Lives Well Lived

The following posts may be broken into several sections. It is difficult for me to say everything I want about this subject. There are a lot of memories and emotional components that might get in the way of brevity. I apologize in advance and will absolutely understand if you don't want to follow or go along for a prolonged ride. It might get wordy. I am not sure how it might turn out, but I will try hard not to make it pedantic and deathly boring. I will also try to infuse some humour. There will definitely be some sap and for that, I apologize.

There is a conversation to be had about our "stuff". George Carlin began this dialogue back in 1986 with his brilliant soliloquy. I highly recommend you watch it. Not only is it wickedly funny, but it is truly an excellent distillation of conspicuous consumerism. Carlin was truly on the cutting edge of modern philosophy; an iconoclast ahead of his time. 

It is easy to dismiss the things we keep as unimportant. 

"Why the hell did Bubby keep a drawerful of rubber bands? What was she thinking?"

Bubby probably filled a drawer with what we see as junk because she grew up when everything could be used again. Bubby wasn't necessarily a hoarder, but rather an early adopter of environmentalism. She understood the value of renewable objects. Tossing that stuff into the trash was anathema for her. It was her "stuff" and judging it from across the chasms of time seems disrespectful.

There are so many memories attached to our stuff. The Playbills I keep from live theatre performances are of no value. They are simply printed magazines with pretty covers. But when I see them, the joy I felt sitting in those theatres comes flooding back in jubilant waves. What is the harm in holding onto them? 

The same goes for artwork or chachkas that are accumulated over a lifetime of collecting. Maybe you have mugs or little silver spoons purchased during your travels. Perhaps you are a connoisseur of local artisans. If you are a traveller, buying some knickknacks brings back memories of adventures well-spent. Surrounding oneself with "stuff" can bring joy and contentment. I am certainly not advocating hoarding or a troublesome addiction. I am merely looking at the memorabilia we all collect. At this moment, I am having a difiicult time seeing the downside.

Which brings me to the reason for all of this nostalgia. We are at a point in our lives where we are dealing with downsizing my parents' "stuff." This isn't the first round of divesting. They have moved several times in the past decade, so all of us who are involved are well-versed in the task. This time it feels different, more permanent. As such, there are many emotions that need to be managed and many egos that need to be stroked.

As I write the first of these posts, I am sitting in The Southern Home. It is unusual for us to be here in the heat of a South Florida summer, but my parents recently sold their condo and we were tasked with cleaning out their "stuff". This space is filled with memories from their globetrotting days. They were true collectors of local artisans from all over the world. When we first started this exercise back in the winter, knowing that they would be selling, I watched my mom wander around the apartment in a wistful haze. She and I would decide on what needed to go; I would take it out of the cupboards to mark it for removal; and then twenty minutes later, I would find it back in its original location. It didn't matter what the object was. It could have been a broken serving dish or a drawerful of dried-up pens. My mom found comfort in knowing her "stuff" was where she left it. While Toronto is where their family is, South Florida has always been home for them. Over the past three and half decades, this was the place where my parents thrived. Their relationships, their social situations, and their activities were all far more engrossing and engaging down here. They didn't simply visit for five months of the year. They lived here. My mom and my Other Mom would spend weeks at a time here, just the two of them, while their men commuted back and forth between the countries. The memories here are vivid and colourful and the sadness at them having to part with this place penetrates my soul. 

We knew early in the spring that The Husband and I would be the ones to deal with the sale of this place. (We didn't know how quickly we would have to rearrange things in order to fly down, but that story is for another post.) After all, we are also here a lot and we fully understand the importance and magnitude this space has for both of my parents. My brother and I have the luxury of being on the same page when it comes to my parents' and helping them to continue to live their best lives. Not all families are this fortunate, so I will count my blessings. Walking into their condo on Tuesday was heart-wrenching for me. I could hear my aunt's voice. I could smell the cookies baking. I could see my dad sitting at the pool. Thirty-six years came flooding back in an instant. It was a lot of years, and yet not enough. 

Some of their most prized stuff was shipped to grandchildren and beloved families in Toronto. Some were given to dear friends down here. The buyer wanted a few things, so The Husband made some deals. We had building friends walk through and take mementos. We gifted some things to workers in the building who are forever sending items back to needy families in Cuba and Central America. (We also gifted the staff here all of my dad's booze and told them to have a blowout fiesta in his honour.) Photographs were lovingly boxed to be shipped at a later date. We cancelled their phone number. The same number they have had for thirty-six years. We called charitable organizations to take the furniture. And we called the junk people for the broken and battered "stuff". We did it all in five days. Thirty-six years of memories and "stuff" dispersed in five days.

I have cried more than once during this exercise. I have silently told Marie Kondo to go fuck herself on numerous occasions. The Husband has been my rock. He celebrated his birthday in the middle of this week. It is not an ideal way to celebrate, but he has been unbelievable. He has given me the space to work the problems, and more importantly, the space to grieve. Nobody has died, but a chapter of our lives has closed. (Once again, another post.) 

I wrapped a few small items to take home to my parents. I packed a small mezuzah designed by Agam and a small ceramic gator. They will find places of honour in my parents' new space in Toronto. I also shipped home my mom's favourite wine goblets. I hope to have a toast with her when they arrive north. Because in the end, it isn't just stuff. It is a reminder of lives well lived.

He will have a place of distinction in Toronto

Thanks for reading. We fly home tonight and I will continue this series of aging and downsizing when I return to The True North Strong and Free. 

Stones in the Road (With Apologies to Mary Chapin Carpenter)

Last Shabbat morning, I had an opportunity to walk a familiar path at GUCI. It is a stroll I have taken hundreds if not thousands of times over the years. I shlepped my guitar along that well-worn gravel road that leads from the Chadar Ochel to the Beit T'fillah in order to prepare for services. But, what made this particular saunter unique is that it was the only time during the reunion weekend that I found myself completely alone.

It was a moment I used for some reflection. I wanted to take in the experience; to feel the stones in the road beneath my sandals, to smell the acrid August morning air. You see, when one reaches a certain point in life, the importance of such memories takes on a sense of deep and compelling urgency. I didn't want to forget anything about this place. This was the place of my youth. This was the place of my faith. This was the place of my deepest and oldest friendships. This was the place of decency. This was the place of true love.

As I trudged down that road, I could clearly recall the faces of hundreds, no...thousands, of campers and staff that had shared this sacred space with me in decades past. They were the pictures of tanned youth and sinewed strength. They had dreams and plans and hopes and ambitions. We were just coming into our own and the world would be stunned by our radiance. We rebounded from our disappointments far more gracefully and we hid our cynicism far more easily. We were idealistic and foolish in a way that only youth can forgive. Time was our ally and we had no thoughts of its fleeting.

I became acutely aware of the memories that each of the four-hundred of us has; those of us who made the pilgrimage back to this blessed, steamy cow-patch in weirdly but aptly Jewishly named, Zionsville. Each of us sharing those memories with others until the incomplete individual became the collective whole. A patchwork quilt of recollections woven together by laughter and prayer. It brought the holiness of this place into better focus for me.

As I came into the Beit T'fillah, I heard the din of conversations. People simply could not stop talking and sharing. I tuned my guitar and started to play the music of Shabbat morning with song leaders of my son's generation. We had only met the night before and had no idea if or how we might fit together but the sanctity of the space elevated our voices in perfect harmony. We all inherently understood how to do this because this is where we were tutored.

There is so much emotion wrapped up in a trip of forty-eight hours. It wasn't nearly long enough and yet it was perfection. I rediscovered a purity in my Judaism that had been sorely lacking lately. I heard The Divine Spirit whisper to me in the strings of a plucked banjo and I tasted Her kiss in the treacly Shabbos kugel. I sang until my lungs burned and I played until my fingers bled. I was more engaged in my faith during those two days than I have been in the past two years. This is the magic of Goldman Union Camp and it is a magic that every single one of the four hundred inherently understands. We are all just stones in the road of this place and for one weekend, we all came home.

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.

Remembrance.....Yizkor Elohim

Today we remember....

We remember the complexities and the contradictions that are forever mingled with the simplicities and the affirmations.

We remember the distances left unresolved that are camouflaged by moments of pure sincerity.

We remember the stoicism that is muted by wild peals of laughter.

We remember the seemingly impenetrable that was permeated by acts of undiluted love.

We remember the enigma that was comfortable in that cloak.

We remember the pain and suffering of death that is muted by the joy and exhilaration of life.


Yizkor Elohim....

My Fading Youth

It's been a tough few weeks for those of us of a certain age and generation. The recent and far too soon passings of Natalie Cole, David Bowie, actor extraordinaire Alan Rickman, and now Glenn Frey have left me reeling. It is a strange experience to mourn for individuals whom I have never personally met. And yet....there is such familiarity with these artists and the extensive bodies of work that they left behind, that I feel a chasm has opened in my personal history.

I have always been highly suspicious of public outpourings of grief for celebrities and in fact, I have been rather dismayed at the excessive and exaggerated public spectacles of mourning that seem to regularly occur in the internet age. But now it is starting to feel personal.

These artists weren't merely singers or performers. Their work made up the patchwork fabric and soundtrack of my youth. There were the road trips down to Indianapolis when we rolled down the windows and blasted The Eagles at high decibels. There was the smoothness and soulfulness of Natalie as she reminded us of romance and passion. There were the schmaltzy date nights curled up on the couch watching Mr Rickman's brilliance and marvelling at his ability to get me to cheer for his villains as ardently as I did for his leading men. And....there was Bowie. The iconoclast. The individual. The man who taught all of us freaks and geeks that differences are to be celebrated and never dismissed. They were all there for me during my awkward years, my formative times, my growing pains, my youth.

This fortnight has felt personal because it has felt like my childhood and adolescence are eroding and slowing evaporating into the ether. These recent deaths have brought my own aging and mortality into question. It is difficult to look in the rearview and realize that all of those important artistic touchstones have aged right along with me. We collectively mourn these artists not out of some macabre interest in the details of their deaths, but rather to celebrate and remember the gifts that they bestowed upon us. While nobody can lay claim to immortality, these gifted souls left behind work that will be enjoyed and debated about for years to come. 

My sadness metre is on overload this month. I have lost chunks of my history in less than a month. It is difficult for me to fathom that no new works will be forthcoming from this quartet and that is extremely painful. Nobody, least of all me, likes to come face to face with their own decline. And while there are many more artists for me to discover, and to enjoy, and to revel in, there is still a sense of melancholy in the knowledge that some things will never be the same.

Zichronam Livracha...May their memories always be for blessing.

Spring Cleaning

Over the past several weeks, The Husband and I have embarked upon a massive and long-overdue spring cleaning exercise. As we rapidly approach our thirtieth (yes...that's 3-0!) wedding anniversary this June and are now most definitely full-time empty-nesters, it seemed like a good time to sort through the years of accumulated "stuff" that has managed, true to everything George Carlin ever prophesied, to expand to the size of our house.

We decided from the outset that we would downsize the bits and pieces and dispose of the odds and ends. We needed to accept and embrace the idea of binging and purging, as painful as it might be. We needed to adopt a ruthlessness that would go hand in hand with the inherent sentimentality of wanting to save every scrap of paper, weep over every photograph, fawn over every elementary school art project, and relive all of the "good old days."

Some of it has been easy and straightforward. Finally ridding ourselves of over twenty years of paper receipts and tax information was extraordinarily cathartic. As we shlepped close to two hundred pounds of outdated scraps and forms to a local shredding company, it felt as though we were flipping off Revenue Canada, and there was tremendous pleasure in it.

And did I really need to save the ugly seder plate given to us as a wedding gift from a relative whom I couldn't stand then and has been out of my life ever since? Dropping that into the Goodwill pile was a no-brainer.

There is no sentimentality in keeping broken and damaged luggage no matter how wonderful the trips associated with it might have been. And the Halloween costumes that I poorly constructed for the boys (I am not a craft person, nor can I sew) went out with the trash.

But, some of it has been extremely difficult and painful. As I sorted through the certificates, awards, and assorted framed documents that my children earned over the years, I was awash with nostalgia and immediately transported back to school gyms where I watched with immense parental pride as Older Son kicked ass during speech competitions and Younger Son swept up the yearly scholastic prizes. I remembered music concerts and karate tournaments, and I recalled family events, picnics, car rallies, vacations, and I found myself weeping for people who had shared much of this with me and who are now gone and sorely missed. There is an acute self-awareness that goes along with this job that transcends the simple disposal of junk. There is a need to accept that which is firmly rooted in the past, and to move decisively forward through the present into the next phase.

I have noticed that while we have methodically, yet schizophrenically, advanced this project, I have felt moments of deep spiritual cleansing. Could it be that while de-cluttering our physical space, I have de-cluttered my inner space as well? Is it possible that I have finally been able to compartmentalize instances of anger, pain, love, family, illness, and loss? Have I finally been able to shed chunks of emotional baggage that have been weighing me down? I think so.

This is surely an ongoing exercise, both the physical and the spiritual. While I continue to pack up junk, outdated technology, (assorted VHS tapes to anyone who wants them) and memorabilia, I am  finding new comfort and joy in reminiscing and catharsis in the copious tears. And....saving a few special and well-chosen mementos helps the process along nicely.

 Shabbat Candlesticks from both Older Son (left) and Younger Son (right) (Kindergarten projects)

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.


)

Contradictions

These are the types of things that break my heart and mend it all at the same time. A true contradiction. 

While beginning the painful process of going through some of Other Mother's things down here in the Southern Home, I came across this.

This messed up, wrinkled, water-stained, greasy piece of paper is the doctored recipe for her famous rogelach. Her hand-written notes and alterations to the original cookbook formula are legible in the margins. I grabbed this and several other printed recipes, all containing her penmanship and comments.

The crazy part of all of this is that I have her recipe in my computer....and on my iPad...and on my iPhone. All of her variations and modifications are permanently imprinted into my longterm memory. I stood with her many times over the years in many kitchens as she attempted to teach the clumsy teenage (and not so teenage) me how to roll out the dough and cut it into perfect triangles. This recipe is unforgettable, a part of my heritage.

And yet....

This piece of faded paper means more to me than I could ever hope to convey. There is something comforting about seeing her familiar block printing. I smile at the memories. And I am starting to smile again when I think of her. Mixed with tears to be sure, but definite smiles.

Our Memories

I am not entirely certain as to where I was 50 years ago today when President Kennedy was assassinated.

In all likelihood I was napping, because that is what eleven month old infants tend to do in the afternoons. My memories of that day are fully dependant on other's recountings and from continual viewings of the grainy black and white footage that have become an indelible part of the historical consciousness.

Collective memories like the ones that were formed on that fateful day in Dallas half a century ago, are fascinating. While there is no disputing the outcome of what occurred, (conspiracy theories notwithstanding) namely the death of a president, every single person who has the ability to recollect, remembers that day very differently. The entire world witnessed a catastrophic event together and yet no two people remember it in exactly the same way. We are forever coloured by our environment, age, sex, ethnicity, geographic location, political affiliation....the list is endless.

Our memories are at the core of who we are as people. They define us and set a course for us to follow throughout our lifetimes. Memories act as learning tools, as nostalgic indicators, and as familial touchstones. It is why diseases like Alzheimer's and other dementias are so insidious. These conditions rob patients of the fundamental part of their psyches that determines who they are.  We depend on our sepia-bathed reminiscences to see us through difficult times and to remind us that our lives are the sum total of both beautiful and arduous moments.

I have been struggling to pinpoint exactly what my earliest fully formed memory might be. I was three and half years old and that summer my grandfather decided to purchase two-wheelers for many of his grandchildren, at least for those of us who were still without. I remember him coming over to our house with my brand new bicycle and I remember me attempting to master the training wheels. Brother/Cousin, fully nine months older than me, was already busy with his and was well along the path toward becoming an expert cyclist. That memory is my one and only fully developed recollection of my grandfather who died later that summer. And yet, that one captured moment in time is something that I cling to with vigour and purpose. It provides me with a personal connection to a man who will forever be defined for me by other people and their stories.

President Kennedy's murder is one of those remarkable moments when the entire human population formed a memory of a singular event. As those of us who were there can attest, it will forever remain a defining snapshot of the collective consciousness. Today we remember and today we share.