better than it already was. She met Barry Brody. She was smitten and, indeed, got married to him as soon as they both were graduated from Brooklyn College. Feige is fond of quoting Charlie. Well, one of his precepts was that to have a happy marriage the couple should move away from their parents the first year of their marriage and get to know one another without interference. Feige, ever obedient, moved to Wichita Falls, Texas; Chicopee Falls, Massachusetts; and then back to Brooklyn with two boys in tow and a girl on the way.
Now, Feige was a devoted wife, mother, cook and baker. The girl who in her parents’ house had to be told that the outside of the pots and dishes had to be washed as well as the inside, was suddenly the happy homemaker. She, like Ray, loved to entertain family and friends. There was always lots of good food around which is still true whether the Brodys were home in Brooklyn or in Livingston Manor, or, now, in Boynton Beach. Their houses were and are gathering places for everyone they know, and their hospitality is boundless.
One more point of kindness, showing what a good girl and sister Feige is. A year after Simma’s husband died, Feige and Barry were afraid she would have nothing to do during the summer and suggested they all take a trip to Europe together. They planned to go to London, Paris and Amsterdam but the French changed all that. They would not allow American Air Force planes to use French airspace when they on their way to a bombing mission in Libya. The planes went the long way around. One ran out of gas and crashed killing the American crew. Feige was up in arms while putting her foot down. She would not go to France. She said there were two choices: cancel the trip or find something to replace the Paris portion. There was a replacement, a circle England tour. It was Simma’s first sight of England and Oxford, a romance that continues to this day. Thank you, Feige. By the way, Feige still has not gone nor will ever go to France. You are a good girl, Feige Marian Spilken Brody. Happy birthday with love from your sister, Simma Spilken Sulzer.
Mom (left) and Simma as teenagersMom (left) and Simma in England
Unfortunately, both Simma and Feige have passed away so I cannot ask questions that arise from the narrative. For example, Simma notes that after the great hurricane they moved to Jersey City and lived above Charlie’s bakery (Charlie was their father). I thought the bakery was owned by Charlie’s brother. A minor point in one sense, but not so inconsequential in understanding their economic circumstances.
It’s also interesting that Simma comments in a positive way about Mom’s chubbiness as a baby – at that time, and in their culture, having a plump baby was a sign of good mothering. I think we still believe it’s okay for a baby to have round cheeks, but only up to a point, then we start to worry. The never-ending judgment of mothers continues unabated to this day.
Another recurring theme is the importance of story-telling and reading. Mom was a devoted reader. In fact, as her daughter, I would get frustrated trying to get her attention when her nose was in a book. Often, I would just give up. On the positive side, my brothers and I grew up to be readers ourselves and continue to enjoy good stories.
Simma mentions the parlor trick of reading each other’s minds. Mom and Simma performed that gag many times to the amusement and bafflement of our family. I didn’t know where they learned how to do it, now I do – Jerry Cohen! Very late in life, Mom finally revealed how it was done, though I doubt I could remember the steps well enough to do it with one of my brothers.
Simma characterizes Mom as a happy homemaker after her marriage and arrival of children. I don’t think of Mom that way. She enjoyed cooking and baking for the purpose of entertaining guests (and to a much lesser extent feeding her family), but that was the end of her homemaking enthusiasm. Keeping a close eye on her young children (!), cleaning, sewing, and ironing were not high on her priority list. I don’t think she was a happy homemaker. I don’t hold that against her, but she probably should have been a bit less laissez faire when it came to overseeing her young children.
There are so many other interesting elements to this essay, starting with Simma’s disclaimer at the beginning. She acknowledges that her perspective may be quite different than Mom’s. I don’t think she is referring to the vagaries of memory. When Mom and Aunt Simma would tell a story from their shared past, which may have involved the same people and same incident, they understood it in totally different ways. Mom seemingly came into this world as a glass half full kind of gal; Aunt Simma not so much. Often, Mom saw people through rose-colored glasses and that certainly applied to how she viewed their parents.
I find it illuminating, too, that Aunt Simma describes Mom as a good girl. Mom, by her own description, was compliant and she wanted to please her parents. Aunt Simma was more rebellious, chafing at the restrictions put on them as children. Mom credited Simma with getting them a later bedtime, even though she was the younger one. Simma was the trailblazer, according to Mom. She also spoke of Simma’s insistence on picking out her own clothes. As a young person Simma was given a budget with which to buy her own outfits – she would rather buy one stylish item, instead of several cheaper things. Mom wore whatever her mother got for her.
That brings me to the first of several common themes between Mom and her sister and my mother-in-law and hers. That dynamic, the good one vs. the rebellious one, seemed to play out in both. Paula described herself as obedient – she did whatever her mother asked her to do as a child. Sophia was less cooperative. Unlike my mom, who was the eldest, Paula was the middle child with an older brother, Bernie, and Sophia about three years younger. Years later, when I met them, Sophia commented that their dad told bedtime stories to Paula, not to her (though they shared the same bed – just like Mom and Aunt Simma). Paula claimed that he was telling the stories to both of them, but that was not Sophia’s perception. Paula recalled feeling loved by both of her parents, despite the traumatic premature death of their father (he was murdered by the Nazis). Sophia did not carry the same warm memories of paternal affection. This mirrors the differences in my mother’s and aunt’s tendency to have disparate perceptions of people (though in Mom and Simma’s case not necessarily different views of their father).
Sophia (left), their mother, Lea, and PaulaSophia (left), David, my father-in-law, and Paula
Another similarity between Mom and Paula was their choice of a spouse when compared with their younger sisters. Mom and Paula were lucky in marriage, enjoying long, supportive, loving relationships. No doubt they had their ups and downs, as all marriages do, but they had husbands who were welcomed into the family and were much loved by their in-laws. Simma and Sophia were not so blessed. I imagine that difference in marital harmony impacted their relationship as sisters, as well.
The biography that Simma wrote for my mom is full of love and warmth. Their later years were more complicated. When I visited in Florida, years after Dad died, Mom told me that she believed Simma didn’t like her anymore. I didn’t know what to say. I tried to find fault with her perception but didn’t convince her. So many things might have gone into that – the loss of their respective husbands, deteriorating health, and perhaps long buried resentments/jealousies. At one point, after Simma died and Mom was feeling guilty that she hadn’t been able to offer her sister much comfort at the end of her life, I read her this essay and other cards from Simma that expressed love and appreciation. Sadly, it didn’t seem to ease Mom’s regret.
Paula and Sophia appeared to experience a similar distancing towards the end of their lives. Again, many things contributed to that, not the least of which was physical distance with Sophia living in Tucson, Arizona while Paula split time between New York and Florida. The progression of Paula’s Alzheimer’s disease created an additional challenge.
Sibling relationships are complicated. Though DNA is shared, personalities can be dramatically different and that was certainly the case with Simma and Mom and Paula and Sophia. Many people are estranged from their siblings, and it is understandable given how fraught family life can be. The potential for deep resentment is great – add mental or physical illness, or other serious problems and the bond can break. That was not the case with my mother or mother-in-law, but the end of life challenged the connection. There is no doubt, though, in both cases, the sisterly relationship was one of the most important in their lives. Whatever their differences, they remained deeply tied to one another.
What is your experience or observation about relationships between sisters?
This photo came up as a memory on Facebook a couple of days ago. It was bittersweet to see it. I remember that day clearly. It was only a year ago. Gary and I were in Florida for our annual pilgrimage to see the Mets during spring training. We took a short drive from our hotel to take a walk by the beach. Gary did his thing – he likes to show he can still climb a tree – and I snapped the photo to document it and sent it to our children, who, in turn, would hopefully show our granddaughters.
At the same time that we were enjoying this ordinary moment of levity, I was struggling with a difficult and painful decision. My mother, whose health had been failing, took a dramatic turn for the worse the night before. We had only just arrived in Florida. Though Mom had not been doing well, I had spoken with my brothers, the hospice nurse and her aide before leaving and we thought she was stable. We were wrong. Thus the question: Should I return and go to New Jersey, or should I stay?
Gary and I contemplated that as we walked along the beach. I had several conversations with my brothers before our walk. Both of them encouraged me to stay in Florida. Mark was heading down to Jersey from Albany with his wife, Pam, so he would be there. Steven and his wife, Cindy, lived 15 minutes away from Mom so he visited regularly. Steven was quite insistent that I stay in Florida; they would handle things. I had been very involved with Mom’s care up to that point, they didn’t want me to cut short our brief vacation. We were scheduled to be away for a total of five days, and we were on our second day when things went south.
After much contemplation, we decided to stay, believing that there wasn’t much I could add. My brothers are capable people. Mom was sleeping most of the time. Despite that, I was still torn. Did I need to see her? I decided I didn’t. I remembered how painful it was to see my father during his last days. Those images stayed with me for years, crowding out memories of him as a healthy person. It was also possible that I would get back in time to see her since our trip was so brief. Though I was deeply conflicted, I didn’t have a strong gut feeling, so we decided to stay in Florida.
I was able to enjoy the sunshine and warm air. I had the welcome distraction of the baseball games and dinners with friends. We visited Gary’s mother. In between, I talked to my brothers and thought about Mom and continued wondering whether I was doing the right thing. My brothers and sisters-in-law were handling some rough stuff – administering morphine, watching Mom to see if she was uncomfortable while she mostly slept. I felt guilty leaving this final stage to them, but I was also relieved.
Gary and I flew back north on Monday. Mom was still hanging in there. Before we left for the airport, I called my sister-in-law Pam’s cell phone, knowing she was sitting with Mom. Pam told me Mom’s eyes were closed, and she seemed comfortable. I asked her to hold the phone next to Mom’s ear. I told Mom I was coming to see her the next day but if she was ready to go, it was okay. I told her I loved her, that she was a great mother and that she earned her rest.
We arrived back in Albany late on Monday. Mom was still breathing. I got up early Tuesday morning and was packing my things to drive down to New Jersey when my phone rang. Mom’s aide, Ama, said she believed Mom had passed. She was waiting for the nurse to come to confirm it. I was surprised and I wasn’t. I thanked Ama for all she had done for Mom. I felt lost – now what should I do? After calling Gary, who was at work already, I wandered around my bedroom deciding if I still wanted to go down to New Jersey. For reasons that aren’t entirely clear to me, even now, I wanted to go. Maybe to see visual proof that Mom was gone, maybe to help Steve and Cindy with the details….
Ama was indeed correct. The next few days are a blur, planning the funeral, sorting through her things.
It was Mom’s time – I knew that. I wondered whether what I said to her on the phone made a difference. I didn’t exactly feel guilty about not being there, though I wondered if I would have offered her some additional comfort. I had been with Mom through most of her medical issues over the last years. I think I offered her comfort then. A year later I am still not sure how I feel. I am not riddled with regret, and I have been spared thinking of Mom as the sick version of herself. When I remember her, I think of her vibrant self. I am grateful for that. I still think of calling her to share good news.
I am also grateful to my brothers for protecting me – I think that is what they were doing by encouraging me to stay in Florida. I believe that they thought I had pulled my weight in caring for Mom, and they stepped up to see her through to the end, painful as it must have been.
Aside from knowing that it was Mom’s time, I know one other thing: there is no “right” answer as to how to handle the end of life. There is only doing the best you can and making decisions with love and compassion. After that, if you are a believer, you give it up to God. If you aren’t, and I am not, you give it up to the great unknown.
Note: Mom passed one year ago today – February 27, 2024. We miss her but take comfort in the long, happy life she had.
We gathered at Riverside Cemetery in Saddle Brook, New Jersey. In Jewish tradition, a year or so after a person is buried, you have an unveiling – literally the unveiling of a headstone or footstone that is the marker commemorating the individual’s life and death. Though it has been less than a year since my mother passed, my family gathered to observe this ritual for her on Sunday, November 17th, one day after what would have been Mom’s 91st birthday.
Photo by my brother, Mark Brody
19 of us stood around her grave on a brilliantly sunny day, unusually warm for mid-November in the northeast. It was appropriate weather given Mom’s sunny disposition (she was an eternal optimist, though, for better or worse, she shared her fears and complaints with me). She is buried between her mother, my Nana, and her husband, my father. The plot is part of an area that was established by the burial society founded by immigrants from Strickover, Poland where her father was born. Ironically, he is not buried here, he rests in Florida. But, other family members surround Mom, her brother, grandfather, aunts and uncles. There is something comforting to me about them all being together.
We began the ceremony by reading the portion of Ecclesiastes that tells us so eloquently that to everything there is a season – reminding us of the cycle of life. Then we uncovered the stone which reads:
Feige M. Brody
Nee Spilken
November 16, 1933 – February 27,2024
Cherished Wife, Mother, Grandmother, Sister and Aunt
Life-long Learner
Standing beside me were representatives of all those roles – her children, brother, sister-in-law, grandchildren ( a great-grandchild, too), nephew, nieces, and great-nephews.
I read these words: “On behalf of all of us, we consecrate this memorial to Feige Brody as a sign of our eternal love and devotion. May her soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.”
The cemetery had provided a booklet with selections that could be read, and it offered the following passage which I am transcribing here because I thought it was insightful, comforting and appropriate and might be helpful to others who are grieving a loss:
“We gather here today at the final resting place of our beloved mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, Feige to unveil this grave marker dedicated to her memory and to call to mind our cherished memories of her. When Feige passed away, we assembled here to pay our respects. At that time our grief was deep, and we felt intensely the pain of loss. Now, with the passage of time, the pangs of our initial grief have softened, yet we still feel sorrow in our hearts whenever we remember her.
Jewish tradition teaches us that those memories of Feige, which each of us cherish, can provide us with a measure of comfort. Those memories also serve as a form of immortality that comes to those we love when we remember them, and when we live our lives in emulation of the virtues they taught us by example.
Our presence here today is already an indication that Feige has achieved that immortality that comes through remembrance. Our presence is also a sign of the respect and admiration in which Feige is held by us. We still feel an emptiness in our lives when think of her because she played such an important role in each of our lives as a beloved family member and friend to many. Feige was devoted to us as we were devoted to her, a relationship of love and affection that we recall today.
Throughout the months since Feige passed away, we have each had occasions to remember the impact that she had on our lives.
We are comforted by our memories of the joys she brought to people and by the contribution Feige made to the betterment of our world.
In the biblical book The Song of Songs we learn that “The bonds of love are stronger than death.” Our memories today prove the truth of that teaching.
Even though Feige is no longer present in person, the love that we shared and the way our lives were touched by her continue to be felt. The pain of loss and separation is the price we have to pay for the years of Feige’s love and devotion.
Therefore, it is with sorrow, yet at the same time with a deep sense of gratitude, that we thank God for the years during which we were privileged to have had Feige as part of our family’s life and as a member of our community. We thank God, as well, for the love that bound us together with Feige in life and that inspires our cherished memories. It is with these thoughts in mind that we now pay tribute to Feige by dedicating this grave marker to her.”
That passage provided comfort to me. I am consoled by the notion that we attain a measure of immortality by being remembered – it helps me to reconcile the loss of my mother and father, as well as other people who I have loved in my life and still think of regularly. And, it is meaningful to me to think of how, by carrying forward their values, by emulating their integrity and generosity, I am helping to preserve their legacy. Those thoughts help me to come to peace with my own mortality. Hopefully I will have touched friends and family in a way that merits remembrance.
After reading that passage, we said a concluding Hebrew prayer and Uncle Terry read a touching poem he had written in tribute. Aunt Barbara, as a self-described “out-law” welcomed into the family by Mom, offered her heart-felt perspective on Mom (and Dad’s) generosity and the importance of our family bonds. Terry noted that he had Barbara would, when the time came, rest in this same area of the cemetery, just across from where we stood. I said a silent prayer that that would not be any time soon.
Another Jewish tradition when visiting the grave of a loved one is to place a rock on the marker. This is to signify a visitor’s presence, that the person who has passed has not been forgotten. Several years ago, when we gathered at my father-in-law’s grave, my sister-in-law Doreen painted some rocks with pictures of things that she shared with her Dad or represented him. I thought that was a wonderful gesture. I decided to do that for my parents. I painted one rock to look like a bookshelf with items my dad read regularly: Economics, Puzo (he loved The Godfather and read it multiple times), L’Amour (he loved westerns) and History. I painted another stone with Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (my mother’s favorite of her novels, and she read Austen every summer until dementia made that impossible) and a final stone with a blueberry bush (when my parents lived in the Catskills and the grandchildren came to visit, they went blueberry picking and baked muffins). I felt good placing those rocks that embodied precious memories, knowing that they would sit there for a while at least before the elements wear them away.
No Spilken/Brody gathering would be complete without partaking of food. So, we adjourned to the diner that was just outside the cemetery. Though the service was painfully slow, and we had to wait, and the orders got mixed up (no day goes by without some aggravation), we enjoyed each other’s company before going our separate ways and returning to our lives – some in New Jersey, some in Massachusetts, some in Connecticut and the rest in Albany, New York. Hopefully our next gathering will be a happier occasion, but I am left with a feeling of warmth, believing that Mom and Dad rest easy knowing that our familial bonds are strong and that we are doing our best to live out their values.
Note: I have written a great deal about my mom and posted some of her essays on this blog. She was an avid reader, supporter and contributor to this effort. After putting up a long fight for life, she passed away on Tuesday, February 27, 2024 in Freehold, New Jersey. Though we are broken hearted, we are relieved that she is no longer suffering. Here is the eulogy that I offered at her funeral service.
First, I must say thank you, Mom. I was not the easiest child to parent, more specifically to mother. I was sensitive, self-conscious and insecure. I was not blessed with the innate optimism that Mom had. Mom had her work cut out for her – something I did not fully appreciate until I became a mother myself. I would like to share two stories of her successes.
I had a truly terrible teacher in 6th grade – and in those days in NYC you had one teacher for virtually all the subjects. It made for a long, unhappy day. My best friend and I decided we had had enough and planned to play hooky. And, we did. Her apartment was empty during the day and we had a fine time. Some kids might look for trouble – we baked cupcakes, had a food fight and watched TV. Her older sister came home early and found us. I was afraid my parents would find out so I fessed up to Mom when she got home from work. She didn’t get angry, she didn’t punish me. She told me if I ever got so distressed to the point that I needed a break, to tell her and she would let me stay home. I never did take her up on that – the idea that I could was enough of a comfort. I knew she trusted and supported me.
The other story was again in the midst of a trying time in August of 1975. I had cut short working at a summer camp because I was not comfortable with the drug use and partying that surrounded me there. My parents welcomed me home. Aside from that, my grandmother, my father’s mom, was seriously ill in the hospital. One night I couldn’t sleep, my heart racing, I woke Mom. She comforted me as best she could – reminding me of the positive things in our lives and she suggested that we plan a sweet sixteen for me. Mom always believed in making the best of bad times. I was nervous at the prospect of a party– would friends come? She planned one of the all-time great parties. It was a mystery bus ride – my friends tried to guess where we were going. We went to see The Fantasticks off Broadway in Greenwich Village, we had fried chicken dinners on the bus, and returned home to make our own sundaes. I had a sign in book where my friends and family wrote kind and loving messages – I still have that book – I still read that book. It was a revelation to me – a little like Sally Field when she cried, “you like me, you really like me!” when she won the Oscar. Mom, you did good.
Mom wasn’t perfect and she knew that – she could be very hard on herself. I think I knew her in a slightly different way than my brothers – maybe being her daughter she more readily shared other parts of herself, the less optimistic side. But one of her great messages was that we should always be learning and striving to be better. That we could improve ourselves. She believed that until her dying day. That may have been the greatest gift she gave me – the belief that we can grow and evolve if we are open to it, if we work at it.
I am so grateful to Mom. Many of you know I write a blog and I share stories on it that are sometimes painful and, in some cases, may have been difficult for Mom to read. But she only encouraged me. She read what I wrote. She loved it. She appreciated my honesty. Another gift.
So, Mom, you were a wonderful human being and you raised three good human beings – is there a better legacy? I think not. We will continue to pay it forward. We love you and will miss you terribly, but you have earned your rest. I hope your spirit is reunited with all those you loved so much. Rest in peace and love, Mom.
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 graduationmy master’s graduationour weddingJune 2023 in Croatia
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
July 30th 1983 dawned warm, cloudy and humid. Not an unusual beginning for a summer day in Brooklyn. But this was no ordinary day. Finally, after all the planning and fretting over details (from dress shopping to choosing a napkin color to the seating arrangements), it was time to say ‘I do’ and have a party!
Fortunately, there was a steady breeze so it wasn’t as stifling as it could have been. I wasn’t unhappy about the humidity because my hair looked its best in those conditions. Less frizz, more curl. What could be better for my wedding day?!? The downside was that it didn’t take much to get me sweating. I hoped that the Seaview Jewish Center would be well air-conditioned.
I woke up that morning in my childhood bed happy and excited, but also a little lost. What was I going to do with myself until it was time to get my make-up done? Since our invitation was for 9:30 pm, even with time for getting ready and taking pictures, a long day stretched ahead of me. I was never one to sleep late, and that day was no exception, especially with the anticipation of the big event.
There were some distractions. My 17-month old nephew, Joshua, was in the house, along with his mom and dad (my brother). I was enamored with Josh, an adorable, charming red head. He was the first grandchild in the Brody family, and was doted on accordingly. But there were limits to the time I could spend with him – he needed to eat and nap, and for some reason his grandparents claimed his attention too. Inexplicably, he sometimes stated his preference for his mom or dad.
Happily, my maid-of-honor, Merle, was also available. Since we graduated from college, we didn’t get to see each other that frequently. She was living in Buffalo getting her PhD in counseling psychology, while I was living in Pittsburgh. Though those two cities aren’t that far apart mileage-wise, the travel could be treacherous with lake effect snow and other weird weather phenomena (tornado warnings on one drive!). I wrote about one of our memorable trips where we got stuck in a blizzard in Erie, PA here. Merle and I got together in the early afternoon to take a walk. I was grateful for the one-on-one time before the craziness of the wedding.
Though evening took its sweet time, eventually it arrived. My bridesmaid, Deborah, arranged for my make-up to be done at my house. It was an incredibly thoughtful gift since my mother and I didn’t know much about that stuff. Maria, armed with a small suitcase of cosmetics, sat me down in our kitchen and got to work. She knew I wanted to look natural, but with enough touching up to look special and photograph well.
As I was sitting in the chair, it was still long before we needed to leave to take pictures, the doorbell rang. Who could that be? Everyone was accounted for and busily getting showered and dressed. My father answered the door and ushered our guest in. It was Gary!
“Gary! What are you doing here?”
I was shocked – we were supposed to meet at the photographer’s studio in another hour.
“No one in my house was close to ready. There’s construction on the Belt, and I wasn’t taking any chances. I wasn’t going to be late for my own wedding.”
“Ooookaaaay.”
I thought about whether I cared if he saw me as I got ready. There’s supposed to be this big reveal when the groom sees his bride for the first time (though they had not come up with the ‘first look’ photo session yet). I quickly decided that it was silly to worry about that – it was sweet that he was so concerned and responsible that he arrived ridiculously early.
“All right, well it’s fine if you want to hang out. You can head to the photographer when we go.”
His family, his brother in particular, had a reputation for being late and Gary didn’t want to get caught up in that drama at his house. He didn’t want to be the one to nudge them along, worrying all the while about the potential traffic. Gary and I had already experienced the impact of the construction on the Belt Parkway.
The Belt was the highway that connected our respective neighborhoods in Brooklyn and Queens. In between was JFK, the airport. Traffic was always heavy. Introduce a lane closure for construction or an accident and an epic back up ensued. Gary and I had been home for a few days to prepare for the wedding and made the trip between our two houses several times, finding ourselves at a standstill in that traffic. I understood why he had been so anxious about it. He warned his family. They might be late, but he wasn’t going to be.
I went into my bedroom to put on my dress. Some women, when stressed, eat less and may lose weight in the week before their wedding. Not this woman. Though I thought I was being careful, my gown was tighter than when I last put it on – but it zipped up without too much difficulty. I looked in the mirror and commented to my mom that I was showing more cleavage than I remembered. I guess that’s where the extra pound or two had gone. Mom reassured me that it was fine.
Since Sabbath ended so late, we couldn’t take pictures at the Seaview Jewish Center. We didn’t want to delay things even more, so we arranged to go to the photographer’s studio beforehand. It was conveniently located in the shopping center near my house. We were working with Jay Phillips, the same photographer who did my parents’ wedding 29 years earlier! Much to Gary’s relief, his family did indeed make it in time. By the time the session was done my cheeks hurt from smiling so broadly.
As we were leaving the studio, it started to rain. David, my father-in-law-to-be, commented that in Judaism rain is a good omen – it was a blessing on our marriage. Over the many years that I would know him, David could be counted on to turn to Jewish tradition to find the bright side to a seemingly negative or innocuous thing. (Did you know that in our tradition Tuesday is the best/luckiest day to move? David told me that after learning that his grandson, my son, Daniel and his wife Beth had moved into their new house on a Tuesday.)
In those days it was common to have the cocktail hour before the ceremony. The bride was supposed to stay in a private room so the ‘reveal’ wouldn’t be spoiled. The groom was free to mingle. I stayed in the room for a bit, but decided it was another silly ritual, so I joined the festivities. After a brief spin around the room, it was time to take care of the pre-ceremony paperwork – the signing of the ketubah (the Jewish marriage contract).
We, my parents, the rabbi, Gary and his parents, gathered in the rabbi’s study. The rabbi asked for our marriage license – we gave it to him. Then he asked for the ketubah. We all looked at each other. Panic ensued. After a few minutes of searching, my dad prepared to go back to our house (fortunately only a five- minute ride) to get it. Just as Dad was leaving the room, Gary looked over at the rabbi, who was sitting at the desk busily writing.
“Rabbi, what are you doing?”
The rabbi looked up perplexed, apparently oblivious to the chaos in the room.
“I’m preparing the ketubah.”
“Then you have it?!?”
The rabbi, it turned out, had asked the question rhetorically – he was asking himself and he quietly found it in his folder. He neglected to mention it, though, and the rest of us were in high gear searching and trying to come up with a plan B if we couldn’t locate it. We couldn’t believe that the rabbi hadn’t noticed the turmoil in the room.
My father, who had carried his gin and tonic from the cocktail hour into the study, gulped it down in one swallow, in relief. He was stressed at the prospect of trying to find the document in the disarray of our house. Luckily, he didn’t have to. We all took a deep breath.
The rest of the night went on without incident. The ceremony was enhanced by two flautists playing Erev Shel Shoshanim (Evening of Roses) – the romantic and lovely melody was the perfect accompaniment. I didn’t want to walk down the aisle to the traditional ‘Here Comes the Bride.’
My father’s friend, Jack Merlis, was a cantor and opera singer. He agreed to perform during the ceremony. His powerful voice practically blew us off the bema. I felt the vibration of his vocals down to my toes.
our wedding
It was after midnight when the ceremony concluded, and we got down to the dinner and dancing. Gary’s brother, our best man, toasted our individuality and our union. We had a great time. After three hours of revelry, we prepared to leave around 3:30 a.m. Gary arranged to borrow his mom’s car for our honeymoon in upstate New York. We would spend the week at my parents’ house in Livingston Manor (without my parents :)).
We went out to find the car decorated with a ‘Just Married’ sign and streamers. Gary’s siblings had done the honors. Not only that, they gave us a cooler stocked with champagne and snacks so we could continue our celebration. We learned that the reason that Steven was delayed and distracted earlier in the day, when Gary was worrying that no one was getting ready in a timely way, was that he and Rochelle were running around getting the cooler, glasses, champagne and other goodies. It was a thoughtful and appreciated gesture.
The stresses and strains of the planning were behind us. Gary and I set off on our future together, supported by the love, humor, care and generosity of our family and friends. Though there would be other bumps in the road, the journey continued and continues. We still rely on that foundation.
This past weekend was very special. We celebrated my 60th birthday as a family. It was made special by the people who showered me with love. I am grateful and inspired by your words and deeds. The main planner of the lovely weekend in the Berkshires – with all of my favorite things – was Gary, with able assists from Leah, Daniel, Beth and our granddaughter.
Let me pay tribute to my favorite things – ‘things’ encompasses people, places and objects.
First and foremost, I love my family. Not just my immediate family, though they are the best. Many people would not choose to celebrate a milestone birthday with their mother, siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews (and some other assorted relations). I would. So, Gary arranged to gather them.
I love the Berkshires. The wooded mountains, with enough autumn color to contrast with the bright blue sky, are lovely. Saturday provided us with crisp, cool air and bathed us in sunshine.
I love a walk in the woods, so we took a hike up Monument Mountain. Dan, Beth and our 17-month old granddaughter started out with us, but when it started to approach her nap time, they went back to the Inn. Gary, Leah, Ben and I continued to the peak.
It was the perfect hike in that some of it was easy, some of it was uphill which demanded more of us, and some of it was a little scary. When we got close to the top it got rocky, with some sheer drops. It required care and concentration – especially for this 60-year old. But the payoff was worth it – the views and the sense of accomplishment were satisfying. Leah led us through the tricky parts and kept an eye on me to make sure I was okay. Ben found me a great walking stick. We all got back to the car safe and sound.
I love a good sandwich with chips. As we made our way down the mountain, I pulled out my handy-dandy smart phone and pulled up Yelp and found a highly rated deli nearby. The wonders of modern technology! We picked up sandwiches and brought them back to the Inn. Our granddaughter was still napping so we sat in the common area and ate.
While I don’t generally love games, there are certain kinds of games that I do enjoy. Beth, our daughter-in-law, introduced us to one where you pick a letter (in this case m) and each person takes a turn naming a movie title that begins with that letter. We played as teams. Gary was my partner. He is not a movie maven, but he has a great imagination. He made up some great titles (The Mufti, Grand was a particularly humous one) and we laughed. That is one of my favorite things to do – laugh. He also surprised us with some legitimate answers.
Our room at the inn had a huge claw-foot tub. After lunch I soaked my weary legs and back in a wonderful hot bath. Yet another indulgence in a pretty great day. But there was more to come.
Next was the dinner party. I love food! This was a sumptuous meal. I had a cocktail. I had some wine with dinner. I visited with my favorite people. There were so many nice touches. Gary borrowed someone’s Polaroid camera (who knew they made them anymore?) and Leah took pictures and put together an album during the festivities (I can look at it and think back on this lovely time). Our granddaughter was a joy and made it through the main course.
Gary composed and read a poem for me. It really isn’t fair that he has so many talents. Others offered kind, loving words, too.
Daniel presented me with custom socks. I have a tradition of gifting socks. I also have a tradition of sending my children postcards from wherever my travels take me – including work which brought me to exotics cities like Buffalo and Rochester. I sent a postcard anyway. Dan has saved those postcards. Beth photographed them and had it printed on socks and made up two pair. One for Dan, which he was wearing that night, and one for me. How cool is that? It makes me smile to look at them, remembering the various trips. But, more than that, I get to reflect on my connection to my son (and daughter).
I love chocolate. The birthday cake was a celebration of chocolate. They plated it with a scoop of black currant sorbet. So delicious! What a way to end the meal!
Sunday morning dawned cold and rainy – not my favorite thing. But the kids, Gary and I gathered for one more meal. Hot coffee, a warm scone, berries, yogurt and granola hit the spot. One last snuggle with our granddaughter and hugs for our children. The weekend was over, and it was time to go home. I will keep the memories of my favorite things: my family, the beauty of nature, physical activity that pushes me just enough, laughter, delicious meals and decadent chocolate to top it off.
Thank you to all who made it possible, especially Gary, Leah and Daniel. I love you hugely!
If you want to find every bit of schmutz (translation: dust bunnies and other crumbs) in your house, have a 14-month old visit.
If you want to be reminded of the wonder of electricity, watch the face of a 14-month old when you flip a light switch on and off.
If you want to discover muscles you forgot you had, play with a 14-month old for two full days.
If you want to see the beauty of the wind in the trees, look out the window with a 14-month old.
If you want your heart to melt, get a hug around the legs from a toddler who nuzzles you when she is ready for a nap.
If you want to experience your heart in your mouth, watch that toddler walk like a drunken sailor past a glass and wood coffee table.
If you want to experience the full range of human emotion, spend 15 minutes with a 14-month old who goes from joy to frustration to laughter to curiosity to tears in that space of time.
If you want a smile, give a 14-month old a bite of a sugar cookie. Yum.
I had the pleasure of all of this, and more, over the past four days. It is also why my blog post is so late. I admit to being tired, physically, mentally and emotionally. I am also reminded that there is a reason we have children when we are young. But, it is all worth it. To be a grandparent is a privilege and I am keenly aware of that. I will treasure memories of these days.
On a brutally hot day, she had the right idea! My precious one.
