Wednesday, February 26, 2020

Latitude and longitude

This morning I asked myself while the mists of sleep still hung over me in a vaporous cloud as a reminder that my nights are broken in semi sleep and almost awakened sleep  I asked where am I. A potentially loaded question for so many reasons frightening in its immensity and emotional quotient. Break it down I thought save yourself, I know I’m in a child’s day bed in a largish room in a nearly two hundred year old home that is solid and protecting. Yes, I further thought within the bosom of my family getting unconditional love from two of my grandchildren every day even if sometimes I’m not the fun Bubbie but the custodial Bubbie who gives them the look and the point of the finger. I’m on a plot of ground that even in stripped bare February winter is beautiful, with plans for spring planting while hundreds of packets of seeds await their germination fates in a room below. This ground tended and farmed for two hundred years. I have only to look out these windows and see this New England scape with apple trees lilac bushes rhododendrons and oaks maples the expanded rose garden. Beautiful steepled white church and buildings facing the town bandstand and park. The townhall, library and catty cornered another old steepled white church. Historic homes old barns and streets with oldie time names, Sweetbriar lane, Village Green lane, Old Tannery road even around the corner Lovers Lane. Again, to myself where are you. Ok, I’ll be literal I looked it up I’m 41.334140. -73.206580
Latitude longitude. Still nothing remotely answering my first waking thought. So, it comes down to the philosophical question. Time frame? Should I go back to October when the metamorphosis began, further back, or perhaps just now this moment. I do a mental review an inventory. Yes, there is more  to smile about, even hug to myself. The stabbing pain is gone, I can’t deny the ache and somewhat lost feeling that lingers. The strong need for several of my fur babies, and the indignation and anger that is still hovering especially when dealing with the government, health care etc. my daily paper shuffling phone calls nightmare. I’m semi legal now, I have my real license, an address a bank account several credit cards in my real name, I receive mail and I have a library card. So existentially I now exist and once again belong only to myself. I own an aging and cranky truck, a Cubesmart storage unit that holds all my worldly goods, bits and pieces here in my room on the I believe West side of the house. My favorite mug sits on the drainboard in the kitchen under the huge picture window where every day and every evening I see the vista of nature. Establishing myself is still in flux, plans still in the want too stage, and the philosophical question remains to be answered. I’m still in two worlds, trying desperately to close one door with finality while the other portal not fully opened to me. I do know hopefully some of what lies beyond there’s a wonderful light and glimmers of a future there. As a Yoga teacher practitioner I know to look back is foolish unproductive yet I still question my decisions, actions. It’s normal healthy to review to decide what works what needs to change and then the biggest question where are you going. To go forward I need to know where I am? Or not. Maybe as I write this I’m thinking just maybe right now you let go. Let the future take care of itself until a plan unfolds. That my dears is the most frightening thought of all. Mind blowing actually. But, it is in itself a plan. As corny as it sounds I’ve answered in a roundabout way my question of where am I. I’m here in this moment here. 

Monday, February 24, 2020

Chop Suey Summer

Chop Suey Summer

by Michele Bernstein

Jacknowitz family picnics , I remember a park with a lake. Everybody came, there was food and more food. Grates on fire pits filled with aromatic sizzling stuff. Family, Great Aunts and Great Uncles, Aunts, Uncles, and cousins to the fifth degree. A loud yelling mass of people, all with an opinion. The loudest no matter how convoluted the logic won. Always.

The men wore grey slacks, the older men's were baggy, I mean down to the knees baggy with belts and suspenders. They had to, these men were the roundest most barrel chested men you'd ever met. All had pug noses and pugnacious personalities. It seemed to me they were Lumberjack thick with big ham fists and fingers. I would look at my Great Uncle Jacks hands with five sausages on one hand and four on the other. His thumb was missing a fascinating mystery to me. Bald, all the old ones were strands of hair away from shiny baby bottom bald. When they spoke their voices were gravely, deep, heavily laced with a New York-Queens dialect. All sucked on cigarettes and cigars constantly, while the woman sported cigarette holders. Some of these were down right funny looking, like sawed off chop sticks with rhinestones and fake seeded pearls embedded. There were real ivory exotic Marlena Dietrich styles and maybe a few tortoise shell and Bakelite. It was supposed to keep the face from looking like a smoked white fish, but they were a Kabuki sign language prop. Punctuations, Grunts and sneers, silent curses and poxes swirled from these smoking sticks as surly as Merlin swung a magic wand. Body language experts would have cried and thrown in the towel, the HOLDERS said it all.

Now, my G-Uncle Julius fit the physical description, although his body was softer and he hadn't the power. He was the artistic one. Everyone in the family marveled at his vision, his art, and they all made sure he could follow his talent. In this family of blue collar workers, with a pharmacist thrown in he was an anomaly. He had a light voice. Often he crooned little songs to us with a soft trill. His most memorable tune with lyrics of "al a lululu, al a lululu...Lu lu lu lu loo..." On rare occasions my Grandmother Etta was heard to croon this as well. It is my secret put the baby to sleep weapon, never fails. Julius told the best stories, I can remember half listening, my whole being drawn towards his pink tongue forming the words with a delicate swirl and flourish, he seemed to relish and taste every word. He imitated every character with vocal cues. Even his animal sounds had a special artful panache to them. This tongue, was a moist river bed of fissures and cracks. All the Greats had them. I wonder how many Doctors fainted when they exhorted,"stick out your tongue". I have one also, my fissions are small and relatively simple. I don't know if any other cousins sport this, I also have the family allergy to Cinnamon.

The men's ears were big as well, with wonderful lobes, rounded mounds, free from any attachment to the head. They were not handsome, their faces were strong and dogged, their intelligence shining through. Their bodies contained undiminished vitality, and you knew who you wanted with you in any kind of emergency or fight. When ensconced within the pack a feeling of safety, caring pervaded.

My family argued over politics, possessions, cards, money, the weather, food, anything. G-Uncle Julius argued always with his sister Great Aunt Eva. Everyone argued with Eva. She was the youngest. In a family of twelve youngest was something. Julius's voice would get higher and higher as they insulted and shouted at each other. "You're full of hot air, you don no what you're talking about, believe ME I KNOW. Wher'd ya hear that, you don know what..." He'd pleat and fold a napkin in the most intricate designs over and over as his pink tongue spit his words at her. His beautiful artists hands fingers tapered. He wore his nails just a little longer, the tips filed to a discrete point, they fairly quivered with sensitivity. When he was put out he'd open the napkin and smooth and smooth.

Julius and Eva were prodigious eaters as was most of the family, with a few out-law exceptions. G-Uncle Izzie, was a tiny thin man who shook with nerves. He had the kindest eyes, sweetest disposition. A gentle soul with a voice that any Cantor or Chazzan would cry for. Izzy's tiny body would render this enormous voice, his delivery had so much emotion it would transport you out of your body. His heavy Austrian/Jewish accent sounded so different. My Greats were Yankees, New York through and through. I listened carefully to his inflection and rhythm. My mother thought it crazy that I loved opera and Classical music, but it was G-Uncle Izzy who handed me that love.

My dad and Grandpa Herman out-laws both, wore smart cloths, pants with knife sharp pleats and narrow stylish belts. They were both tall and lean, each had a full head of hair. I thought them snappy. The others wore white shirts long sleeves. As a concession to the heat, or open fires, eventually they rolled the sleeves up. I never saw Uncle Izzies arms, not once no matter how hot.

The women were mostly beautiful, with their snub noses and lacquered hair. They wore nail polish and makeup. Thick penciled brows sometimes two shades darker, sometimes three shades lighter. This may have been a political statement, I was too young to fathom it. Like President Reagan parting his hair first to the left and then while in office parting it to the right. Mascara, was applied liberally out of a dry cake with lots of spit and swirling a stiff black brush around and around. Some of the women's hair had gone a funny reddish color, (my mom still a stunning brunette at this time) Many were fair a few even blond. Grandma Ettas' eyes were hazel, Aunt Pats' blue. My dad and Herman's eyes were blue the former Robins egg blue the latter a deep blue. The ladies all seemed to have extraordinarily wide tiny feet. These extra wide feet were in cased in the smallest and most up to date shoes. A few wore Granny type shoes but these were the rare unsporting ones. Poking out of the top of the shoes was the hump of foot that could not fit. Looking closely you'd see around the toes the outlines, of corns and thickened blisters. My Grandmother and her siblings trilled their threes, sticking the tip of their tongues out against the palette and upper lip. Then it would snap back into it's little house. My Grandparents did not have the tell tale accent. The Jacknowitz/Jackman (Anglicised) clan said earl for oil and berl for boil.

A few of the Aunts, in -law Aunts and Cousins, were soft spoken and serene. Most were liberated outspoken women who were given a birth rite and mandate to be heard (loud), often, and to not obey held consequences beyond Dante's grasp. My mother included. I do remember that Aunt Paulie and Uncle Izzie had a serenity and peace as a couple that was enviable. The others firebrands. Eva and Gertie never married as two of the brothers George and Julius stayed single. It is rumored that George had a clandestine relationship with a married woman. My Great Grandmother Mollie was I believed a force to be reckoned with and acid tongue when needed. These beautiful woman had a propensity to being heavy, the proverbial beautiful face etc. Aunt Gertie stayed slim all her life, after a surgery she developed a tiny pooch, that she fretted over. Pictures of my Great Grandmother show a tiny multi chinned woman hair scrapped back no nonsense, of strong mettle and a twinkle of humor. Etta was a true beauty, although matronly later in life she retained a regal and elegant look. With her light hair and her butter scotch gold jewelry, slave bracelets, chunky watches, and heavy bangles, she had a refinement and polish the others never acquired. I've been told the King of Spain Ferdinand, thought so too and chased her all over a trans Atlantic crossing to Europe.

Grandpa Herman and Grandma Etta were a matched pair both beautiful people, passionate, stubborn and very much in love. They were obsessed with each other, leading to a marriage fraught with tensions and problems. Pop was as handsome a man that ever crossed the stage or screen. Black haired, white skinned, pale blue eyes, a very natty dresser. He was a straight shooter, and a fabulous billiards player. Their arguments were legendary ah, but that's another story.

Gunny sack races, potato passes and men trooping off to play soft ball in their wool slacks. Heavily oiled mitts in hand, young boys in tow with unwieldy bats. The women would sit on the benches and beach chairs yelling and arguing their hands flashing with jewels, fingers at the ready to point or crook at an offending child. Always ready to climb the next verbal rock wall with relish.

Now Uncle Julius and cousins Davey and Toby would be sweating in the center of all this with a one mindedness. Tweaking and playing the fire like a fine instrument, on the top of which a great cauldron brewed. This year there was an addition of a great garbage can sized pot namely a wok. Mind you this home made colossus looked to me like the lid of a big metal garbage can. Julius' baby. He sweat over it as a doctor does a breach birth. With finesse and an almost balletic choreography, masses of vegetables were tossed sputtering and sizzling as slowly everything was added. Celery, onion, cabbage, carrots, broccoli, chicken, broth, cornstarch, soy sauce. Finally the most exotic of ingredients, bean sprouts. This was new it was fantastic, no big slices of meat, everything chopped all the same size with pains taking care. First this and then that. Nothing gedempted here, no Kugel grated oiled baked. No, this was science, and timing, all tossed together quickly. Thin bits of white meat chicken added to the melange. A tsimmis in definition if not in practise. Chop Suey, straight from Hong Kong.

I was really little, standing transfixed as I would later when a raw boned six foot two woman on T.V. wielded a cleaver like Uncle Julius'. Eyes round watching this new kind of alchemy, the smoke fires burning my nostrils, the sounds of chaos a din in my ear. I stood shuffling from foot to foot, pine needles sending up their resin dark smells underfoot mingling with Chop Suey. In the cauldron bubbled fluffy white rice, no hot dogs and beans. It was a gastronomic awakening, an epiphany.

My G-Uncle Julius figured again in my gastronomic awaking with his Fish Souffle. Mrs. Paul, not! My Grandparents took me often when I was also very young to a French restaurant, La Champlain, Ice Cream at Schrafts for afters. Lobster was a rare gourmet treat back then and I acquired the taste at a very tender age. Fresh squeezed Orange Juice daily, Coconut from Florida in winter and Perrier water a rarity in those days, were among the many things introduced to me on Maytime Drive.

We were handed bowls, and began to line up, so many Oliver Twists with great anticipation. Licking lips and sniffling the air I shuffled along with my bowl and large spoon. Julius and Dave stood aproned and hot mitted, with giant ladle's. Toby with her rice ladle first, and then the mound of gleaming vegetables with a kind of shiny blond sauce. Gently cradling my bowl, deftly stepping over tree roots, ant hills, twigs and pine cones to finally perch somewhere. My spoon dug in, hot, hot, hot, blow, blow stick out the tongue lick the bottom of the hot child friendly spoon and tilt it in. Flavors, not just onions, it must have been garlic, ginger, bless Julius' heart. Light bulbs in my head pop, pop, pop.

Now I was never a real fan of Chop Suey but my little road map tongue got the taste for something and was never quite happy with just peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Velveeta again. Oh, as far as the rest of the family picnic, kids got spanked, and picked up from the dust, younger ones got rocked and passed around. Bottles of blowing bubbles were handed out, bubble gum blown and later roasted marshmallows. The adults yelled and insulted one another as they laughed and played cards, smoked their cigarettes and cigars, topped off with tons of fire roasted coffee out of giant enameled pots.

Eva always got the last word. Or maybe it was the mosquito's.

Baby doll jammy clad I dreamt of fires and cauldrons in the sticky heat of my room, and waited for next summer and a family picnic by the lake.

By Michele  Bernstein

Thursday, February 13, 2020

Holiday thoughts

The winter holidays for me as a child were a kaleidoscope of pictures sounds and emotions. Personally I loved the message of Hanukkah, we fought for our religious freedom our right to exist on our land under our terms (religious beliefs). The forces that attacked us were huge compared to the few led by Judah Maccabee. Our eternal light that is part of the sanctuary needed to be relit. The oil purified and sanctified was just enough for one day, a Cruz of oil takes a week to make. The miracle was that the light lasted the week. We still celebrate thousands of years later. In the dark of winter we light lights to shine on liberty, to shine to warm us lead us to the highest possible level of humanity. We give sweets and little gifts one each day chocolates and eat foods that are cooked in oil commemorating the Festival of Lights. We at home did light the menorah without the prayers without the usual foods, the latkes. We didn’t receive our gifts then. At that time Thanksgiving was Thanksgiving no Black Friday no Christmas until December. So around the end of the first week of December garlands started appearing then electric lights. I loved those beautiful blue ones, I pretended they were for Jewish children. Charlie Brown houses weren’t a thing yet, most homes were restrained, elegant and festive. They were a feast for my eyes. Fall had just ended and winter put her cloak on, short days, cold rooms the very desire to eat things that were full of fat to warm the primal need for survival. My Christian friends shared Christmas Ribbon Candies, Candy Canes, chocolates and Chocolate Cherries. I watched them set up their trees and most decorated the night before Christmas Eve placing presents underneath. We had Christmas Stockings and we hung them on our mantle. Christmas morning we’d wake up and some presents were placed on the end of our beds or downstairs  in our wreck room . I’m certain that most Jewish families had rituals that were handed down for generations that were observed to the delight of their children as my Christian friends certainly did. We had a hodgepodge of loosely based rituals and customs and our gifts were sometimes sparse. I’m a total sucker for Christmas music, the lights, I loved that people were a little more kind a little more happy the excitement anticipation of the festival of the Christian lights. Santa Claus the legends, stories of love and compassion. So I observed from a distance the families who celebrated Hanukkah and those that celebrated Christmas. Those who’s families traditions included traditional foods like my Italian friends who’s Christmas Eve Feast of the seven fishes, other friends who I attended midnight mass with. my best friend in Jr. High/ High school, an Irish Catholic who’s family shared gladly with me. I never lost my love for celebration for seeing the light and love during this time of year. My wishes for all you are in my life is to fully embrace your family, warts and all, embrace your emotions, your love, your life, your traditions. I wish you all only that which is for your best and highest good. Health and love 💗Happy New Year 🎆 with love 💗 from the RGV

Wednesday, February 12, 2020

Written September 3, 2018

Labor Day
    For us Labor Day was a melancholy holiday. It meant the end of our pool and BBQ season, the end of Jones Beach #9, the end of Sunken Meadow State Park. If you didn't know my fathers BBQ's they were legendary. Not like Texas BBQ or smoked BBQ, but Harold's (latter Hal's) BBQ. After years of testing and tasting and gleaning off the cook books dad began to buy, he'd come up with a BBQ sauce to end all BBQ sauces. He kept a great big jar in the refrigerator adding to it each season. It couldn't go bad there was so much vinegar, sugar, soy sauce and who knows what, that it was self preserved. It was an Orange-ish, golden-ish, apricot-ish color. BBQ for us were hamburgers, hotdogs, ribs and or chicken. Macaroni salad, potato salad, 3 bean salad, sauerkraut and pickles. Sometimes coleslaw and in season corn. Dad would marinate his chicken/ribs over night in bowls and the the great big ziplock bags when they came out. He had two bbq's one gas one coals. He'd be there snapping his giant tongs, tending his meats in his bathing suit, squinting through the smoke opening and closing the lids on the grills. When he had a few minutes he'd throw himself in the above ground pool for a dip. All the salad stuff would be in their containers with the condiments placed on the glass topped dining table on our concrete block patio that he built himself. Those blocks were 6" thick and 4x4 each, he tinted each one a different color with a powdered dye as he hand mixed that concrete and poured it into homemade forms. He built them one at a time in place as they were too massive to move. With the redwood furniture they collected thought the years and the beautiful metal furniture from my grandparents our back yard was transformed into a resort. There was a Badminton net we also used for Volleyball and the "Fruit" trees dad had planted. Sour apples, Crab apples, Cherry, Birch by the patio, Silver Maple, Azaleas, Rhododendrons and his kitchen garden.
    The man was not lazy. Mom was. She didn't lift a finger but to go to her job, and occasionally food shop was her contribution. He did it all. Cooking cleaning entertaining, sewing and laundry (after we moved out). He was a born sales man not often successful, enough to keep us solvent but he had an uphill battle from day one poor guy. His skill set was terrific considering he grew up in apartments after my grandparents lost their Brownstone in Brooklyn to "The Crash". He could fix or Gerry rig anything.
    His father and mother were both bookkeepers, they were white collar workers who made good money for awhile investing et&c. They had become fairly wealthy when dad was a little but my grandfather was not a good businessman and it didn't last. My mothers family was a mix of blue and white collar. Several of my Great Aunts and Uncles belonged to Unions, some in the trucking industry, some in the garment industry. Their fortunes ran the gamete but if anyone needed anything they were right there for each other. with 14 children my Great Grandmother was quite the manager. Mollie also known as Mollish, ruled with a velvet hammer.
    When each child got a job they handed over their paycheck to mama and she doled out an allowance for them. That money made money and when each child got married there was bedroom furniture, kitchen outfitted and some cash to get them started. each one received the same provisions from out of Bubbies pot of money. Four of my Greats never married and they took that money and bought Bubbie a new house and they lived with her taking care of her. They made that home a showplace and the gathering spot for the whole extended family.
    My best memories revolve around those BBQ's, our holiday's and my Great Aunts and Uncles at Bubbies house. Our fall season began with our religious holidays, depending on the year anywhere from the beginning of September to October. So today, I have that melancholy feeling, although it's likely to be well over 100 degrees today, in my mind it;s the last day of summer. No BBQ, no sounds of my siblings and our family enjoying our last splash's and season in our backyard sanctuary. No more having my dad chasing us with the garden hose or snapping hos tings at us with his cheeky grin.
   
Written August 18, 2018

I Lived in civilization with a big C, cheek to Levittown, butt to Hicksville, jowl to Westbury. Our P.O. was Levittown, water Hicksville, school district East Meadow and I graduated from W.T.Clarke HS in Westbury. Part of my lifelong identity crisis, there are many other contributions to that particular neurosis, but having to say "I live in East Meadow, but my P.O. Levittown" was the start of an emotional snowball. I've just never fit in, always a toe or foot in different camps never solidly definable never relaxing comfortably in a label or group/posse/clique. Jewish but no real Yiddishkite ie formal education, special memories of rites and rituals , New York Suburban kid, Jewish, but far from it. Living in suburbia without really being in the true middle class suburban family dynamics with those rites and rituals. Best educated "class" during the height of the top education formula churning out the new Collage bound generation. I missed that boat because they missed my learning disabilities, word retrieval problems and finally my inability to pay for a higher education. I opted for an ill advised early marriage to get out of my home dynamic, from the frying pan etc.
       Medium height 5'3", Zoftig (dee groyss broost) gleaned from a Yiddish phrase book. now I look at old pictures and ask where was this fat girl, why did they nag and call me fat with a beautiful face, etc.yes,( in the time of Twiggy) with my nondescript brown hair, blue/green eyes, finally even teeth that I tortured for hours on end with my thumbs instead of braces. good skin and breasts that ensured my perpetual embarresment and a great deal of wardrobe adjustments and disappointments.
     My well to do grandparents seemed to be Hollywood stars to me. Elegant, refined, respectable. they went to Shule, my grandfather a president of their Men's club, starched and ironed white shirts, sheets laundered at the Chinese laundry. Matching everything, cloth napkins and table cloths for each meal and of course dairy and fleish. Civilized, Wall to Wall carpeted, not to mention the Steinway and Sons Mother Grand, quiet and orderly. You knew where you stood. True my Grandmother was a cold formidable woman but she took care of you with competency and just enough of a flourish that you thought she might just care a little. She was kind in a no nonsense pan faced thin lipped way. Underneath was a deeply fragile smart ambitious woman. She was a tartar and a great judge of character.
    At home as I've said before was chaos, in every way. I saw/lived with my clean well clipped, brushed, bathed, clean foot/hands in my Grandparents home and then was untended/disheveled in my mother's house. My Uncle  was four years older than me, he lived in that beautiful orderly well taken care of world. Beautifully prepared wholesome food at every meal, clean pressed clothing no holes in socks or underthings, pajamas robe socks slippers. Take your shoes off, wash your hands before you come up your ---- is on the table. Snacks with a glass of milk in a clean glass on a pretty plate on a clean place mat. He didn't roam the streets, my Grandparents knew where he was playing ball or riding his bike, they could fetch him in a moment. I roamed free range, by 4 or 5 I was walking all over the different neighborhoods at large without any supervision. If I was hungry (before the kitchen extension and backdoor) I'd call up the steps from the (w)rec(k) room. After the renovation I tapped the back screen door and a sandwich was thrust at me, or quietly foraging my self for a hunk of Velveeta, or a tablespoon of peanut butter. I'd eat on the front or back stoop. I spent a lot of time in the three out side seasons contemplating the world lying in the grass in my or others back yards, watching the bugs that buzzed walked or flew. Listening to the bird calls watching their soap opera lives, cataloging the different plants and eventually learning their names by looking them up in the Encyclopedia.
    Summer program at my elementary school I'd walk the three plus miles on Newbridge road all by myself, skinny little me while the traffic roared by. When I figured out how to get to Salsbury Park Drive through the neighborhood behind me, I went that way as well. Cutting through my backyard where they eventually put a sump was a great but spooky shortcut. That was the farmers old property and I'd miss that farmhouse everyday. Knocking on the doors of my friends to see who was available to play, being Jim Bowie and rescuing my backyard friend Missy as I climbed trees often in my genuine Coonskin cap. Unfettered wild mostly alone, avoiding being in the house underfoot under scrutiny, under siege. I could tell the time by the sun, when to begin the trek home dragging my scuffed summer Mary Janes or most often barefoot. my hair nearly shorn when I was a little older but wild and unkempt, standing every which way. No doubt filthy bedraggled big eyed and sad. I look at the photos of the past centuries the stern somber faces captured for all time, and I, either in black and white and later color stare out with the same mien. I see the silent plea behind those eyes no body else does.
    Reading, once I figured out how to, was my salvation. When i read books about the settlers, the farmers and people close to the land I felt it right down to my marrow. Whatever my DNA says, in my past lives I was of the earth too. My foot that's in the practical no nonsense McGuiver get "er done by the seat of my pants and the ever present "throw back" (my mothers words) self wars with the refined how am I supposed to be self. I think I wrote before about my friend who told me "you're a schlepper, you should be a pointer". Yup that's me. Yet, I long for the big old wood floored wide porches home with the kitchen gardens and flower gardens, the wide open windows and the sound of  nature in my ears. A roaring fire in the winter while stitching away on a quilt. The scent of dinner drifting on a breeze and my breads and pies cooling on a sill. Yes, the romantic side of me longing for a place where I am at long last at home in a home I can only yearn for. A childhood that I can mold and bend and fill up the emptiness the void. A place my children and grandloves can all come to, memories rich in lore and love. It exists only in my imagination, the place I default to when the void begins to yawn up through me. My secret world is cozy homey warm and loving. It's far from the madding crowd. I know it's rhythms I stand with both feet planted firmly and it's not a dream...

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Après Tempus Fugit

The new editing system on this blog blows chunks so sorry if my margins spelling spacing
 etc. etc. I can't scroll or edit properly so it's taking me twice as long to write this, I may have to buy a stupid app! Anyway...

About my lessons they may seem to others no brainers or even a bit self couscous, self indulgent however these are my life lessons and experiences that are chronicled, cull what you like. 

I've made many mistakes mostly out of ignorance and lack of experience, some out of shear negligence and apathy, and the worst; from a deliberate kind of blindness choosing to think or act one way full knowing the truth. We pay for that in time, friendships and lost opportunities GRIEF.  My goals are to never loose that again. It's been my practice for as many years as I can remember, and I may have written this before but it's worth repeating that before I fall asleep, I review my day. If I find that I was unhappy, upset, anything that didn't work I resolve to find away to fix and never repeat this. Not so easy but do-able. My ultimate goal is a page out of my sister Pam's book, to be happy. If your not happy none of its good, nothing. This is not the momentary quick happy  but the deep long lasting abiding happy. It's a core thing looking deep in to your core, no more pretense no more persuading myself it'll be okay, or when blank happens...

DO NOT KID YOURSELF ON ANYTHING

Not sure how many lessons that is, but they are mine and I've got the medals and scars.

When I stayed with Margo and Rick awaiting the arrival of Niko in London, I saw a world so different than ours in the U.S. although we share common language heritage et. all. I'd been to the U.K. many times before as adjunct to Ira for work, or with Adam while he studied in Scotland. As a temporary resident of Hackney (five weeks), I could have been anywhere on the planet. In a six block radius we were in Jamaica, Turkey, Morocco, Africa, Asia the West Indies, India. More nations, dress, food, mores, dialects than I ever experienced in NY. I gawked at everything like a hick from a one horse town, it was all new and not necessarily exciting. I did feel threatened on occasion very out of place (says the wherra from Brownsville). There were no "Englishmen". Not unless you went closer to the city and the tourist areas, in the neighborhoods though they were a dead breed. Replaced by thugs and drunks. The local butcher shop was an oasis they were kind curtious and very English, olde school. The British culture as I knew it was supplanted and dead, I understood then when Margo came back to the states apart from needing to be closer to family, why they chose to leave.

Staying with them in Santa Fe was no less a huge change of venue. The clean piñon scented air, vistas of mountains valleys and adobe style homes a world apart. Everywhere you look is nothing like anywhere you'd been. The ride to Echo canyon, Chama, Albaqurgue was like changing channels on cable constantly. Whole Foods culture a world in its own, the food, people all of set apart from my  east coast, south of the iron grande coast expereiance. Thay dry Mt. Air a respite for the weary.          

When we were once all together in this new world it was my dream my ultimate birthday dream. Thank you Barry for allowing me to have the time with Niko, and for accommodating me in my 60th B'day wish. No blow out party high priced dinner with attending blow out gifts could ever have meant more to me. All that I received was gravy, the meat was being with you all, my plate could only have been fuller if all the machatunum could have been there...

Lesson#25 be clear and honest with yourself about what you really want and value, the being authentic thing is it. 

Now I can't change this blinkity blink thing back! Hate this. Okay more blogging later Oy!




Friday, October 26, 2012

Tempus Fugit

Gigi, I was talking about you the other day. I haven't seen you in years and yet I still think about your stories and the wild ride of a life you led. You were my secret coach, more than any other woman in my life, your story and adventures fired my imagination and paved the way for a massive  transformation in mine. It's true through the years I have met other extraordinary woman who have left little tid bits and wisdom like passing comets whos trails I was able to view after the initial planet disappeared. Yet in my mind I'm having the conversation with you, somehow you are still a presence and influence my emotional muse. Of course I take literary liberties with my lessons learned but they are all true all of these are  from yours truly hard taught and fought for...

Lesson #1 dress and groom for yourself look in your own mirror, decide who you are and live it. I am cute and sexy with a drop of comfort in mind.

 Lesson #2 if he isn't wild for you and treats you like his one and only with all the attending worship something is rotten in Denmark.

Lesson#3 moisturizer everywhere, scent and smooth limbs always a must. Not sure who said it but a girl who spends her last dime on perfume is a real woman.

Lesson #4 Learn to say no and reward with the occasional yes ( that's a tough one for a person pleaser)

Lesson#5 dirty dancing in the living room follows to the bedroom. Which is very different from the advise that my Grandfather gave me his was make every kiss a stolen kiss.

Lesson #6 take care of your man but remember you are not his mother

Lesson #7 The way to a mans heart may be through his stomach but there is an awful lot of listening commiserating and putting up with to keep it

Lesson #8 men and women can not be friends, if he brings his new friend home to meet you grab your pitchfork girls, and that include the quant new practice of texting

Lesson #9 everyday in everyway think cute and sexy even when your wringing the laundry in the slop sink after the machine refuses to spin

Lesson #10 give yourself a good stare in the mirror, congratulate, pet, smile and reward its likely the only time you will have such a bulstering moment in the day, a pinch on the cheek doesn't hurt either

Lesson #11 do and eat one thing that you want once a day even if it's just a shnibble, and ten minutes of screaming down the toilet bowl (highly recommend if you have 3 kids under the age of five) ( or the equivalent of one former bachelor husband who is obsessive)                                                          

Lesson#12 if it hurts fix it or high thee to the bleeder cause you shouldn't suffer in silence! Seriously

Lesson#13 hair grows in very weird places after 50 the eye brow razors and threading girls are your best friend, when in doubt just pluck and keep on a plucking

Lesson#14 if it's perky it will sag, flop, droop and end up somewhere frightful forget a retirement fund nobody can afford to retire start a droopy day fund and and in case of divorce looking great is     the best revenge fund.  Wish I had thought of this 30 years ago, gotta find out if they'll do a layaway                    Botox Restilin at the near by clinic

Lesson #15 you'd better have a lot more than mad money stashed away for ICE

Lesson#16 just do it cause you're going to be a year older next year and you'll have lost that time fretting over being too old, bull shit never too old!

Lesson#17 pick a guys who isn't afraid to fart, cause I promise you even if you've never farted in your life after 50 you will everywhere at anytime so if he's already turning purple trying to pretend he isn't he'll be over the moon when you start to so he can just let himself go

Lesson #18 being polite never gets old it just puts you in a good place no matter how gnarly the other person is you can just smile politely and pat yourself on the back

Lesson#19 learn to say your sorry or I don't know, It really doesn't hurt

Lesson#20 when the screaming or the freezing is over tell the person you love them it's vital

Lesson#21 seriously never go to bed angry part b to this is don't hold a grudge and hang it out to dry at every big argument air it out and be done with it

Lesson#22 make time for a special grooming day, even if you do it all for yourself set one day a month aside and wash wax and lube your chassis

Lesson#23 make a girls night out and keep it. I haven't done this and now when I do the fella gets all pouty and whiny even though he pretends to man up about it. He still makes me feel guilty on the  occasion

Lesson#24 pick your battles, and let him know that you are conceding when it is less important to you and that by gum he WILL conceed when YOU feel just as strongly. It's not about who's turn it is it's when you really need to hold firm, remember that in the heat of the struggle if there is one, that whatever you say hangs there above your head in italics. Once you say it you can never take it back. Tact my dears is under rated


More lessons later I think

When we first met I was a mother of three in a difficult marriage with someone who was not available to me emotionally or more often than not physically. It was a lifeless relationship that I kept alive in my mind by crazy deceptions and lies. You as many other of my friends saw this. With your chiding and gentle bullying you began my slow transformation. Pushing me to transform my physical self while trying to see me open the world around me. The day you told me "you look like a housewife, do you want to look like a housewife? Do you want to look cute and sexy? With that thick. French purr of an accent and your red lips pursed at me in disapproval your eyebrow raised (I   envy that emocon). You were beating the ball of your foot on the floor in a very French expression of pique as you tapped a brush over your palm, while I had the flibbety gibbets over the discussion of turning me blonde. Not a little highlight here or there blonde fing blonde. No dipping the toes in you turned me platinum BLONDE. No I wanted to be cute and sexy but I hadn't ever really had the power of feeling cute let alone sexy. A big busted shy girl with a tiny head and big eyes thin hair I just never got it all together in my head. I never felt that girl power, I should have looking back now I see that i was pretty and not the fat girl I saw in the mirror. The fat girl my mother talked about the clutsy             gawky big chested funny looking kid. I look at old pictures and see that there was unrealized     potential clay to be molded if i'd met the right person(s). Well I'll tell you it's never too late not ever.             I'm a slow learner but I got there!

So it's 1999, I'm three days from selling the house and moving to Spring Hill Fl. With two cats and a few belongings as I've sold the new home owners almost all of my furniture, and given away others. I was on my way to pick up cat food for the trip and decided on a whim to drive by your home I hadn't seen you in 3-4 years. You didn't know about the divorce, my taking in students to make ends meet. Adam and Margo away at school Craig graduating and getting ready to go himself to PA. I didn't just have empty nest I had everything vanished hocus locus and I was trying to put this Humpty together again. I had crawled into a shell for those few years of separation and subsequent divorce so it hadn't   occurred to me to seek you out. I knew for sure afterwards that that had been a mistake and lost   opportunity for both of us.

There you were going to your mail box still the figure of elegance and perfumed cute blonde older French lady with her shit together. When I stopped you squealed and we hugged.  The fastest catch up session ever, with you commiserating and reviling my now X. We were both moving on to FL. You'd sold your house and were leaving the next day, with your wonderful husband, the love of your life. I was traveling the unknown on my own but was truly happy and ready. I had lost a lot of weight through the years and you marveled about how cute and sexy I looked and that I should take chances and not give in to convention but throw it to the wind. And that my dear is just what happened only in a more conventional way, habits like mine die hard. I hadn't dated during the long haul of separation and divorce and I wasn't looking forward to the process when my feet finally hit the sand and red ants of Florida so the universe plopped Barry right in front of me. I'd been propositioned picked up and followed around and Id had no problem resisting all of these delights, and then there was Barry. Young cute never married obsessive with work dancing sports music, did I mention young? Gigi you wanted me to have an affair and find someone who would pay attention to me who would dance and     drink and listen to me. Who would make love to me like I deserved and blow my nose when I needed the help. Stage right Barry. So it wasn't a true affair with the attendant skulking and crazy French  underthings, intrigues and high adrenaline from all the drama. We were both unattached but there was a hell of a lot of all the rest of it. I'd finally reached my Parisian moment. I was dressing the way I  wanted (cute and sexy) learning to dance, going out at night, seeing shows having a life a real life, and there was a guy who was listening to me caring about me and we were growing together slowly but surely. Yeah bumps in the road and more trauma then I ever want again, lost fortunes but in the end,  okay, it was okay.          

Now thirteen almost fourteen years down the line it's good. Margo married to a wonderful guy and made me a bubbie, Adam also married to a fantastic woman, Craig happy with a terrific gal and Barry and I are an old married couple. When we first met you were 57, I think maybe I was close to forty or so. It wasn't the age difference though it was the life experiences that separated us. I'm 60 now and all though I'll never be able to match some of your life experiences I'd say for me I've come a long way baby.

We were all in Santa Fe and looking at old pictures I was a hot mess, heavy, sad, unkempt un loved. Two decades. Time well spent. So what did I learn? To love myself to put myself first and learn to say no, that frees me to be there truly for everyone without sacrificing myself. Not to put what I want so far into the future, I spend more time in the here and now not looking over my shoulder. I don't allow negativity in my life but surround myself with loving supportive people, I speak my mind frankly