For Talia On Her Third Birthday

Dearest Talia,

Happy 3rd Birthday!! It amazes me every single time I start to write one of these letters, just how quickly time passes. As we approach your third birthday this week, I am simply stunned that this is my fourth letter to you. I have yet to bother to read my previous missives. I thought about it, but I think I prefer to let them all stand on their own. They are each a snapshot in time. I hope they offer some positivity, some life lessons, a bit of old-lady humour, and maybe even a bit of grandmotherly advice. And if they don't? Well, I hope you know that I tried. 

On your third birthday, I want to tell you about one of my all-time favourite movies. Eat Drink Man Woman is a Chinese-language film by the great director Ang Lee. Mr. Lee is probably better known for his Oscar-winning and groundbreaking flick Brokeback Mountain. That movie is one that I hope you will see someday, but when I tell you that I think that Eat Drink Man Woman is a seminal film, I am not exaggerating. (It has been remade in English as Tortilla Soup and it deeply inspired another Chinese language movie called Joyful Reunion, both of which are worth seeing.) The title comes from the Confucian classic, The Book of Rites. It refers to basic human desires and demands we accept them as natural. Eat Drink Man Woman was released thirty years ago and I saw it for the first time when your dad wasn't much older than you are now. The fact that I keep rewatching it is a testament to its message and its staying power.

Eat Drink Man Woman is the story of a famous, semi-retired chef who lives in Tapei. Chef Zhu is a widower who goes to great lengths every Sunday evening to prepare a family feast for his three daughters. The movie opens with a montage of Zhu cooking his various delicacies. It is an array that blasts the senses. You can almost smell and taste his dishes. Every time I see the film, I want to jump through the screen and pull up a chair. Zhu's daughters are less than enthused by the continual demand that they show up every Sunday for a dinner none of them seem to care about. Each woman has a repressed need to show her true self and as the story unfolds, those needs are met. The film expertly displays the important link of food to family, and why even though we may not always sit together for a meal, those tastes and smells stimulate our memories and emotions. 

Several years ago, Zaidy and I had the opportunity to have a special viewing of this film at the TIFF Lightbox Theatre here in downtown Toronto. The guest speaker that evening was the very famous Toronto chef, Susur Lee. Chef Lee spoke of why he prefers to cook his dishes in a family style. He wants people to not only savour his phenomenal cuisine, but he wants them to sit, chat, enjoy, and connect over his food. He talked about the importance of eating together as families, and about how critical it is for families to find history through cooking, recipe sharing, and communal noshing. He said all of this as a proud Chinese-Canadian but he could have just as easily been speaking about my Jewish/Polish/Russian roots.

It isn't unusual to have memories triggered by food. Whenever I bake a chocolate chunk cookie, I remember making them with my mom and her admonishments about the "best ingredients" and how I should never use artificial vanilla. The horror! Those times in the kitchen with her are so precious. I will relish them always. I am instantly lost in a haze of tearful remembrance every single time I eat a rugelach. Nobody made them better than Aunty Marlene. I can see my own grandmother Essie jarring dill pickles and the memory floods back whenever I smell the herbs. Every Pesach seder, Rosh Hashana dinner, Purim Hamentaschen bake, or meal in a Sukkah tethers me to our ancestors. Food and eating are essential to our development of family ties and whenever we eat or cook together, we strengthen those bonds.

When my Aunt Marlene died, I was given a recipe file she kept. Bits of scrap papers or stained computer printouts that she had stuffed into a folder and many were written by her own hand. When I cleaned out Bubby Sheila's closets in Florida this spring, I found a similar cache. Most of these recipes are probably useless to me and I will never even attempt making them, but I can't part with them either. They are like warm hugs coming at me from across the decades. I hope that someday someone will want them. For now, they are more precious to me than a photograph.

Talia, I want to spend hours cooking, baking, and eating with you. I want you to get to know the history of our family. I want you to have our recipes that have been made with love and care. I want to play with you while we make challah dough. I want to help you sneak chocolate chips from the cookie batter, and I want to remind you to always use the best ingredients. When we cook and eat together, we make irreplaceable memories. On this your third birthday, I bequeath to you the gift of your heritage, your family, your recipes, and all our love. 

Here are two family recipes to get you started. 

Bubby Sheila's Famous Chocolate Chunk Cookies

1/4 cup white sugar

1 cup dark brown sugar

2 1/2 cups (scant) flour

1 cup unsalted butter (softened)

1 egg

1 tsp pure vanilla (NEVER ARTIFICIAL!)

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

1/2 cup pecans (chopped and optional. Your dad loathes nuts so I often leave them out.)

1 large bar of President's Choice dark chocolate (chopped) (YES! You read that correctly. An entire large bar of chocolate.)

1. In a medium bowl, sift together flour, baking soda and salt.

2. Cream together butter and the sugars.

3. Add the egg and vanilla

4. Carefully add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture until combined.

5. Add the chocolate chunks and nuts.

6. Using a small scoop, make balls and place them on a baking sheet. (I always put them in the fridge for about 15 minutes before baking.)

Bake at 350 degrees for 12 minutes. 

Aunty Marlene's Rugelach (Good luck making these. I simply cannot replicate them even though this is the complete recipe she always used.)

Dough

1/2 pound butter (softened)

1/2 pound cream cheese (room temperature)

2 cups flour 

Filling

1/2 cup sugar

2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 cup pecans (chopped)

1/2 cup raisins

1/4 cup chocolate chips (optional)

Dough

1. Blend butter, cream cheese, and flour together in a food processor or in a bowl with your hands.

2. Mix until a smooth ball forms. 

3. Divide into 4 equal parts.

4. Shape each into a ball. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight. 

Preparation

1. Preheat oven to 350 F. 

2. Sprinkle pastry board generously with flour.

3.  Roll each ball into 1/8" (•5 cm) thick circle. 

4. Spread a small and thin amount of raspberry jam over the circle. (Any jam will do, but Aunty Marlene always used raspberry)

5. Sprinkle with cinnamon, sugar, nuts and raisins. (Don't forget the chocolate chips.)

6. Cut the circle into 12 wedges.

7. Roll each wedge from the widest end towards the point to form a crescent shape. 

8. Place on a greased cookie sheet point side down.

Bake for 20-25 minutes until brown. Remove and cool on a rack. Sprinkle with icing sugar before serving. These freeze beautifully.

Happy Birthday, my darling girl. Enjoy all that life has to offer. Eat the cake and cookies, dance with spirit and joy, hug with strength, and always remember those who came before. 

I love you to the moon and back.

Love,

Bubby

Our Sarah Polley Connection

Back in September, when we were choosing films to see at TIFF, I remarked to The Husband how much I wanted to see Sarah Polley's adaptation of Women Talking. I have been a fan of Ms. Polley's work for many years, and I was excited to see how she interpreted a Miriam Toews novel. Her compassionate direction and scriptwriting in the film Away From Her furthered my belief that she is one of the most gifted filmmakers of this generation. Unfortunately, I wasn't the only TIFF-goer with that idea. Women Talking was a hot ticket in Toronto, and we were forced to wait for a wider release. 

In the interim, Women Talking has been a favourite on the movie awards circuit this season. While Ms. Polley was ignored for her direction and her stellar cast has been shut out from acting honours/nominations, the film is still being talked about with awe and admiration. When it was finally released for streaming this week on International Women's Day (coincidence?), we jumped at the opportunity to view it. We absolutely loved it. It is a fabulous film.

When I told The Husband that the movie was finally within our grasp, he told me something I had never heard him say before. He told me how much he liked Sarah Polley's work and how much he would like to meet her in person. Now, you need to understand just how unusual it is for The Husband to say something like this. He is a very private and quiet person who has zero interest in celebrities. This is the same man who sat next to Eugene Levy on a plane and didn't say more than "hello." How is that even possible? When I dug a bit deeper, he explained. 

In the fall of 2012, we saw Ms. Polley's very personal and brilliant documentary Stories We Tell. If you haven't seen it, you really should. It looks at the relationship between Polley's parents, including the revelation that the filmmaker is the product of her mother's extramarital affair with another man. The movie is interspersed with interviews with her siblings, other relatives, and family friends. She reads from Michael Polley's memoir (the father who raised her), and she includes recreations of life events with a gauzy lens and actors playing the crucial roles. It is a fantastic movie, and we both walked out of it in tears.

The Husband failed to tell me at the time that this film was a catalyst for him. The fall of 2012 was also a hugely important time in his life. His father had just been diagnosed with a catastrophic illness that would ultimately claim his life. It was during that difficult time, my husband decided to dig into long-buried family secrets of his own that he had long suspected but could never confront. Sarah Polley's film prompted him to make a phone call that would change many lives. Without judgment, The Husband went on his own journey to learn about the secrets his dad had been keeping for decades. He desperately wanted answers to questions that had been eating at him for years, and, most of all, he wanted to know if this new-found sister and her mother wanted anything to do with him. It was a complicated unwinding of stories, familial relationships, interviews, phone calls, lunches, and confrontations. These aren't my stories to tell, and unfortunately, all of the principles are gone now, but I will say that it does have a happy ending in that The Husband is so excited to have his sister in his life and is anxious to continue building the relationship. I never knew that Sarah Polley pushed him to make that happen.

Ms. Polley does live in Toronto and is active in the community both artistically and politically. We don't want to stalk her online, it simply isn't who we are, but if anybody knows how to get a message to her, The Husband would like to say thank you. Me? I am really rooting for her on Sunday at the Oscars.

Musings From Isolation-Day 4

Day 4

I miss my kids.

I know that many of you who live great distances from family can understand my longing. Facetime is a nice compromise but nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing can replace a hug. We haven't seen Older Son in person since November and it's been over a month for Younger Son, His Beshert, and the Grandbaby. 

I miss my kids.

Molly is just starting to become a real character who, not only knows us but asks for us by name. To not be able to visit with and hug the stuffing out of that little human right now is excruciatingly difficult.

Especially now.

Now when we need human contact more than ever, we are told to be distant. Now when we need to hug each other so hard it feels like we might suffocate, we are told to stay away. It is almost unbearable to think that the best and safest thing we parents and grandparents can do for our families right now is to stay away from them, to not touch them, to not offer in-person help and comfort. 

But...stay away we will, for their sake as well as ours. For their health as well as ours. For their futures and our continued presence in each other's lives. We will stay at home. 

But...

I miss my kids.

A few random thoughts.

My hair is longer right now than it has been at any time since the 1970s. I have been mostly tying it up but I feel that I am far too old to be wearing a ponytail. I may end up looking like a Sonny-era Cher by the time this is all over.

I have been restricting most sugar and carbs for almost a year but I unabashedly dove into an unopened bag of black licorice last night. As that wonderful philosopher John Prine once said, "Father forgive us for what we must do." By the way...it was delicious and so needed. Everybody give yourself a break on food right now. Eat mostly healthy, but a little chocolate couldn't hurt.

A bit of anger welled up in me today when I saw that EB Games here in Toronto is opening several of their stores in order to release a new video game. Really??? What the actual fuck? Young gamers are lined up by the hundreds to get games that they pre-ordered. You'd think this company could have found an alternate method of delivery? Hey, young bros. STAY THE FUCK HOME! It's a fucking game, not the cure for COVID-19!  I'm hoping that the city ends this nonsense and soon.

Today's music break is me, long hair and all. Don't feel obligated to listen. I recorded this for Molly. It is our bedtime song. It isn't the best I've ever played or sounded but it matters a lot to me.


Wash your hands, don't touch your face, be kind, stay healthy.

Shabbat Shalom for all who observe.

A Brief Moment in Time Captured in GIFS...Part 3

Day 3 of this saga actually begins on Day 2.

Too many hours. Too much of nothing. So little progress left both The Husband and me looking and feeling much like this.

Nine months of anticipation, planning, and excitement and we are brought down by a stubborn fetus who adamantly refused all entreaties to leave its comfortable womb.



As midnight on the second day approached, we were both utterly and completely exhausted. The drugs that they had given me were wearing off and every pregnant woman who had been wheeled in after had come and gone with their new bundles of joy. Our doctor had brought in a specialist to consult who was so brash and miserable, she frankly scared the shit out of me. She actually threatened...yes I said threatened...me with a C-section. Well, I was having none of her bullshit and decided right then and there that this woman wasn't going to come within 10 metres of me and my unborn tiny human ever again.



This baby was going to be born and be born the old fashioned way, even if I had to rip it out myself.

By the way...a quick word about prenatal classes. As first-time parents, we were absolutely enrolled. There were supposed to be ten sessions. As a result of our earlier than planned delivery, we only managed to attend four. Obviously, we missed quite a bit that probably would have come in handy during our extended labour and delivery. When The Husband called our instructor to advise her that we would not be returning due to the birth of the baby, she asked if her teaching had been beneficial. The Husband answered very much like this...

Midnight of another day came and went and we were still waiting. Finally, at around 2:00 am they took me into delivery and after approximately 37 1/2 hours of labour (yes, you read that correctly!) at 2:32 am on the morning of September 3rd, 1987, out he came complete with ten toes and eleven fingers. Of course, none of us, not the doctors, nurses, The Husband, nor I noticed the genetic polydactylism until the next day. We were all simply too exhilarated to care and too exhausted to count.



They took him from me to weigh, measure, and APGAR and told me that normally they would have wheeled us both back to a room, but they really wanted me to sleep. I didn't need the coaxing. Within a half an hour I was like...

And The Husband was headed home for a nap.

As morning on the third day arose, I was completely mesmerized and totally and completely in love. I was also acutely aware that I had missed the funeral of my friend. So many people I knew were in a state of vacillation. They wept with joy for the birth of our Older Son and at the same time, they wept with sadness for the passing of a dear one.



There will always be a bit of sadness associated with that time. It honestly can't be helped. Life is indeed a strange circle. But the joy that I felt then and still feel today thirty years later, is untrammeled and limitless. The pleasure and delight I feel whenever I look into my son's face and the pride I experience whenever I admire the man he has become, is infinite. He is the reason that I am a mother. I love him more today than I did yesterday and less than I know I will tomorrow.

Today I wish him the happiest of birthdays. I know that milestones like this one are difficult for him and I won't push too much. I am stunned at the mercurial passage of thirty years, but I will simply say this to my Older Son:

You are the fiercely independent one. The one who has always been smarter and more determined than almost everybody and never been afraid to show it to anyone. You do not suffer fools and you do not do stupidity. You don't do phony and you refuse to pretend. You are incredibly moral and you live by your values even when others don't always understand you. You have been called "quirky" and "weird" and "sarcastic" and "different", but we both know that all of that is the beautiful and unique side of you. You are brilliant and funny, talented and decent. You have challenged me since that very first day thirty years ago and I have loved all of that about you and more, now and always. I love you my Older Son. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. Happy new decade to both of us. Celebrate it well and never be shy about being your authentic self.

A Brief Moment in Time Captured in GIFS...Part 2

Day 2 of this story actually begins at midnight of  Day 1.

By midnight, the doctor told us to pack up and head to the hospital. Pacing around our home had done little to move the process along, so he figured the hospital was a better place for him to keep tabs on me. So, off we went.



But the tiny human that I was marinating proved to be a stubborn cuss. Foreshadowing? Our arrival at the maternity ward did nothing to improve our progress. While the staff was lovely and caring, there was very little they could do to improve our situation, so there was a lot of this.



And for The Husband, there was plenty of this....



To this day, thirty years later, he still complains that while he absolutely acknowledges that I was doing all of the difficult work, (hence the term LABOUR!) he actually got zero sleep over those hours because of the fact that he had to sleep in a chair. My pity knows no bounds. (Does sarcasm translate through a screen?)

I will dispense with many of the gory details of this story. Birthing babies is indeed a beautiful miracle and we shall leave it at that. But...for the entirety of September 2nd, 1987 we did a lot of this...



And this...



With some of this thrown in...



And absolutely NONE of this...



And still none of this...



And all that day, family and friends were preparing to say goodbye to my friend. All my life's a circle indeed.




Part three will be up tomorrow. Stay tuned to this space for the grand finale.

A Brief Moment in Time Captured in GIFS

A brief moment in time told in GIFS over the next three days.

30 years ago today, on this exact date in history, I looked a lot like this.



I was nine months pregnant, still and always 4'11" tall (give or take half an inch), and every single step I took resembled this.



It was one of the hotter summers Toronto had endured in a very long time, so I took to spending most of July and August like this in my parent's pool.



As steamy August drifted into the first day of September, I was still a full two weeks from my due date. I was itching for the invading host to depart my body so that we could finally meet face to face. I knew that the calendar was not my friend and I was completely resigned to a Rosh Hashana baby.

But...the universe has an odd way of reminding us that we are never in control and that plans made are plans shredded.

On this particular September 1st, I received word that a very dear friend had passed away. She was a constant in my life and I had been very excited for her to meet our new tiny human. The sadness I experienced was overwhelming.



As I heaved and cried, I did what any normal and very pregnant woman would do when given absolutely horrible news. I immediately went into labour.



The Husband, being a diligent father-to-be, called the doctor and asked what he thought we should do. He told us to wait at home for a bit in order to move the process along before we headed to the hospital. So, for most of the rest of that September 1st thirty years ago, this was me.



With some of this...



Mixed in with a lot of this....



for the loss of my friend.

Keep watching this space. The best is yet to come.

Twins

As I checked out the calendar this morning in preparation for Shabbat, I was struck by the realization that this week is Parashat Toldot. This week we will read the story of Jacob and Esau, the twins. It is a Torah portion that has always carried special meaning for me for a number of reasons.

Years ago, when I was tutoring B'nai Mitzvah students in preparation for their special days, I had occasion to teach a young man who was recently recovering from a devastating family loss. Because of the turmoil he was facing at home, I suspended my normal practice of having students come to me for their lessons, and instead I went to him. Being a young mother, I would bundle up Younger Son and take him with me. He would busy himself on the floor with toys and books while the young man and I went about the business of learning Parashat Toldot. Many weeks later, Younger Son and I were driving somewhere and as would often happen, I would hear him singing to himself from his car seat. When I listened even more closely, I could make out that he was chanting the first Aliyah of Parashat Toldot, words and trope completely and stunningly correct. He was six at the time. Osmosis-learning is powerful and real, folks

I have often pondered that story of Younger Son with a special nod to the potency of this particular Torah portion and the depths to which I identify with it. Jacob and Esau bore the scars of a traumatic and difficult birth throughout their entire lives. Their mother Rebecca did not have an easy pregnancy, and the twins wrestled each other within her for dominance and birth order. As they were delivered, Jacob had a firm grasp on his older brother's heel as if to say, "This fight between us is far from over."

The boys were as different as they could possibly be. They seemed to share little in common and were always vying for one parent or another's attention. The rivalry between them culminates in theft and deception as Jacob steals from Esau, first his birthright as the inheritor of his father's property and with a final decisive blow, the blessing from father to son.

Jacob, knowing the depths of his duplicity, runs from his brother in fear. When in later years he finally decides to confront his twin, he comes home with an army for fear that his brother has held his anger close. Esau, firmly putting the past behind them, greets his brother with a kiss.

I have often wondered about Esau. As Jews, we spend much time trying to rehabilitate Jacob, mostly because we are the "Children of Israel" and having our dirty laundry aired through this our patriarch is patently disturbing. But what about Esau? I wonder what the brothers' lives would have been like, what they could have had, had they simply succumbed to the unexplainable relationship that is twindom. How much more could they have achieved as a team, rather than estranged?

I know very well the power of this relationship. I lived it. I loved it. I was a part of that special bond that only twins have. My mother and my aunt shared something that is absolutely indescribable for anybody who wasn't a close party or witness to it. Their husbands, children, and grandchildren were adopted into their orbit and together we are the privileged few that are part of a family that is strong, tight-knit, and resolute. Problems? Sure. Difficulties? Absolutely. Nothing on the scale of Jacob and Esau, but unlike them, we have done our level best to weather those storms together.

It is with some degree of irony that this week of Parashat Toldot marks the third English anniversary of my Other Mother's untimely passing. Due to the quirks of the lunar calendar, the Hebrew yahrzeit will be observed later this month. Her absence is still a cavernous hole that will never be filled. There isn't a day that goes by when I don't think of her in some way. It could be her handwriting on a recipe or her voice in my head when I watch a favourite movie. As we begin our winter down in the Southern Home, I am finding her presence here more personal and real. Here was where she was profoundly happy. Here was where she reveled in the warmth and sunshine. Here was where she got to spend so much more intimate time with my mom, probably more than they had since they were kids.

Mom and I had a discussion this week about the emptiness she still feels. She has managed to somehow carry on with her life these three years, but it was a final act she readily admits she never anticipated doing without her sister. She described the ache she still feels as if it were a bone that has badly mended and stings in the rain. That bond that she still shares with her is bigger than even she understood. The power of these twins, my twins, is found in their unbreakable closeness and the legacy of their family that has been their birthright and blessing.

I am left wondering how much stronger we Jews could have been had Jacob and Esau been more like my Mom and my Other Mother. What could they have accomplished had they done it together? What would we as a people have been like had they embraced rather than fought their twindom? The possibilities seem limitless.

May her memory always be for an abiding blessing.

Shabbat Shalom.

Am I Erasing Memories?

How do we draw the line between straightforward downsizing and memory erasure?

If moving into a smaller space were simply all about shedding the detritus that we no longer want, use, or realistically require, it would be really easy. I would simply call 1-800-Junk and dispose of everything except the bed, a TV (Hello, Murdoch Mysteries!), a couple of place settings, and toilet paper. (I tend to splurge in this area.)

But reality's a bitch, right?

I wrote the other day about the "rules" we have adopted and attempted to adhere to during this time of upheaval. But I have also become acutely aware of the passionate sentimentality associated with each and every item we are sifting through. Everything from old toys to broken picture frames seems to have a memory attached to it. I must admit that I wasn't fully prepared for the tsunami of emotion that has flattened me as we purge and pack. The Husband has taken to gently mocking me for assigning double the amount of time to every task because I have either had to take photographs of things or write full-throated blog defenses in favour of keeping them.

I know that I can't possibly keep it all and we have already divested ourselves of huge swaths of possessions in order to start afresh. But every so often I am struck by yet another wave of angst that suggests that perhaps I am not paying proper respect to the past and the memories of those whom I cherished.

Yesterday I came across this.

This old-style tin coin bank was given to me by my grandfather. He passed away when I was only three and half years old and my memories of him are reduced to a few old pictures and stories from my mom. I have nothing that belonged to him. He was a man of simple means and there were a lot of us grandchildren, so gifts were rarely extravagant. This child's toy is the only gift that I own that he gave exclusively to me. My mother can't recall if it was a birthday or Chanukah present, but for years she wouldn't allow me to part with it. When my parents downsized from their house to a condo, I took it and it has been in my basement ever since.

Will I display it? Probably not.

Do I have a use for it? Absolutely not

Will I sell it? Positively not.

Will I donate it? Well...therein lies the conundrum.

To the untrained eye, this is junk. It belongs in a garage sale. To me, it is the only tangible connection  to a long-lost member of my family. To me, parting with this item is like erasing his memory, my only memory of him.

This moving exercise has opened up a lifetime of emotional responses. I am living in daily conflict between brutal reality and sepia-coloured reminiscence. And...it isn't at all fun.

An "Out of Her Skin" Optimist's Guide to Her Birthday

Optimism doesn't come easily to me. I prefer to think of myself as a "cynical realist" combined with a hint of wondrous faith when the unexplainable occurs. But I find myself leading a lonely existence in today's overindulgent age of "feel-good" mantras, positive affirmation statements, unsolicited mental health advice, and generally junk science studies on how optimism can lead to longer lifespans. What's a generally cranky curmudgeonly bitch supposed to do in a such a world?

But, it is my birthday and I have been feeling the love all day long, so I will step out of my aforementioned comfort zone and give you my optimistic view of the world for this one specific day. Hey. If you can't live it up on your birthday then when can you?

There are some really great things about birthdays, mostly of the free and discounted variety. I was absolutely feeling the love from the barista at Starbucks when she handed over my complimentary soy mocha frappuccino light. (I even sprung for the more highly caloric grande! What the hell.) And I knew that it must be my special day when the Blue Jays shop sent me a code offering 15% off my next purchase. I must be spending way too much cash on my boys of summer for them to offer up a birthday discount, but loyalty is loyalty and mine is being rewarded.

I have to love a day when even the most ardent of meat eaters will acquiesce to lunch at a vegan restaurant in order to make me happy. It is even more incredible that they actually enjoyed their meals. A birthday miracle on par with the virgin birth.

The best gifts are the most thoughtful; like the chef's knives that my mother purchased for me months ago without knowing that I had been secretly plotting to abscond with hers, or The Husband replacing my Roots purse that literally fell apart from overuse. (I am not a big purse lover, but I missed this one desperately.)

Did you know that Herbie the Love Bug was number 53, the same as my age this year? I had forgotten until The Husband reminded me and decided that it would be hysterical for him to call me his "Little Love Bug" for the year. (My kids might call this a "dad joke".) I think that I would rather he call me Herbie than suffer that indignity.

The interwebs have an incredible way of making one feel loved even if it takes only a minute to comment. Facebook is great for this. My feed has been jammed all days with virtual cards, messages, flowers, and photos. It is kind of amazing how taking just a moment out of one's day to express felicitations can alter the recipient's mood. Little things like this really matter, even to a cynical realist.

End of the year birthdays tend to get lost in the hustle and bustle of the holidays. Who wants to brave a store for something as trivial as a birthday gift when the other December events have simply drained one of a year's quota of enthusiasm? We who were born at the end of a calendar year are used to feeling like a bit of an afterthought. But, today that simply wasn't the case. The sun was shining, the temperatures were grand, the people were smiling, and the caring and consideration was abundant from all. Days like today remind me of a favourite line from a favourite film.

Clarence: Remember, George: No man is a failure who has friends. (It's a Wonderful Life 1946)

Thanks for the birthday love. Tomorrow, I return to my cranky, cynical self. Well....maybe.

What the Poppy Means to Me This Year

There is a kind of wistful patriotism that spreads across the country during the first eleven days of November. The scarlet hue of poppies adorning lapels everywhere brings the essence of military service and sacrifice into laser-sharp focus for even the most cynical of Canadians. We are challenged to remember and admonished about forgetting. There are deep nobility and honour that comes with these days, but for most, it is fleeting and ephemeral.

This year, I have newfound respect and kinship with those who have been touched by our greatest heroes. One of my nearest and dearests has recently enlisted in the Canadian Forces with the wholly virtuous goal of serving as a medical technician. He has chosen for himself a life of service, and one that will see him truly helping the afflicted. We are all tremendously proud of him, but watching him passionately prepare for his departure last week, I couldn't help but be slightly weepy and nostalgic for that little boy who used to bounce off  walls and do handsprings in my living room. This life that he has chosen for himself is impressive, but I cannot pretend that it doesn't come without some inherent risks and major concerns for all those who love him.

You see, we are not a military family. We care deeply about our country and her safety, but it hasn't been the purview of any of us to view the military as anything other than something that other people do. Please don't get me wrong. For all my liberal views, I am not entirely anti-interventionist, nor am I an extreme pacifist. There are times when an active and involved military is necessary, and as much as I loathe the idea of combat, I understand the implications under the right circumstances. But, until the last several years, being a Canadian has been all about watching our troops serve in humanitarian and peace-keeping missions. This is the Canada that I know and understand. The role of the Canadian military has been much altered over the last decade, and the world has become a much more frightening place for our men and women in uniform. This is the Canada that I am having a difficult time coming to grips with.

He will be fine. Intellectually I know this and understand this. He is choosing to serve for the finest of reasons...to save lives. But, logic only helps me up to a point. Reason goes out the window when I think of that little boy doing handsprings in my living room. I want him to be happy. I want him to live his passion. I want him to be safe.

This Remembrance Day will have added significance for our family. This year it becomes a bit more personal. This year we wear our poppies a bit more proudly and a bit less carelessly. This year I think of that boy doing handsprings in my living room and also of the exceptional man he has become. This year we stand and show our support for those who sacrificed and for those who choose to serve.

With love to you dear boy....

Lest we forget.

Old Folkie

My father raised a folkie.

It was embedded in utero. Instead of traditional lullabies, my dad sang me the songs of Woody and Pete. I was cradled with a proverbial hammer in my fist and was rocked to sleep by the gentle lilts of a hobo. I sang the entirety of Stewball at two,(verses and chorus) and by the time I was six Dad had already taken me to my first Peter, Paul, and Mary concert. (My first of many.)

I would spend hours playing Dad's extensive vinyl collection until the records were pitted and grooved. Woody, the Weavers, PPM, Harry Belafonte, The Kingston Trio, Joe and Eddie, The Christy Minstrels, The Serendipity Singers, Pete, Dylan, Dave Van Ronk, and of course Tom Paxton. Dad would always sing along in his deep and lustrous baritone. (I would always giggle when he tried to mimic the sound effects Tom made on The Marvellous Toy.) These artists were the soundtrack of my youth. Their music stirred my passions, my politics, my social conscience, my inner being....my faith. I was and still am, a disciple.

The Husband also shares my passion. We've happily doled out much cash over the years to add to and upgrade that original collection, and we've spent many a happy hour in dark clubs listening to our favourites perform live. So when it was announced that Tom Paxton would be returning for a final farewell this fall at Hugh's Room, we were amongst the first to snag tickets.

We have seen Tom countless times over the years and he never fails to disappoint. His voice and his stories are mellifluous, and his easy demeanour with an audience makes me feel as though he were singing just to me in the living room. He his consistent and constant, and his songs return me to an era of social involvement, collective protest, community involvement, and loving importance. At the youngish age of 78 and with more than sixty albums to his credit, Tom still wields a commanding charisma onstage, and his pathos when he speaks of old friends and loves is sincerely moving.

Tom's new songs (yes he is still actively writing and recording) mix easily with old favourites. His acerbic wit is biting and his short shelf-life songs are still ironically relevant. He has promised to keep writing and maintain his strong internet presence, but he has decided to retire from the road. He said he is tired and I suppose that after more than fifty years in the trenches he has earned the rest.

I didn't expect to be so emotional at Tom's Toronto swan song. As he tuned his Martin for a final performance of Ramblin' Boy, I realized that this was truly the end of an era. Somewhere around the second verse I was misty, and by the final chorus the tears were copious. I had a chance to shake his hand after the concert as he signed a CD for me, (a remix of his very first recording) and I thanked him for the music. It seemed like so little to say to a man who has given me so much.

My dad is presently out of town and unfortunately he missed this special evening. It seemed almost a loose end that he wasn't there with me. When I see him in a few weeks, I will share the CD, tell him the stories, and we will listen like old times. Maybe I'll even giggle when I hear The Marvellous Toy. What could be better than that?

It's Official. We're All Related

My sister-in-law (I have affectionally dubbed her The Yin to The Lil' Bro's Yang) is not into social media at all. The whole experience bores her to tears. She has a Facebook page but she only has three friends, her kids. She registered when they were young teenagers so that she might watch out for the pond scum that inevitably inhabits these sites. As they have transitioned into adulthood, she has simply abandoned the page.

That isn't to say that she isn't remarkably internet savvy. As keeper of the family archives, she has been incredibly active on one of those fancy genealogy sites, the pro edition. For the past several years, she has spent her free time constructing elaborate family trees and discovering long-lost relations. The constant merging of kinsmen into new branches is her social media experience. I suppose that she prefers interactions with the mostly deceased to those of the mostly living. Honestly, I don't judge.

But, she is great at it. She has found relatives in places that we never knew existed. She has uncovered photographs, documentation, and connections that have simply defied expectations. Our family tree now consists of hundreds, if not thousands, of individuals from all over the globe. For an Ashkenazi Jewish family that lost so many souls in the Holocaust, this genealogical rediscovery is life-affirming. It actually says to us that we will go on. We will survive.

But I think that her hobby has devolved into some form of theatre of the absurd. This past weekend, she must have had some time on her hands. For reasons known only to her, she sent The Husband an email detailing that she had found a link between him and Twin Son.

**Some history is required. I had very good reasons for dubbing The Husband's partner and best friend Twin Son. Aside from sharing a name, (both first and middle) the two of them are so very much alike in character and demeanour. The business that they started together grew out of mutual loves and interests. I initially called them Twin Sons of Different Mothers and his nickname grew from there.**

But...related? Um...no!

Until Sunday, that is.

She sent the following link from her genealogy search. I have blacked out the names to protect the guilty. Because I really suck at all things photoshop, I was unable to fix one detail. This line is from her perspective, so she is the "you" at the head of the profile. If you put The Husband in that slot, and substitute "your wife" (that's me) for "your husband" (that's my Lil' Bro) as the second connection, the rest is absolutely equal.

If you are having trouble reading the connection as ascribed at the top it goes like this.

Twin Son is your wife's first cousin twice removed's wife's niece's husband's uncle's wife's nephew.

Read it again.

And again.

Got it yet?

No?

Me neither.

I have read the f***ing thing dozens of times and I still don't get it. 

The only thing that this absurdity proves conclusively is that all Jews, no matter who they are, are related to one another. Yup. We have finally achieved maximum redneckedness. We are all marrying our cousins and there isn't a damn thing any of us can do about it. Bring on those genetically-infused diseases. We are obviously a doomed species. 

I think that this stupidity shows unquestionably that we have reached peak saturation when it comes to social media. When we all can categorically state that we are Twin Sons of Different Mothers it is time to give up the ghost.  

A Letter to My Mom

Dear Mom,

As much as we both despise Mother's Day, you have to admit that it does offer some glorious time for reflection on the nature of family and the ever-evolving relationships carried within. It has been several years since I publicly informed the world that not only do I love and respect my mother, but that I actually like you and adore spending time with you. For some women, this admission would be tantamount to smearing one's body with honey and running naked through the forest, but for me it was a natural as breathing.

You see....

I think that my mother is probably one of the most fascinating, brilliant, and talented people I know.

Now that I have said all of that, I can hear her cries of self-derision and embarrassment pulsating through my screen. But frankly Mom, it's time you listened and truly took to heart what I know to be true about you, even if you yourself can't see it.

You complain vociferously that you aren't smart enough or clever enough. This nonsense is being spewed by the same woman who worked her ass off and persevered through dyslexia, at a time when it wasn't on any educator's radar, to shatter old-time quotas placed on Jewish women entering nursing. You followed your passion when it wasn't always easy or "ladylike" to do so, and you lived it because you felt it completed you. How could your daughter not look at that drive and determination and not see a brilliant and powerfully independent woman?

And you have never rested on your laurels.

You continue to study, learn, create, beautify, interact, engage, experience, seek out, and acquire new ideas and skills. Your self-deprecation, while charming at times, infuriates the shit out of me. (And yes..I know that you wish I didn't swear so much.) I wish you could see what I see, but you come from a generation that pushed its boys forward into the limelight while allowing its girls to remain quietly in the shadows. You have never been shy about expressing yourself with me, but out in the world you prefer to stay buried in the background. I have never been able to fully reconcile these two sides of you. The greatest gift that you ever gave me was to push me out of my own comfort zone and onto a public stage where my gifts would be recognized and appreciated. Do you honestly believe that I could have achieved all that I have without your counsel, wisdom, guidance, critical eye, and unwavering support?

You have been my confidante, my guidepost, my biggest fan and my most needed and essential critic. You have been my shoulder to cry on, my organizational guru, my therapist, my role model, my mentor, and my friend. You are my rock. Our daily conversations (sometimes many) are sustenance to me.

There is no disputing that these have been challenging times for you, Mom. Nobody, least of all me, expects you to ever be fully whole again. There is a part of you that is broken and perhaps beyond repair. That's ok. It really is. Just accept it. But, I would like to think that maybe you are being remodelled, much in the way that fractured bones mend. There is a perpetual weakness where the break occurred, and even pangs of sharp pain on occasion, but there is strength in the resoluteness of the core to continue on and make the most of what is left. That strength has always been a part of you. You just need to dig fairly deep down to summon it now. I have no doubt that you will. There is still so much left for you to experience; so much that is yet to come.

I love you, Mom. But more importantly, I like you. Not in a smarmy "Sally Field" kind of like, but rather a true admiration and esteem. Our relationship is one of the true joys of my life.

Oh...and by the way...this is your Mother's Day present! (Yes...you taught me sarcasm as well!)

Love always,

Dawn

Wedding Daze

Younger Son and His Beshert have been married for almost three weeks now. Incredible. If I thought that time flew before, it is positively ethereal now. I have said very little publicly about that day and aside from posting a few pictures on Facebook, there is scant anecdotal evidence from me that the occasion actually occurred. (I am trying mightily to get The Husband to allow me to post his brilliant wedding speech. So far I have had no success. Maybe if you all provide some pressure, he will allow me to share it with the masses.) The range of emotions leading up to and encompassing that Sunday three weeks ago were and still are so terribly overwhelming that I haven't been ready to unpack them and share them with anybody other than my closest confidants, and truth be told I'm still not. Hopefully that time will come before the end of this blogapalooza month. I could really use the post to fill a day. Instead, today I will regale you with some of the behind the scenes mayhem that occurred during wedding weekend. Most weddings have a few glitches that nobody discusses until the tenth anniversary celebrations, but some of these were so comical that they deserve a timely sharing.

The bedlam began a few days before. The bride wanted to take her dress into a dry cleaner in order to have them steam out the creases from the lace bodice. She had been storing it here at our home, and a local establishment had been highly recommended. She dropped it off with the understanding that pickup would be on the Friday, two days before the wedding. That Friday was a beehive of activity. The Husband and Younger Son headed to the airport to pickup a few members of the wedding party, including the bride's brother. They dropped him off at the tuxedo rental place to meet his sister and their parents so that he could be properly fitted for his tux. In the meantime, The Husband and Younger Son brought two of the bridesmaids back to our house to wait for the bride to finish with her brother, and then we would all head into midtown for the rehearsal.

Potential Crisis #1.  When she went to retrieve her dress just before meeting us at the house, she brushed it up against her car, resulting in a black smudge across the skirt. Reeling, she returned immediately to the dry cleaner to see what they could do. Unfortunately, we live in The North Jewish Ghetto and this all happened late Friday afternoon, just before Shabbat. The only employee remaining in the cleaning shop was the seamstress. She told The Beshert to call back early Saturday morning. Somebody would answer. When she finally came into our house, she was a mess of emotion. Her Saturday was scheduled down to the minute with wedding prep and Younger Son was running all over the city shlepping and carting. It was finally decided that The Husband and I would retrieve the dress when ready and transport it downtown. The only problem was that we had a car stuffed with whisky supplies. You see, the biggest whisky show in Canada was that same weekend.  As fate would have it, it was happening at the same hotel where we were staying. The Husband had made arrangements months prior for others to cover the show, but due to totally unforeseen and unavoidable circumstances, he had no choice but to cart all of the supplies for the show down to the venue and set up the booth with Older Son. (Older Son was an amazing beast all weekend. His role in averting several potential disasters is upcoming. Read on!) Where could we possibly put the dress? A game of Tetris ensued and the backseat of my car was transformed into a wedding dress hyperbaric chamber, complete with sheeting and plastic covering. The dress made it downtown intact and the dry cleaners didn't even charge us for the stain removal. ON SHABBAT!! Crisis #1 averted.

Potential Crisis #2. As we were checking into the hotel, we ran into the bride and groom in the lobby. They informed us that during all of the pandemonium of shlepping and carting stuff to the wedding venue that afternoon, they had inadvertently left their Ontario marriage license and my son's tallit (prayer shawl) at their apartment in midtown, both necessary for the ceremony the next day. Anybody who knows Toronto well knows that these trips up and down town are anything but routine travel. Traffic and construction make for hellish commutes in this city, and we are talking about hours not minutes when discussing the retrieval of these items. "No worries", states Older Son and Best Man Extraordinaire. He is staying at his home on Saturday night and he will retrieve the items before he makes his way back to the hotel on Sunday morning. Crisis #2 averted.

Potential Crisis #3. The Toronto Waterfront Marathon. 27,000 runners from all over the world converged upon Toronto that weekend, with the start and finish lines of the race presenting themselves directly across the street from our hotel at Nathan Phillips Square, Toronto City Hall. No worries. The wedding wasn't actually happening at the hotel, but rather at a venue on the waterfront about fifteen minutes away. On a normal day. In normal traffic. This was hardly a normal day. Just by chance at about 9:30am, The Husband decided to walk through the lobby of the hotel where he ran into the bridal party. The girls, including the bride and her mother, were waiting for two cabs, that were already 45 minutes late, to transport them to the wedding venue. The cabs simply couldn't navigate the marathon traffic with its myriad of road closures and newly formed one-way streets. The young women were loaded down with dresses and accessories and were starting to panic about missed hair and makeup appointments that were already behind schedule. When one of the taxis finally arrived, the bridesmaids all piled in, while Super Husband grabbed his keys and transported the bride, her mom, and the dress. The original plan had called for him to drop them off, come back and get me in order to drive me over. That plan fell quickly by the wayside when a half an hour roundtrip drive turned into two and half hours, surrounded by thousands of runners and hundreds of cops telling him that he couldn't get there from here. He would call me every five minutes to update his snail-like progress through Toronto's downtown and west end. When he finally did arrive back at the hotel, he quickly changed into his tux, we grabbed all of our stuff, including my parents and all of  their stuff, and we all piled back into the car for the return trip. The amazing thing was that through it all, The Husband never once lost his composure or his temper. That's what weddings will do for you. It is a chronic happy place. Crisis #3 averted.

Potential Crisis #4. This particular one felt like the wedding gods piling on. The groom and his groomsmen were all meeting at the hotel to get ready together on Sunday morning. While all of the shit about transporting the girls was occurring, the bride discovered that she had left her veil back at their apartment. In midtown. An hour away in good traffic. The guys, including Older Son now with marriage license and tallit in tow, were already assembled at the hotel with the groom. The marathon made car transportation back uptown next to impossible. So, Best Man Extraordinaire hops on the subway back to midtown, retrieves the veil, returns via subway to the hotel, and then catches a cab with the rest of the guys to the wedding venue.  As the groom himself said..."Daniel wins the wedding!!" Crisis #4 averted.

The crazy part about all of these backstage shenanigans is that not a single one was enough to alter anybody's mood. There was just too much happiness and joy for the shit to hit the proverbial fan and put a damper on the day. The weather was glorious, the couple radiant, the parents sobbing puddles of goo, and the marriage is off to a wonderful start. It was quite the day.

My Wedding Speech....That I Won't Be Giving at The Wedding

My son is getting married  next week.

That's Younger Son. 

My baby.

This is the child who always made me feel as though my youth was a foregone conclusion.

A mendacity for certain, but one with which I felt I could easily live.

My youngest child is getting married.

I keep repeating it over and over to myself in the hope that the reality will sink in, but instead I find that it is the source of my latest bout with insomnia.

Now, don't misunderstand me. I am thrilled and excited for Younger Son and His Beshert; for all of us actually. Simchas are this family's lifeblood. I adore my boy and the sublime young woman who is now my daughter. These two wonderful people have found each other amidst the flotsam and jetsam of the relationship sea. Their future is before them and I couldn't be happier.

Still....it's 3:00am....and I am staring at the ceiling hoping that I might be granted an epiphany to explain how I feel. But.....I've got nothing of substance, nothing that can be easily articulated.

Instead I offer knowledge. Mine to be certain and perhaps more that just a wee bit self-important and pontificating, but it comes from a virtuous place and more than thirty years of being with the same person. That....and really....what's the use of having a blog if you can't utilize it as a vanity space. Maybe just chalk all of this up to the rantings of an overly emotive MOG (Mother of the Groom) a week before her son's marriage. Since I won't be speaking on the day of....a choice well made I might add....here are a few things for my son and new daughter-in-law to ponder.

The wedding will be beautiful even if a few details get missed in the mayhem. I don't say that because I am planning for mayhem or even to suggest that details will be shirked, but rather to remind us all that the most important detail will be witnessing and celebrating the union of these two loving souls. Everything else is gravy. The rabbis attach great importance to the mitzvah of Simchat Chatan v'Kalah, rejoicing with the groom and the bride. Rabbi Eli Mansour elucidates:

The Rambam (Maimonides) comments (Hilchot Avel 14:1) that although the Torah makes no specific reference to this Mitzvah, it is included under the general category of "Ve'ahavta Le'rei'acha Kamocha" ("Love your fellow as yourself" – Lev 19:18). Thus, one who helps bring joy to a bride and groom fulfills a "Mitzvat Asei Min Ha'Torah" – the Biblical command to "love your fellow as yourself."

Weddings matter. A lot. But marriages matter more.

Marriage is hard work. Every single day. It never stops being hard work. It is about making a conscious decision to accept the fact that maybe he doesn't make the bed in the mornings or that maybe she needs to talk to family every day. It is about mortgage payments, and in-laws, and children, and pets, and religious practices, and priorities, and career choices, and who controls the TV remote or the thermostat, and division of household labour, and nursing care, and worry, and panic, and........

It is about not always winning and about not caring about winning. It is about screaming and slamming doors, but never walking away no matter how tempted you may be. It is about having the fortitude to work through the shit because that's what you promised each other, even though the shit is knee-deep. It is about asking for help when needed and about making lasting decisions together. Marriage isn't for everybody and it certainly isn't for the feint of heart.

But....

It does have its moments. Like when he touches your arm for no reason while you are at a restaurant, or when she shoots you a knowing glance during a movie that only the two of you understand. Like when the two of you share inside jokes, intimate history, family, friends, or maybe when you someday stand together with your children under the chuppah. Those are the connections that matter. They are amongst the gifts that your life together will keep on giving to you and they are amongst the most precious.

Years ago I read somewhere that saying "I Love You" during sex is too easy and shouldn't count. Saying it at other times demands more thought and care. Be thoughtful and caring of each other. Be demonstrative in public and say "I Love You" out loud when it is least expected but it might matter most. Flirt and play with each other. Be each other's spouse, partner, person, lover, and friend. Be each other's cheering section and most constructive critic. Understand your differences but accentuate your similarities. Know your weaknesses and catch each other when needed.

No parent could ask for more than to see their children happy. My wish for you both is that you take the joy you feel today and build on it for a lifetime. I know that I am truly blessed....

even if I can't sleep.

Pushing Through the Pain

I was listening to a Susan Werner live album the other day and I was struck by a conversation she recalled having at one time with her grandmother. She asked this wonderfully astute centenarian what  she thought was the secret to a long-lasting marriage. The older woman replied "Well...it seems to me that you should marry somebody that you can live with, and not somebody who you can't live without."

Here's another.

Several years ago, I asked my mother a similar question. 

Me: "Mom, why do you think that you and Dad have survived marriage when so many others have failed?"

Mom: (Without missing a beat) "Pain".

I was obviously dumbfounded and confused. I had expected an answer that was all tied up in platitudes like mutual respect, common interests, and love. So I pressed her for elucidation.

Mom: "You see...If you can survive the pain...the physical and the emotional...then you can survive anything. You have to push through the pain"

Have I ever told you that I think that my mother is brilliant?

Pain is the great equalizer in a relationship. Look...it is easy to enjoy the hearts and flowers, the romantic moments and the happy vacations. It is the coping with the pain that separates the marriage flounderers from the survivors.

The Husband and I have been reminded of that lesson this week. 

After several years of suffering (and I do mean suffering) with chronic kidney stones, he underwent a procedure designed to clean out the mess. The outpatient surgery lasted less than an hour, but the subsequent days of recuperation have been less than a stellar experience. Without delving into gory details of the procedure or its side-effects, suffice it to say that the wretched discomfort that he has undergone would bring professional football players to their knees. The cocktail of narcotics and analgesics that he is on is barely making a dent in managing his pain, and it took a trip to the emergency room the other night and two doses of morphine to allow him his first sleep in two days. (mine too, but that is so beside the point.) 

Watching this man, this man for whom the word love is too pedantic for how I feel towards him, suffer in this way has been gut wrenching. Every movement or spasm resonates through me as it does through him. And yet...I am rendered absolutely helpless as he struggles to make his way through this nightmarish week. Sure...I can nurse him, wait on him (to his utter horror and misery), run his errands, and generally just be here for him, but I cannot alleviate his suffering no matter how much I might wish it to be so.

Thankfully, this too shall pass (sorry for the pun, but it is all in the name of laughter being some kind of medicine) and our lives will move on when the worst is over, but I know that it has already become another plank in the foundation that has made our relationship strong. 

As the wedding of Younger Son and His B'sheret rapidly approaches, I have been wracking my brain for sage and sensible advice that might be passed on to the next generation, L'dor Vador if you will, as to the secrets for a successful marriage. So if I may be forgiven a few platitudes, here goes.

Marriage is one of the most difficult life projects that you will ever undertake. It is filled with pitfalls and obstacles designed to test your patience and your abilities to weather adversity. Absolutely celebrate and enjoy all of the wonders and marvellous times. Those are the Kodak moments. But my mother and Susan Werner's grandma were right. It is how you survive and endure the pain that will truly cement your relationship. That is the person that you want to live and be with. If you are there for each other through all of that, the rest will take care of itself. 

Making Plans

There is an old Yiddish proverb that goes something like this:

.דער מענטש טראַכט און גאָט לאַכט

Der mentsh trakht un Got lakht.

In short, it roughly translates to "Man plans and God laughs". 

I have always loathed this bit of witticism. The idea that God would have a hand in the day to day actions of individuals is anathema to me, and even worse, that a caring and compassionate God would purposefully play Russian roulette with people's lives by bringing pain and suffering on a whim, runs counter to my entire belief system. Instead, I choose to believe that God exists in the spaces; a divine presence that remains close by in order to provide support and strength during those times when life turns sour. God is found in the comforting touches and glances of The Husband or in my children's voices. God is in my friends' phone calls and emails. The notion of a vindictive God with a personal agenda is unfathomable. The very idea that we shouldn't have longterm goals or intentions because of what the Divine Spirit might do is extraordinarily defeatist. We may as well just curl up into a ball right now and call it a day.

And yet...I have to admit it...I have been stuck for these past five months. My grief has turned into trepidation and it has caused me to spin my wheels on more than one occasion. I haven't been able to plan for anything further out on the calendar than a medical appointment. There have been more than a few Saturday evenings recently where The Husband and I have looked pitifully at one another and wondered aloud why we didn't think to organize an outing or a dinner with friends. It isn't that I don't want to plan, rather it is born out of a fear of what might happen if I ponder the future with too much gusto.

It was my mother who shook me out of my funk. My mother who has suffered a loss so wounding and visceral that even those closest to her can't completely comprehend it, was the one who categorically stated to me that she was looking at some new travel opportunities. To anybody who knows my mom well knows that this is a sign. She was signalling to me and to the outside world that  she needs to get on with her life, even if that idea is wrapped up in a minuscule gesture like looking on the interweb for globetrotting options.

"Life is about the touchstones and the memories we make", she said.

"We have to get on with the business of living."

(And people wonder why I worship and unabashedly adore this woman.)

So, I am back to planning. There will be trips and new experiences; New York this weekend and Newfoundland at the beginning of the summer. There will be simchas and wonderful times ahead this summer and fall celebrating with family and friends. (The marriage of one's child is an amazingly self-reflective event.) There will be new challenges for me to conquer as I embark on the next phase of personal growth and leave my old career behind, and undoubtedly much of all of that will be shared in this space.

And guess what?

I don't hear God laughing at all.

The Ghosts of Pesachs Past

As we were setting up for tonight's seder at Sister/Cousin's home yesterday, The Little Bro and I found ourselves discussing seders past.

The sederim of my youth were anything but conventional. They were big, loud, brash, musical, and creative. (Actually...things haven't changed all that much.) We often used off-print haggadot (we still do), had several musical instruments at the table (we still do), and it wasn't unusual for a new experience or visitor to make an appearance.

My brother and I spent part of yesterday reminiscing about the time that our uncle decided to introduce kinetic energy to the seder table and how we kids couldn't help but foil his best-laid plans with our own brand of chicanery.  Or about the time that he read everybody's aura with a crystal. There was the year that he invited an odd "homeless-looking" (we never really did discovered his name or story) gentleman to join us. The chap ate like he hadn't in a month, but was so grateful and so polite that we all felt as though we had fulfilled the mitzvah of welcoming the stranger.

Then there was the time that I insisted that we place an orange on the seder plate and nearly set off WWIII. The political discussions that followed were forever banned from the seder table by my mother. There was the year after Other Father's dad passed away that we taught all of the kids how to sing Chad Gadya in Yiddish the way he always did as a surprise. We gathered them all around him and they just let it go. Other Father was so moved he could barely get through the first verse.

Our seders have grown so large that with next generations and significant others added in, we have had to find suitable locales to host us all. We have used condo party rooms and synagogue multi-purpose areas. We have developed seating charts and menu lists. We have measured space down to the last centimetre and we have detailed the event as carefully as any party planner. (A special shout-out for this stuff has to go out to my Little Bro's Yin to his Yang. She is unbelievable.) It isn't always easy and we don't all agree, (OY!!) but every year we seem to make it work.

I think that the reason that the two of us got a bit nostalgic yesterday and certainly a bit misty, was in part because of those who will not be with us this year. Some because it is the yearly trade off with other sides of family; some because of university exams; some unfortunately because of illness; and some because......

There is a great deal of complaining that goes with Pesach. It is so much work. It is so much cooking. It is so much cleaning. It is so much constipation. All of it true. But as my conversation with my brother reminded me yesterday, it is really all about the people. Those that are here and those that will always be here. They are all in my heart and soul this year and every year.

May your Pesach sederim be lovely, meaningful, fun, and filled with the stuff that makes memories.

Packing

I have been doing a great deal of packing lately.

Some of it has been done with great excitement and great anticipation.

Some of it has been done with profound sadness and much stifling of tears.

Packing is one of life's true paradoxes. We want to transition to different experiences and exotic locales, but we can't seem to accomplish that task without dragging copious amounts of "stuff" along for the ride. We accumulate, we hoard, we collect, and we stockpile believing that we will need it all someday, but in actual fact we use but a small fraction of our accrued shit. (Check out the brilliant George Carlin's take on "Stuff" which I have included at the bottom of this post.)

And yet...

There is something about this paraphernalia that gives our lives balance and meaning. We rescue old and faded photographs from the back of a drawer, knowing that we can't bear to toss them in the trash for fear of forgetting. We rescue baking supplies and recipes so that we might recreate that which can no longer adequately be produced. But we so very desperately want it to be, so we pack them away. We compartmentalize. We move forward while one foot remains firmly embedded in the past.

When we journeyed to the Southern Home at the end of December, it was done in haste and with escape from misery in mind. There is no question that I was running away and I packed the way a 5 year old might if he was planning his getaway. There was no thought, no planning. Just a "get me out of town" mentality to go with some clothes, some toys, and my passport.

Packing to come home has been a very different experience. There is careful calculation and examination of what it all means. This place has always been my oasis, my haven, my retreat. But as I prepare to return to Northern climes, I find myself not simply packing tangible items like clothing, but also fond memories of this locale that has now been irrevocably changed for me. It is still my Southern Home, but it is a little less idyllic because she is no longer here to share it.

I pack to come home. I pack to move forward. I pack to remember.


)

Ding a Car, Win a Chicken Sandwich

Baseball and poetry seem to go hand in hand. Writers much more eloquent than I have shared their hazy ethereal love for the pastoral game that seems to burst out of winter shadows like tulips in a spring garden.

Ok. Cheesy imagery really isn't my strong suit.
But there is something about baseball's spring training that inspires such insipid metaphors and similes. Maybe it's the fact that the winter has been interminable and the sight of young men shagging flies on an emerald field brings with it fantasies of life renewed. Maybe it is the blissful equity of every team's hopes and dreams of October competition still mercifully intact. Or perhaps it is the quiet simplicity of the game. Grown men, despite the corporate ownerships and billions of dollars at stake, playing like boys.

This is what I love most about spring training; delighting in watching the boy in every man come to the forefront. I love seeing Jose Reyes, he of the multimillion dollar contract, cavorting and kibbitizing with some awestruck rookie as he challenges the kid to a race across the outfield, and then devolving into giggles as the kid realizes that the fun-loving star gave him a 10 yard head start. There is the pure unadulterated joy in the face of the hulking farm boy as he belts his first home run off of a major league pitcher, while his hitting coach dad positively beams with pride from his perch in the opposing team's dugout.You can almost see the Little Leaguer in him as he bounces around third looking at dad for approval. There is first baseman/DH Adam Lind sporting a winter's worth of mountain man growth on his face that is more than worthy of his teammates' ridicule, and then playfully stroking the beard each time he comes to the plate to demonstrate his response to their good-natured teasing. And then there is former ace Ricky Romero, a lone and solitary figure taking to the mound as he struggles to remember what it was that used to make this game so easy and is now so terribly difficult. The forgotten man desperately trying to make himself visible once again.
And of course, there are the fans...kids every one of us. We jockey for position to watch our favourites and beg for photos and signatures. We delight when they stop to chat (which they do on occasion) and we wrestle for the balls tossed into the crowd. Grown men and women shell out hundreds of dollars for a number 43 jersey, hoping against hope that Mr. Dickey will stop, notice, and maybe converse.

Spring training reminds all of us of a time that was simpler. A time when playing outside was expected and baseball didn't exist on a video game console. It is a place where corporate sponsors don't attempt to buy our affections with bobblehead giveaways, but rather have us cheering for a ball leaving the yard to ding our cars so that we might partake in a free Chick-Fil-A sandwich. (Even the vegetarian me loved that.) Spring training touches that place inside where dreams have lay dormant and hope exists for even the most cynical. (I'm looking at you Older Son!) We set aside the steroid stories, the sabremetrics, our fantasy teams, and the financial inequity, so that we might, for a few hours or days, just enjoy the game and the boys who play it in a way we can only wish we could.

And for me...I get to have my very own Field Of Dreams moment with my adult son. The mother/son road trip version of playing catch. That alone makes the trip worthwhile.

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