Musical Tears

Mandy Patinkin made me cry.

That in and of itself shouldn't sound so unusual. Beautiful voices and impeccably performed songs often have that effect on me. I openly wept during the first act finale of Wicked. That's the scene where Elphaba ascends to the heights while belting out "Defying Gravity." I've seen the show and the scene multiple times, but only Idina Menzel brought me to tears. There was just something about the way she sold it.

I sobbed uncontrollably at a Susan Werner concert when she first introduced "Manhattan, Kansas." She just sat alone at the piano and delivered this achingly beautiful rendition about an unwanted pregnancy. I have never experienced a life-changing event such as she was relating, rather I simply connected viscerally to her pain and my emotion was unharnessed.

Music has that kind of power over me. Specifically, certain artists singing certain songs in very special one-of-a-kind settings, have the ability to push me to tear-jerking moments.

Mandy Patinkin delivered that experience to me last evening...twice.

I have always been a fan of Mandy's. (It's ok that I call him Mandy. I think that he would want me to. We've bonded.) The Broadway geek in me has always been astounded by his clear, pure tenor that  truly hasn't lost much over the years. He never fails to challenge himself as an artist, musician, or an actor as is evidenced by his eclectic resumé. So when my parents offered me a ticket to his show in Fort Lauderdale as a belated birthday gift, I enthusiastically said yes.

It is the rare performer who can command a sold out crowd with nothing more than his talent. No props, no sets, no gaudy lighting, no orchestra. Just him. Oh...and he brought along a phenomenally gifted pianist playing a well-worn upright, and of course a willing audience.

My cry trigger has had a short response time lately. I tear up at Hallmark commercials. (I mean, honestly. Have you seen the one where the single mom works two jobs to put her incredibly gifted daughter through college? It's a wonder more of us aren't puddles of goo.) I blubber while viewing old pictures and I weep with abandon while imagining myself shopping for dresses for the upcoming wedding. My emotions are sitting firmly on the surface and small things tend to set me off. But, last night was different.

Surprisingly enough it wasn't his flawless delivery of any Broadway standard that initially turned on my waterworks. It was his cover of a Patty Griffin tune called "Making Pies" that had me going. He managed to turn this already beautiful song about life and love into a stinging reminder of our recent loss. It physically hurt to listen to it and I squirmed in my seat while tears streamed down my cheeks.

And if that wasn't enough, it happened again....at the end. He came out for a surprise encore. I say surprise because he had already been on stage without any break for an hour and 45 minutes. He closed with Sondheim's "Being Alive" from Company. Every time I have previously heard it performed, I have thought of it as a lament...a tale of lost loves and missed opportunities. Mandy sang it as though he were encouraging us to remember that we are still here and that we must celebrate every single moment.

I cried and it felt right. I needed that moment. That moment of pure musical connection. She was there in that moment. I felt her presence.


Note: I have no video from last evening, but you can search for Mandy's performances on YouTube. Here is Susan Werner singing Manhattan, Kansas. I still get misty when I hear it. 

My Personal Olympic Boycott

Every four years the world is reintroduced to obscure winter sports that seem to emerge from hibernation solely for the Olympics. Of course that isn't true. Of course there are untold hours of training and scores of competitions that occur in the intervening years, but let's be honest. How many of us can truly claim to have watched the World Cup of Skeleton or Biathlon in non-Olympic years?

The lack of visibility for these athletes should neither diminish their commitment nor their sacrifice to  the pursuit of excellence. The Olympic Games are their Mt. Everest. They doggedly and tenaciously chase their dreams. Most will never experience the thrill of a medal or of a flag being raised. Their Games are won in the simple joy of competition.

I admire these athletes. I applaud them and their goals. Which makes what I have to say even more painful.

I have decided that I will not be watching the Winter Olympics this year taking place in Sochi Russia. I will not be parked in front of my TV or computer to cheer while Hayley Wickenheiser (one of the most deserving Canadian Olympians in history) proudly carries my country's flag into the stadium. I will not yell "Hurry hard" at my beloved red and white clad curlers, nor will I scream obscenities at full-time Toronto Maple Leaf forward and temporary American winger Phil Kessel as he skates rings around Sidney Crosby. I wish them all well, but I will not be in attendance.

I have decided to stand with my LGBT brothers and sisters. Russia's oppressive laws concerning homosexuality cannot go unchallenged in this Olympic year. As a Jew, I only wish in hindsight that people had the gumption and courage to speak out for the German Jewish and Roma athletes who were not allowed to participate in the Berlin Games of 1936 due to the passage of the Nuremberg Laws a year earlier. Russia has found willing and wilfully blind partners to its bigotry and injustice in the International Olympic Committee and all of the corporate sponsors who are silently giving their assent to the host country's treatment of its own citizens. It is treatment I cannot abide.

I am not gay. Neither are my children. I am simply a social-justice seeking human being who desires equal opportunity for all people. The Olympics are the biggest global public relations platform available to host countries in the history of mankind. In my mind it is simply and unequivocally wrong to pat Russia (and McDonalds, VISA, GE and the rest) on the back on every interactive worldwide media platform.

I know that my personal boycott will accomplish absolutely nothing. Nobody cares one whit what I do or think. And believe me when I say, I did not come to this conclusion lightly. I love sports and I love being a sports fan. I love the drama of competition and I value the athletes' commitment to both their events and their countries. But I value my integrity more.

So during this Olympic fortnight I will be reading a good book, watching reruns of Castle, or maybe taking in a movie or two. Patrick Chan will just have to go for the gold without me.

Tzedek Tzedek tirdof. Justice, Justice shall you pursue. Deut:16:20

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.

Seeds In My Teeth

I haven't blogged much recently. There are many reasons for my absence but truth be told I really haven't felt much like doing anything. Such is the nature of grief. The energy expended toward getting out of bed in the morning and going about one's customary routine seems to exhaust the daily allowance.

I also haven't blogged in a while simply because I have been attempting to temper my inner curmudgeon. One cannot live by criticism and pithiness alone. But the explosion has been percolating just below the surface since New Year's and I simply cannot hold it in any longer. So, I herewith present an early 2014 list of "The Seeds in my Teeth". (You know the feeling. The irritating bits that you just can't seem to dislodge no matter how hard you try.)

From the world of politics:

1. The Chris Christie bridge story is certainly worth noting for the massive abuse of power and corruption that it encompasses, but this crap has overshadowed a much more important and, frankly life-threatening story. The people of Charleston West Virginia and its surrounding areas have been without safe and clean tap water for over a week due to a massive chemical spill. Water! The well-spring of all life and these poor people have been forced to truck in bottles in order to survive. The cause is still under investigation, but suffice it to say that a company that has profited from deregulation and hasn't been inspected in over twenty years should have a lot to answer for. The environmental damage will take years to assess, but....where is the outrage from the press? With a fat man on the GWB.
2. I do not care one whit about the attempted rehabilitation of Rob Ford. I am happy that he has "found God" and taken responsibility for his own health and well-being, but honestly unless the forty pounds he dropped came from the shit firmly and squarely planted in his brain, this attempt to look good for the election has absolutely no bearing on my opinion of the man. He is still an incompetent lummox who deserves to be turfed come October.
3. And just in case you thought that I am only bashing on the right, the left has earned my wrath as well. I reside in Thornhill, one of the two byelection ridings recently called by Premier Kathleen Wynne. Have you ever heard of two more useless and money-wasting elections than those scheduled for February 13th? Firstly, the victorious candidates will probably only serve for about three months before a general election is foisted upon the citizens of Ontario by the opposition parties. Secondly, how many citizens of these two ridings are just like me and will have to cast absentee ballots due to being away on winter vacations that so many Canadians like to take in February? It is just plain aggravating.

From the world of entertainment:

1. Once again the Golden Globes have proven their obsolescence in award season. The Oscar voters have shown that they are nowhere near in line with the 93 voting members of the Hollywood Foreign Press. Saving Mr Banks, anyone? 
2. Sarah Polley's Stories We Tell and Blackfish are my biggest snubs from the Oscar noms. Documentaries are the best film experiences out there right now, bar none. 
3. Harry Connick Jr. I can't tell you how disappointed I am that you are giving American Idol credibility. Still not convinced that this is anything more than Tiny Talent Time for the new millennium.

From the world of sports:

1. Listening to the crap spewed from this IOC member about the "openly gay delegation" being sent by the US to Sochi makes me wonder why we still care about the Games. Saying that "politics should not interfere with the Olympics" is like saying nudity shouldn't be a part of porn. Politics has ALWAYS been a part of the Games. Think Berlin 1936, Mexico City 1968, Munich 1972, Montreal 1976, Moscow 1980, Los Angeles 1984....shall I go on? If the IOC were intent on removing politics from the scene, perhaps they should allow the athletes to compete as individuals and not as representatives from their countries.

From the world of social media:

1. Ok. This one is really starting to bug me a lot. If you post on Facebook or Twitter, and the posts or quotes are not your original thoughts, please please please give proper attribution. Plagiarism is theft. Intellectual theft. There is nothing worse than passing off somebody else's ideas as your own. And honestly...we can tell. Most of us simply aren't that clever. At least say something like..."I took this from a Twitter follower" or "This gem was sent to me by a friend". It has become a true pet peeve of mine. 

So there you have it. I will try to curb the inclination to rag on the world, but sometimes...I just gotta do it.

Sadness

I have started and restarted this post more times than I can count. Words are so inadequate. Tears are copious and yet provide little catharsis. Emotions cannot be neatly shunted into a corner and cordoned off. Another feeble attempt.

I can't remember a time when it wasn't so.

Maybe not perfect. There is little in life that is. But balanced. Synergistic. Special.

Four parents. Four children. A family of eight that defied explanation or definition. A complete octet that moved and functioned as one. My Parents and my Other Parents. My sibling and my Cousin/Siblings. There was comfort in the normalcy of its complete eccentricity.

People marvelled at our closeness. "It must be that twin thing", so many mused. But it was as much a testament to our fathers as it was to our mothers. The acceptance was unconditional. The love for all never questioned.

I never felt the need to clarify the relationship. These people were my family. My nuclear family. It wasn't until I was much older that I even realized how different we were, how odd we must have looked to everybody else. To me...it just was.

As a kid it was all about love and comfort. I never worried about who would be there for me "just in case". I always knew. I had four parents and they all had four children. I didn't live with a sister, but she was a mere ten minutes away. I had a big brother whom I idolized, who taught me how to throw a football and shoot a puck. We travelled together, went to synagogue together, went to camp together, applauded each other's success and comforted each other's failures.

And through it all, our parents were there. They stood like four pillars. Constant. Sturdy. Four limbs on the same body that worked together in a harmonious union. They were our greatest cheerleaders and our toughest critics. Honest to a fault and loving without qualification.

But now...it feels as though one of my limbs as been amputated. There is a phantom pain that aches for restoration of the whole. The desolation is overwhelming and the sadness visceral. She wasn't merely my aunt. She truly was my Other Mother. She taught me about acceptance and grace; about beauty and about family unity. She was the emotional one who wore her heart on her sleeve, and was never  embarrassed by her feelings. She could talk your ear off about almost anything, but she had an incredible ability to listen and understand exactly what was needed. Modest to a fault, she never thought that she was great at anything, but she was accomplished at so much. I will never be able to watch a Cary Grant movie again without her voice ringing in my head telling me "how marvellous" he was, eat some poor imitation of a rugelach without a direct comparison to hers, or hear the name Charlie without imagining her snuggling a Schnauzer puppy. She was my shopping companion, my co-conspirator indulging our shared bizarre love for country music, my lending library, my recipe source, and my reference for all foods lactose laden. I already deeply miss her opinions, her sense of style, her taste, and her love. The legacy that she has left me is a debt that I simply can never repay.

The fissure in my soul is irreparable. We move on because we have to, but I can't help but feel anger at the fact that she won't be here to dance at my son's wedding. I can't help but feel sorrow that I didn't get the chance to tell her how much I loved her or even to say goodbye. I can't help it....but I move forward because she would insist that I do.

I can't remember a time when it wasn't so. 

Now I can't imagine the future without her.

**For Aunty Marlene. A part of my lifeblood now and always.

Another Happy Dance for NaBloPoMo

30 posts in 30 days.

3 years running. November you are my bitch.

And so...we do a happy dance to celebrate.




See you all again soon.

The Island of Misfit Blog Posts

The finish line is in sight and this madness of blogapalooza is just about over. Baruch Ha-Shem. (That's Praised God for all of you without mad Hebrew skills.) It's a good thing too. I am running on fumes when it comes to original or even partially plagiarized ideas.

As we wind it down, I thought that I might give you a mulligatawny soup mixture of a few ideas that didn't have the staying power to make a complete post, but were actually percolating in my draft file this month.

1. Did you know that I have had a lump on my head the size of a walnut for most of the last two weeks? I wish I could tell you that it was a battle injury or even something as sexy as the end result of a heroic rescue of an animal in distress gone horribly wrong. Instead, I am black, blue, and green because a mini-muffin tin fell out of the cupboard above my oven and landed flush on my forehead, dropping me to the floor like a stone. It is yet another example of my 4'11" frame not ergonomically fitting properly in the world. I should have climbed on the stool in order to retrieve the cookie sheet that I was searching for, but I got lazy and reached beyond my height class into the abyss and instead unleashed the fury of the happily secured muffin tin. In its anger, it rushed to the front and attacked the right side of my brow. It is still tender to the touch two weeks later. Being short has never bothered me all that much, but it is so very obvious that the world was not designed for me.

2. This month was the 6th anniversary of my blog. This little vanity space has certainly grown over the years, but I couldn't come up with anything that was either relevant or exciting about a 6th anniversary, so I just let it go by without celebration or recognition. Apparently it is traditional to give candy or sweets on a 6th anniversary, so if you all want to send chocolate my way I won't refuse it. Dark is preferable, milk is certainly acceptable, and white can remain languishing on store shelves.

3. Snow came early to the Great White North this year, but I decided that complaining about the weather was simply too much of a Canadian cliche to bother with it.

4. During the month of November we have had a myriad of phone issues, beginning with some late night wrong numbers and ending just yesterday with our landline totally crashing. (I am waiting for a Bell service call as I write this post.) The Husband and I have had serious conversations of finally doing away with the landline once and for all. The nuisance calls alone (YES! We are on the DO NOT call list, for all the good it does us) would make disposing of it worthwhile, but there is still a bit of the Luddite in me that worries about blackouts and 911 connections. What can I say? I'm middle-aged. I will say to the assholes who program their phones and faxes to robocall at all hours of the day and night, there is a special place in hell for you people. We have some family members coping with catastrophic illness right now, as well as family members travelling in some exotic locales. To be woken up at 3 am by your bullshit several times over the last few weeks was enough to send our heart rates soaring into the stratosphere. There ought to be a law. Oh wait...THERE IS!!

5. Today is Black Friday and I could not care one whit. Shopping has never been a passion for me, but this time of crass commercialism that has seeped over the border from our American friends is the height of ugly. I have taken to calling it the Hunger Games of commerce. There are no winners. It is also an incredible paradox that this bowing at the altar of consumerism is paired with American Thanksgiving. On one day there are expressions of gratitude for all that we have, and on the next we are told to replace it with newer and cheaper shit. I'll pass.

So there you have it. The posts that didn't live long enough to see fruition. Maybe if I'm really good this season, some portly guy in a red suit will rescue them from my hard drive and find the inspiration necessary to turn them into something pithy. Then again, I think that I have written enough about the Mayor of Toronto to last a lifetime.

Thanks for sticking with me this month. Tomorrow's finale with involve a happy dance.