Whale Watching

This idea was taken from last night's dream. I awoke having "experienced" the situation comedy in my dream. This is the first time that I have been able to re-create a dream of this type in detail with a little added imagination after waking. 

Whale Watching

A Family Situation Comedy

The entire family lives in one, modest but large, four bedroom home in a small city just outside Chicago. The house is an older brick three stories. One bedroom is on the first level, the others on the second level and in the attic. Michael, the “Uncle” is visiting from New York City and camping out in the den. The parents live in a small “in-law’ apartment attached to the garage. The kitchen is large and there is a formal dining room.

The neighborhoods represent all racial and socio-economic level families with many mixed-race marriages. Strong LGBTQ presence. 

The small city consists of residential, business, and light factory and has a substantial downtown. There are brand name stores, privately owned shops, and restaurants which run from “chain” to very expensive. In the downtown area, there are hotels, a 16 screen theater, a legitimate theater, a library, a post office.

The public transportation is excellent and there is a commuter train. The police and fire protection are excellent. Crime is low but does exist. The school system is good and there are also a few private schools. It is home to a prestigious university and several smaller ones. Politics of most people in town is outspoken, Democratic.

• • •

Adolph Whales - Father - Has Early Stage Dementia/Alzheimer’s - 70

Adele Whales - Mother - 70 - Was an English Professor

Michael Whales - Brother - Gay -A retired teacher - 50

(Gregory Marie - Brother’s Husband - An architect. Now deceased, Alzheimer’s)

Pepper - Pet Collie

Bethany Whales/Branford - Sister - At Home Mother & successful writer - 45

Pete Branford - Sister’s Husband - Lawyer - 45

Go - Pet Poodle

Go Go II - Pet Poodle Puppy

Cindy Branford - Daughter - Divorced - 28

Barbara Delany - Daughter’s Wife - 28

Clarice Branford - Daughter - 12

Lindsey Branford - Daughter - 9

Pete Jr. Branford - Son - 20

Ginger - Older Pet Cat

Unusual, well-developed family dynamics. A very current and hip but at the same time old-fashioned, close-knit family that functions well. Each family member brings a unique perspective to the whole. All family members are outspoken with the exception of the two spouses who are somewhat overwhelmed by the family dynamics.

Responsibility

This BLOG is sometimes an essay, sometimes a creative non-fiction piece, sometimes a poem, sometimes an announcement, but also at times ...  a diary.

Haven't written for a while and always feel responsible to post SOMETHING if only to avoid an absence for those of you who faithfully follow it.

As you can imagine, life is CALM when compared to what it was between 2003 when we received Gregory's diagnosis (usually referred to as "our diagnosis") of Dementia, probably Alzheimer's and 2015 when Gregory died on October 4th.

My grief is CALMER and only rears its overwhelming presence periodically, when least expected, like it did this past Valentine's Day. Of all the holidays we celebrate, Valentine's Day is the one to celebrate with the person you most intimately love and call your sweetheart, which is probably why it is a little more difficult to face alone than birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, etc.

I bought Gregory red roses and dark chocolate (which I ate) and had a good cry sitting on the edge of the bed opposite his shrine. Gigi, the cat Gregory called his, came over to comfort me as she usually does when I am upset and that eased the pain.

I have been working on my memoirs again, trying to edit and integrate my five years worth of blog posts (1250 of them) dealing with the middle and end of our journey into the manuscript which I wrote previously about our early years living with the disease.

You can imagine that at times, at the end of a writing session, I am raw having lived once again through difficult as well as joyful times during Gregory and my journey.

The times that make me the saddest are when Gregory was upset by the limitations and losses he was facing and there was nothing I could do to help. "I only want to go back," he once said, leaving the details to his inability to any longer use language to communicate.

After a bout of tears after a recent editing session about his sadness and my feeling so helpless, I talked myself through to comfort by understanding that there may not have been anything I could do to change the course of the losses; but I was able to do a lot anyway.

I was there for him to hold his hand, hug him and cry together, make his life a little easier by taking most of the responsibility off his shoulders, and simplify his life while at the same time creating an invigorating, fun filled, good eating, safe environment for him.

We are working already on the "Second Annual MORE THAN EVER EDUCATION FUND Luncheon" that will take place on May 3 at the Orrington Hilton in Evanston. There have been several lunch meetings with La Casa Norte as we plan and work to get sponsors, raffle prize donations, and guests to attend the function have begun in earnest.

Last year we raised over $59,000 from +150 guests at the Inaugural Luncheon, awarded 10 scholarships so far (with more anticipated by the second luncheon,) and had our first annual Holiday Cohort Luncheon so the students could have yet another opportunity to be celebrated!

You will be getting a "HOLD THE DATE" announcement here, on Facebook, and/or in an e-mail blast soon as well as an invitation in the mail (if I have your address.) I sincerely hope you can join us. 

During the event, guests will learn more about the work of La Casa Norte and hear a brief presentation from me as well as from our youth participants. There will be a guest speaker; Carmita Vaughn, Founder and President of the Surge Institute, bringing “light” to education for underserved youth. 

The First Annual Gregory Maire Leadership Award will be presented to The North Shore Exchange of Glencoe, Illinois, for their commitment to and work with La Casa Norte and the Youth in College Program. A delicious lunch will be served

Winter 2017 has been fairly easy. Learning how to understand, deal with, and take stands on the foolishness of our new president ("Not My President") has been fairly difficult. We will prevail.

So far, the documentary Alzheimer's: A Love Story has been invited to be part of over 75 film festivals around the world and earned over 35 awards, the most prestigious of which were two from the American Pavillion at the Cannes Film Festival in France and a €1,000 award from the Florence Film Festival. The documentary is now available to rent and stream on Amazon.com and Vimeo.com.

I have been invited to speak at a number of functions, with the documentary as a feature, including the North Shore University Health Care System's Symposium on Dementia, the Methodist Church of Western Springs, the University of Chicago Lab Middle School, and the Sherman Plaza Book Club and Social Committee.

Recently I was the featured speaker for the DAI (Dementia Alliance International) Webinar which included over 50 participants, via the internet, from around the world! My comments will be available shortly on YouTube.

I am currently working on possible collection additions to Michael's Museum: A Curious Collection of Tiny Treasures, a permanent exhibit since May 2011 at Chicago Children's Museum on Navy Pier.

I traveled to visit family in TX and then on to Mexico for three weeks and am looking forward to officiating at the wedding of God Daughter Whitney who lives in Washington, D.C.

My condo and two cats continue to give me great comfort, I continue to go see opera and theater, eat out or "assemble" rather than cook like I used to when Gregory was living at home, visit with friends, and write. So all in all life is good, and I am happy that you are part of it with me!

Mark Maire Sr RIP

Two nights ago, Mark Maire Sr, joined Gregory and Al for the Final Family Reunion. RIP all!

I remember one time, maybe three years ago by now, when Gregory and I went to Battle Creek, Michigan to visit his family. By then Gregory was fairly advanced with his Dementia/ Alzheimer's and Mark had been ailing after a major heart attack.

Colleen and Junior were hosting dinner at their home in Augusta, Michigan. Gregory and I stayed with them during our trip. We were all ready and waiting for Mark Sr. and Diane to arrive.

After arriving and taking off their coats etc, Gregory and Mark greeted each other. I think that everyone in the family noticed the significance and importance of their greeting.

Mark could not talk because of the trachonomy and weakened throat muscles due to his stroke and Gregory no longer had command of his language due to the Dementia.

The two brothers smiled broadly at each other and embraced in bear hugs for what seemed to go on for many minutes.  Not a word was spoken. Not a word was able to be spoken. Not a word was needed to be spoken.

The love that was exchanged; the empathy, the family history, the respect; needed no words. Everyone in the room could feel it.

Now, both Mark Sr and Gregory, with the addition of Al who died shortly after Gregory moved into the Lieberman Center, are embarrassing for eternity, expressing empathy and love and sharing memories; without needing to exchange a word.

Order, Design, Composition.

Order.
Design.
Composition.
Tone.
Form.
Symmetry.
Balance.

From: Sunday in the Park With George. Steven Sondheim.

The above quote from the musical seems to summarize a recent feeling I had about the direction my life has taken. Things seem to be even, no great highs and no great lows. Very few fears, doubts, concerns. Minimal shoulds and oughts. Always ambitions, projects, and hopes but tempered.

My home and life reflect the quote but not in a compulsive way.  I find that having my home in order is a way of having my mind and life in order. When things are out of order, periodically and for a brief time, no big deal. But I do find that when I am able to line them up again, I feel better.

Gregory helped me learn how to be organized and I perfected the skill when he needed help with organizing his  life during his 12 years with Alzheimer's. I miss Gregory and always will. After a year, my grief has calmed. I have changed the old physicality of our relationship into a new way of carrying him with me and I am doing well.

If I visit the mysteries of life and death, I can get freaked and overwhelmed. If I spend too much time re-visiting the "ordeal" we lived for 12 years I can make myself distraught. But for the most part those digressions are under control. When they need my attention, I can sit with them and grieve. Then they calm and I am able to look for new lessons and awarenesses they can bring me.

When I look closely I see that both Gregory and I were NOT victims of Alzheimer's but rather, we were both HEROS doing the best we could to live with the circumstances and at the same time take as good of care of each other as we could. And not only me taking care of him but him taking care of me throughout the entire time!

I wake each day looking forward to its events. I try not to over schedule the day and sometimes take an entire day off from accomplishing anything. I do feel a little lazy, a little guilty, a little "bad boy," but mostly I tell myself, "Good for you!"

A feeling of great joy comes over me when I know that my life is in order. Nothing major is waiting to be done: no major renovations to the condo, no big shopping needs, no friend or family phone calls or visits long overdue. The refrigerator and pantry larder amply filled, all doctor appointments have been executed or are on the calendar, bills paid, immediate projects completed, future projects allowing plenty of time to accomplish.

My collections of things are beautifully displayed and seeing them brings me joy. The many small "shrines" devoted to the beauty and magic of life fill the condo with a sense of love, place, peace and calm. The photographs of departed family and friends fill the alter in my bedroom closet and I commune with them every day reaffirming my gratefulness for the role they played in my life.

The condo is clean and every item in its place. A neatly made bed, clean kitchen sink, orderly bathroom, dusted living room tables, and somewhat organized desk area bolster my sense of order as well. 

My two cats, Emma and Gigi, cause me to laugh as well as wonder at animal intelligence and while I feign anger at their bad behavior, their determination  and the creativity they use to get into trouble amazes me. They play and romp, doze and sleep, seek attention and love, respond to the call for "treats," and then doze and sleep again.

The Christmas tree is up, a few decorations placed around, and a few holiday cookies about to be baked. All gifts have been purchased and await wrapping but there is plenty of time for that with shiny green paper and red raffia ribbon at hand.

Visits with several groups of friends took place over Thanksgiving, a few "coffee & cookie" parties will be organized before Christmas, Michigan Family visit scheduled for this coming weekend, Texas Family visit coming up after Christmas, and then three weeks in Mexico is on the books. 

There is nothing I have to do that I do not want to do or dread doing. I have few obligations and those which remain I have turned into gifts of compassion and/ or love.

My finances are in order, my bills paid, and I have made a number of contributions to good causes including La Casa Norte and following up on Gregory's wishes to donate to Wesleyan University and his fraternity Alpha Delta Phi in Middletown, Connecticut. 

Based on a tradition Gregory and I started a few years ago, I began this holiday season carrying $100.00 in singles in my pocket every time I go out and every time someone on the street asks for help I give them a dollar or two. 

I know that all of life is impermanent and subject to change. On a moments notice, possible loss follows. I know that I cannot always control or bring order to those things which await me in the future.

So I live for today (with an eye towards tomorrow to help keep perspective,) am grateful for the good life which I am able to live, for Gregory's love which continues to fill me each day and night, for the love I am able to share with others, and for the wonderful people in my life. 

I am content. Since this ended up sounding like a "Christmas Letter," let me wish you and your family the best of the season and the best of life. I appreciate you being part of my life and value our relationship!

Michael

Max and Sarah

My father grew up in a family of five: three brothers and two sisters, one of whom as a young married woman died on my father’s birthday. In their early days, all five children slept in the same bed, crosswise. There was Ben the oldest, then Esther, Leonard, my father Louis, and Frieda the youngest (the one who died young.)

Their mother Sarah and their father Max, my grandparents, came to America from Russia in the early 1900’s to escape the Russian Revolution.  One was from Minsk and the other from Pinsk, I do not remember in which order. They always prided themselves on being “White Russians” who generally believed in a united Russia after the fall of the Tsarist Empire vs the communist “Red Russians.” 

Max was a cobbler, Sarah the matriarch housewife. They made their way to America in steerage on a freighter, Sarah pregnant with Ben. The other four were born in Chicago. In their later years, my grandparents lived behind the basement Shoe Repair Shop on California near Peterson Avenues.

My grandparents mainly spoke Yiddish and when necessary used a little of what we called “broken English.” My parents understood enough of the language, which is a bastardized version of German, to converse with them.

We children understood enough of the language to know what our grandparents wanted from us and to understand what our parents were discussing when they would begin the conversation with “the kinder,” to signify that they did not want the children to hear.

The children worked very hard at not giggling so the adults would not realize that we did understand.

She called him Mister and he called her Misses. My early grandparent memories include Max taking naps in the window blind slatted shadows as seen through the partially closed bedroom door, Sarah always smelled of the canned salmon and raw onion she loved for lunch. 

They both enjoyed scraping bone marrow out of the soup bones and onto the rendered chicken fat smeared rye bread.  They had a “victory garden” in the vacant lot next to their building where they grew mostly vegetables and some flowers.

Unexpectedly they would show up on the back porch of our apartment after having walked the three miles from their home. They always talked about how wonderful their son Leonard and his wife Lil were when my parents did more than anyone to support and care for them, my parents rarely getting a thank you.

The shoe repair shop had a small, unpainted counter at the front for customer transactions with a well worn but very clean plank floor. There was a bank of green made of iron machines against the wall for repairing shoes. 

In front of the machines, there was a workbench which held many kinds of smooth wood handled tools including various sorts of hammers, screwdrivers, scrapers, punchers, scissors, cutters and more. Next to the full sheets of leather and rubber lie cut scraps to be used for smaller jobs. Some of these tools are now part of "Michael’s Museum: A Curious Collection of Tiny Treasures" a permanent exhibit at Chicago Children's Museum on Navy Pier on Chicago's lakefront.

I do not remember ever getting something my Grandfather made for me out of the scraps of leather leftover from his shoe repair. I think that in those days everyone was so poor that every piece counted and could not be spared as toys. I do not remember ever being allowed to “play” with any of the materials or equipment. Maybe the machines were so dangerous that they felt a child would only get hurt if he got too near. 

I do not remember my Grandmother and Grandfather as friendly, loving people. I do not remember much of my relationship with my grandparents Max and Sarah. I do remember that they were fairly strict with their own children so I can only imagine how they felt towards my sister and me. I have no recollections of sitting on my grandmother’s lap or having my grandfather teach me how to heel a shoe.

My fondest memories of them include two: their mantel clock and the Passover Seders. 

The electric mantel clock sat on small table just inside the curtained door that separated the shop from their small living area behind the shop. The clock was approximately 18 inches long, eight inches high, four inches deep and was made of mahogany colored wood, humped in shape with a largish glass dome front secured in place by a gilded metal colored collar. The big hand and the small hand were made of ornate, curlicued, long, thin black metal.

At the bottom middle of the glass front was a little opening in the gold colored clock face that was a quarter of an inch in diameter. Behind the opening revolved a ying/yang painted red and black disk showing the movement of the seconds. The back of the clock had the usual handle to change the time but also another one that you “spun” to get the clock going. The clock still exists and is also part of “Michael’s Museum.”

The Passover Seder was always my favorite holiday event. Upwards of 20 people would attend including all the aunts, uncles, and cousins. In the small, cramped living area, Grandpa would set up a long table using saw horses and planks of wood. There would be some chairs and some benches. Grandma would prepare most of the food with the other women bringing the “sides.” The children would cover the table with its cloth then set the dishes, wine glasses, napkins, and silverware.

The service would take up to two hours as Grandpa would insist on covering every ceremony, blessing, and prayer in the book. People would take turns reading aloud and we would all join in for the unison readings. One was not supposed to eat, with the exception of the special tastes that were part of the Seder, until every last prayer was given. But Grandma always slipped the children, without Grandpa’s knowing (or did he?) ...  a hard boiled egg before the service began.

Part of the tradition of the Seder included the children getting giggly at the funny sound of the Hebrew prayers, being yelled at, giggling all the harder, the adults finally joining in the giggling, grandpa getting angrier, Grandma bawling us all out and telling her “Mister” to ignore us and continue, and our finally settling down. The Seder always finished on a happy note as Grandpa Max ended with, “As my Father always said, and his Father before him, and his Father before him, ‘Eat, Drink, and Be Blessed.’ ”

While it feels good to record these memories, it makes me feel sad that there are not more of them. It makes me sad that I did not take advantage of the time while my parents were still alive to find out more. So most of that history is lost but at least a few memories are now forever as written here.

Written in honor of the anniversary of my father’s passing on March 7. 

Ida Kanov

We all live and we all die. This I know because I have been told so and also because I have experienced it! The Yahrzeit (memorial) Candle is lit in the kitchen. Noreen just called to let me know that her mother, Ida, passed away  on Sunday at the age of 96 and three quarters.

The three quarters is something we see in young children. "I am seven and a half!" or "I am six and three quarters." The extra time lived seems so important to them, as it should!

Then we get old and it happens again. Every minute not only flies but becomes more important. So Ida would tell people she was 96 and three quarters. Ida lived approximately 5 years longer than my mom who died at 91 and 10 years longer than my dad who died at 88.

Ida, at her age, became forgetful and lived in what was the best of her own world. Approximately four weeks ago she moved to Lieberman Center (where Gregory is now living on the memory care unit on the fifth floor.)

We would visit in Lieberman's community room during the Sunday's entertainment and talk about my being Adeline and Louie's boy. This would help her place who I was. She would ask and I would let her know they were fine! She would ask and I would let her know that I would indeed give them her love.

"You know your mom and dad, and Nate and I would go out on dates together. I haven't seen them in a while. I think last time I talked with your mom, she wasn't feeling well. I hope she is OK now." Yes, my mom IS OK NOW! (RIP 3/27/2010)

Ida for as long as I can remember has always been upbeat and positive and optimistic about life. She always had a good word to say about her family and friends even if, like all family and friends, she may not have had positive feelings at that moment.

"I like this new hotel even if the food isn't always the best. But then again who could cook like my mother could?" she told me on one Sunday a few weeks ago.

Gregory and I have always had a habit of "collecting" older, grandma type women in our lives. We would always remember their birthdays with a phone call and on Valentine's Day send a dozen red roses. Ida was always pleased to receive the flowers and always sent her thanks. Every now and then we would chat on the telephone and bring each other up to date on family matters.

Now our collection of old folks has gone on to their next journey in life. We miss them all and hope that we can model our lives after the best of what they always offered us. Ida was the last of the old family and family friends so I do feel extra sad.

Now Gregory and I are part of this collection of older, grandparent type of people! Ida Kanov, RIP. You are loved!

Growing Up Milestones

Being a Gay Man of 70 years, I have not been able to measure my life in milestones as do non-gay men who grew up when I did. In the traditional situation, a man measures his life by his accomplishments and successes but also by family events.

As far as accomplishments, I was able to celebrate completing my BA, MA, and Advanced Certificate. I also earned the ubiquitous ABD (All But Dissertation.) I was able to celebrate the self-publication of two volumes of poetry and the opening of Michael's Museum: A Curious Collection of Tiny Treasures as a permanent exhibit at Chicago Children's Museum on Navy Pier.

On the family front, I celebrated my Bar-Mitzvah but it stopped there. I was not allowed to celebrate my wedding. I was not allowed to have/adopt children. I did not watch my child begin kindergarten or graduate elementary or high school. I did not see my son off to college nor hope that he would join the fraternity I did.  I did not walk down the aisle with the bride, my daughter, on my arm nor wonder when she would make me a grandfather.

Nowadays, Gay men and women can choose to include these milestones in their life. Too late for me but grow up I did anyway and many unique milestones did exist none-the-less. It was just that they were not traditional.

My first milestone was owning my own refrigerator. I.E. not my mother's. I could fill it with the food items I wanted and arrange it in a way that made sense to me. As a child my parents would tell me "Don't "sit" in the refrigerator!" as I stood with the door open contemplating what I wanted to eat. As an adult, just to show them, I opened the door to both the freezer and refrigerator and literally sat on the shelf created between the two.

Another milestone was the purchase of my first car. I was working at University Ford at the time in Champaign / Urbana, Illinois and going to school at the U of I. The sales manager took me under his wing and helped me through the details of purchasing a car. The car was a gold Mustang with an opera roof (they called it in those days: the roof covered in beige vinyl.)

Getting my BA degree. My first job when I began teaching in 1972. Completing my Masters of Education in 1980 and my Advanced Certificate in Administration and Supervision in 1982. These were milestones too.

A big milestone, which is shared with the general population, was my retirement from teaching in 1999.

I share all of this in getting to the point of this blog: Ben, Ken, Alaksh, and Isaac.

Gregory, my life partner was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease in 2004. He did well, with my help, for approximately 8 years but then his decline necessitated additional support and care.

The first round of care giving "companions" included Ken and Ben. Ben made the transition to needing a companion for Gregory easy if only because of my having known him since he was a little boy, nephew of dear friends. He was responsible, loving, and very good with Gregory. Their mutual love of music helped them pass the time and Ben's knowledge of psychology helped him deal effectively with Gregory's needs.

While both were great and very helpful to Gregory, Ken was more of an actual milestone for me. Besides being Gregory's companion, he ended up living with us for a couple of months. His lease was up and instead of finding a new place, I suggested he take over our guest room for the few months he had left to his studies.

Being newly from Japan, Ken and I had many discussions about differences in culture. We learned from each other. He offered young, new, culturally different ideas and I offered older, wiser ideas. We often had dinner together and visited various Chicago sites. Ken quickly became more "family" than "companion."

He caused me to think deeply about my culture and discuss/explain it in ways that were as honest as possible and not too stereotypical. We talked about cultural differences including racial, sexual preference (read GAY!,) male vs female, lifestyle, rich vs poor, and many more.

When he was looking forward to applying for his MA, after completing foreign student core courses in Psychology at Northwestern University, he sought my advice. I helped with the application essays. I helped think through the opportunities of the various universities he was thinking of attending.

With his acceptance in Nashville, his assistantship came with a job in which he needed a car. While he had been driving for a long time in Japan, he needed to learn the Rules of the Road American Style including driving on the right/wrong side of the street (in Japan like England driving is on the left side of the road, not the right like in the U.S.)

So I offered to give him driver's lessons and let him use my car to practice and take the test. This opportunity gave me what must have felt like the first father/son relationship I had ever experienced.

He was careful, responsible, and respectful. I was calm, patient, and helpful. So in some ways this was not like the "typical" father/son relationship.

At one point while about to pull away from the condo, we had an argument about how to set the side view mirrors. He tried. I corrected. He disagreed. I disagreed. He said he had "googled" it.

I backed off and said, "Lets look at it together when we get home." I let him practice that day using his mirror adjustment technique which took a certain amount of bravery on my part. We laughed and I asked him if he realized that we had our first father/son argument. I am not sure either of us had thought of it in that way until that moment.

Turns out the "google" had presented a "traditional" and a "current" way of thinking in side view mirror adjustment. Mine was the traditional, he preferred the current. We agreed to compromise using the best of both techniques. So again not like most "typical" father/son encounters.

When Gregory and I took him for the final drivers test, we sat nervously in the waiting room. He returned from the test with a smile on his face. He had passed the test. I actually cried fatherly tears of pride. In him and in the role I had played.

The relationship Gregory and I had with Ken definitely became one of family.

After seeing Ken off to Nashville, Alaksh next came into our life as Gregory's companion. Alaksh was completing his MA in Biology at Northwestern and was Indian.

Similar conversations regarding cultural differences took place. In addition, Alaksh loved to cook and one day a week, he and Gregory would plan dinner, shop, and cook. I would come home from my errands to a wonderful dinner. Most times he cooked "Indian," but also did a mean "Chinese" and "American."

To celebrate the Indian holiday Divali, Alaksh took us to a University Indian Student Association party. We watched various groups entertain and afterwards partook of dinner. One time Alaksh cooked for Gregory and me at his apartment and we got to meet his roommates.

He often offered medicinal and health cures as passed down from his Grandmother. Often he decided that I was like his Grandmother when if fact Alaksh took care of Gregory and me like he was our Grandmother.

Alaksh was accepted for his PhD in Boulder, Colorado. Again I helped with application essays and decision making. Father and Son relationship or at least Grandmother Grandson. Periodically Alaksh calls just to chat and sometimes still to ask my advice.

We miss him dearly and Alaksh too became part of Gregory and my extended family.

Recently, Isaac who is Gregory and my God Son and son of friends Jan and Jake, moved in with me. He was going through a break up with a girlfriend, their apartment lease was up, he was looking forward to quitting his job and earning money as a waiter for a while, and then leaving for Japan to teach and follow his passion for all things Japanese.

Again the father/son but not typical took place. Advice asked, advice given. Wisdom shared, young blood new views offered. Social media and computer expertise shared. Living together expectations most often met. Sometimes, but rarely, heads banged. Meals eaten and cooked together. Part of the difference in this experience is that since January, Gregory has been living at The Lieberman Center Memory Care Unit so Isaac also brought company and companionship to me.

I shared all of this, Ken, Alaksh, and Isaac, as the point of this blog because these three young men have given me a new milestone to celebrate. That of being a mentor to someone younger, much like the relationship a parent has with a child but not fraught with the emotions that usually come with that relationship.

It felt good to have opinions to give, well thought out ideas to share, experiential comments to make. All without total personal investment and being responsible for having raised a child. It felt good to be valued, respected, queried. I love these three boys like sons, but better!

The Book of Should

The Book of Should, I call it "BS." Bull Shit!

I find that as I grow older, I have (or allow) fewer "aughts" and "shoulds" to govern my behavior, my life. I trust my instincts, I trust my beliefs, I trust myself to lead my life in the most loving, productive, healthy way that I can.

I do not depend on others to monitor my life or to pass judgment on me. Lord (excuse the expression) knows that I have passed judgement on myself often enough to last a lifetime. I am working on just loving and accepting me without the aughts and shoulds and for the most part I do.

I surround myself with people whom I love and respect and while it may sound mean, I toss those who do not love and respect me in return. I do not NEED friends and family, I CHOOSE friends and family. I do not need to prove myself to anyone, I have proved myself to me.

I do not have to worry about job descriptions or career paths. I do not have any place I have to be if I do not want to be there.

I do not have anyone to answer to. No bosses and for that matter, while one's parents are always watching and judging (in one's own mind,) their voices slowly fade over time especially once they are dead and gone (although I do miss sitting with them.)

I find I am constantly re-evaluating the values I was given by parents, relatives, teachers, religious leaders, friends, co-workers, etc. The ones that I agree with after almost 70 years of experience I keep, the other values I revise and/or toss.

In some ways I do not have to worry about the future. For me, the future is here. I have earned it! Financially I am OK. Not fabulously wealthy, but OK. My condo is comfortable and paid for. I enjoy good food, good music, good theater. My health, while it could weigh less, is excellent. I sleep well.

So I no longer subscribe to the Book of Should, BS! It feels good to say that and is one of the benefits of getting older. Don't get me wrong, being old isn't always the best thing to be, but it could be worse, and I am pleased with me!

A Childhood Experience Relived

Last night Gregory and I watched South Pacific on our TV. The movie premiered in 1958 when I was13 years old. My memories of seeing that movie with my family are strongly etched.

Perhaps to celebrate my 13th birthday, or perhaps my Bar-Mitzvpah, my mom and dad took my sister and me downtown to see South Pacific. In those days one got dressed up to go downtown. The movie was at a large, fancy movie theater of which there were many downtown; like the Chicago Theater, the Oriental, the Woods.

Now a days, movies open without fan fair but  in those days the large movie companies premiered their releases in the downtown theaters, they were big events, and seats were reserved.

The movie left its lasting impression on my young mind for many reasons. I certainly was homosexual at 13 but not practicing. At that age also, I certainly did not understand what being "Gay" meant or what I was really feeling. Seeing all those naked men singing and dancing on the beaches of the South Pacific must have aroused me not only sexually but also intellectually and emotionally.

At that age I did not have ideas, or opinions, or beliefs, at least ones of which I was aware. I knew what my parents and teachers had taught me to think and believe and while I probably felt conflicted in those beliefs, the conflict was not yet approachable.

I had not yet seen or experienced the adventures of the world, had never been on my own, and while I was already dealing with issues of "independence," I had very little.

The romance of the South Pacific island affected me: lush jungle plants, beautiful water, sunsets, sandy beaches, island life.

The good looking sailors who apparently were enjoying themselves, sang and danced with each other in the same way that boys and girls danced at the parties I attended at school.

Even though the movie takes place on the island because of war, very little of the carnage of war was shown; only more good looking, half naked men enjoying themselves in the hospital wards.

When Lieutenant Cable arrived on the Island, I instantly fell in love with him. When he fell in love with Liat, the Polynesian girl, it was as if he had fallen in love with me. When he died, I was bereft and grieved for a time after the movie.

I had fallen in love with love. Until that movie I did not really understand what love was about. One did not see much "love" in ones parents at that age if only because during the 1950's adults did not overtly demonstrate or discuss the concept of love.

I assume that my parents loved each other but at the age of thirteen I did not see much evidence of their love, only bickering and fighting and conflict in their relationship.

In addition to Cable and Liat's love affair, that of Emile, the French Man and his relationship with Nellie, the American nurse, was more proof that love existed, even though not easily attained.

So in addition to the lovely afternoon, downtown at the rare occasion of seeing a movie with my family, I was initiated into the world of fantasy, pleasure, independence, sex, and love. My unrecognized homosexuality was titillated and most likely provided much masterbatory material. In all, a productive afternoon and one that remains vividly etched in my memory.

•  •  •

South Pacific is a 1958 American romantic musical film adaptation of the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical South Pacific, and based on James A. Michener's Tales of the South Pacific. The film, directed byJoshua Logan, starred Rossano Brazzi, Mitzi Gaynor, John Kerr and Ray Walston in the leading roles with Juanita Hall as Bloody Mary, the part that she had played in the original stage production.

The Grandmother Clock

This is a story about our Grandmother Clock. It is not a Grandfather Clock because it is more petite and therefore more like a Grandmother than a Grandfather. It was a gift to Gregory’s mom and dad, Helen and Ed, from Uncle Joe. It now calls our guest room home.

Once, a long time ago, Helen came home from shopping to find Gregory, a child of nine or ten, sitting on the living room carpet with his legs crossed and the entire inside contents of the Grandmother Clock laid out in pieces around him on a bath towel. “What ever do you think you are doing?” she demanded.

“Shhhhh,” replied Gregory, “you’ll make me forget how it goes back together.” Helen was smart enough to retire to the kitchen to put away the groceries. You see, Gregory had been the only one in the family since Uncle Joe who had ever been able to keep the clock ticking. And often, the clock had chosen not to.

Two thoughts on the Grandmother Clock:

First Thought: The best thing about a Grandmother Clock, or a Grandfather Clock for that matter and also my pet peeve, is the chiming every quarter hour. A good clock has a wonderful voice; deep, resonant, clear. It is during the middle of the night that my pet peeve sets in. Instead of sleeping, I am lying awake listening to:

QUARTER AFTER:

The clock chimes one run of four notes. Does anyone remember what hour it is? Maybe, maybe not.

HALF PAST:

The clock chimes two runs with four notes each for a total of eight notes. No hint or memory as to what the hour is.

THREE-QUARTERS PAST (also known as a QUARTER ‘TIL:)

The clock chimes three runs of four notes each for a total of twelve notes. What a waste of chimes! What a waste of time! Waiting all that way and for sure no idea what the hour is.

ON THE HOUR:

Four runs. Four times four notes. Sixteen in all.  Some would say “Too many notes!” But now I am content. Now it will chime the hour for me.

Second Thought: Sometimes, when no one is listening, I think the clock likes to sing its own song. Once and a while, as I am drifting off to sleep and the clock is chiming midnight, I could swear that the clock sings a song totally different from the usual DING, DONG, DING, DONG it sings when people are awake and listening. Makes sense to me.

To end my story, sure enough several hours later Gregory had reassembled the clock and it was working perfectly. Helen had put away all the groceries, prepared dinner, set the table and put the flowers she arranged in the center ready for dinner with Ed soon to arrive home. 

January 2008

Grace

We are coming up on the third anniversary of my Mom's death. I wrote this the year she died as part of a tribute book I created for the family. Seems fitting to include it here since I haven't published it previously.

Monday, March 29, 2010

GRACE

I am one with the limitless grace of God.

These words from the poem "I Am There" by James Dillet Freeman beautifully describe God's grace in action.

Do you need me? I am there. You cannot see Me, yet I am the light you see by. You cannot hear Me, yet I speak through your voice. You cannot feel Me, yet I am the power at work in your hands.

God's grace is constant and true, providing all I could ever ask for, and more. Grace is at work within me and around me. It is the light that illumines my path, the wisdom that guides my thoughts and actions, and the power that fills me with strength and peace.

This DAILY WORD reading is particularly significant today as it reminded me of the wonderful changes, rebirth, and growth that mom went through from the time that dad passed until she joined him.

We’ll start with Dad. The last years of Dad’s life were, at most, difficult for dad and every one around him. They were even more difficult because of his illness and the medications which no longer seemed to be controlling his long time blood cancer illness. 

Mom and Dad’s move from Florida to Fort Worth was a mixed blessing. Most of their friends in Florida had passed, there was no family there for them, and they were finding it harder to live on their own. Texas was ideal because lots of loving family awaited their arrival, they found a beautiful jewel box of a home not to far from family, and the weather was not too severe.

It was difficult, however, for Dad to adjust to the move. He was ill, he was old, he was confused with dementia. Now 87 years old, he couldn’t do the things around the new house he used to be able to do twenty five years earlier when they had first moved to Florida. Mom had given up driving by now and even with her help navigating, he didn’t do too well driving in Fort Worth traffic. While he loved being with family he had trouble dealing with the noise and activity level and late hours of his daughter and son-in-law, a grandson, two granddaughters, their spouses, eight great grand children, and several dogs.

During these difficult times, mom and I had a long conversation about the concept of GRACE. We all get older, we all die. None of it is easy but one can do it gracefully. Grace to me means not bringing down others, knowing that they are doing their best. Sometimes life is a bitch. Sometimes we feel like we hate others who bring us pain. But we do not have to accept the negativity of the situation and can look for the truth behind the circumstances. We can do our best to control the only person within our power ... ourself. When we can remain positive, others can follow. Grace, the elegant power of unconditional love, for others as well as for oneself, works miracles. The next day, I found a colored glass stone at a religious shop with the word “GRACE” engraved on it and gave it to mom. I think she took it to heart. For a while we both called her “Grace” in place of her a first name or “mom.”

At 88, Dad passed. It had been a difficult year in Fort Worth for both Mom and Dad with all the new adjustments and his illness. It had taken a toll on Mom. She was an octogenarian as well, had put much energy into helping Dad physically and emotionally  and had health problems of her own. She moved in with Libbe & George, her daughter and son-in-law & slowly regained her health.

An interesting phenomenon occurred. Her attitude began to change. All the parts of life she had sacrificed because of Dad, all the things she loved but gave up doing because Dad hated them, all of the ways she had closed down ... began to shift. She began to enjoy life again. She started reading again. Not just reading but reading voraciously, keeping two or three books going at a time and sometimes finishing a book in a day. She could “Go Out for Chinese” whenever she wanted to, she now stayed up until all hours of the night, she enjoyed being with the grandkids, she could got to movies as often as she liked, she made new friends, she learned to eat Sushi!

Over the next four years she had her health ups and downs, made quite a few visits to the emergency room, gave family a few end of life scares, started using a walker, and obtained the help of a wonderful person in the name of Latonya. Her attitude stayed positive, she loved life, she enjoyed her family. She continued to be bright, thinking, and intelligent. She kept track of her medications, paid her bills, arranged for her doctor visits, mailed birthday cards, and traveled.

In her final days, she identified the beginning of pneumonia and got herself taken to the emergency room. She got worse and then she got better. She got worse again and her kidneys began to fail. She knew her life was near the end and she spent time with each family member privately. I assume she told each one how much she loved them, what a beautiful person they were, and not to be too sad when she had to leave them. She talked about making “arrangements” with her son-in-law George, her best friend as she called him. She held her daughter’s hand and told Libbe how much she loved her. She talked to her son Michael and her favorite Gregory in Chicago two and three times a day and had his their picture on her hospital bedside table. 

At the end she was moved to Hospice. She was ready to go, didn’t want the hospital to poke and prod her anymore, wanted peace. After settling into the Hospice, she was given a few sleeping pills to help her rest. She died that night in her sleep without having suffered to much. She had hoped for that. Don’t we all? She lived the final years of her life in grace and she died gracefully.

Stories from my Father

In honor of the seventh anniversary of my dad's death, here are two of his stories (as augmented by yours truly.)

The Heysidonder Man

The "Heysidonder Man" is a title given to a very important position in the temple. 

On the Sabbath, when most Jews should be in temple praying to Hashem the Heysidonder Man does his assigned task.  Hashem means "The Name" because you should not take the name of G-d in vain. When you are praying to him you can use his name but when you are referring to him you should not use his name. (That is if you embrace any of this.) 

Many Jews do not take the services at temple seriously. They use temple as a vehicle to visit, catch up, gossip, be seen etc. Also, there are what are known as the "High Holiday Jews." These Jews only go to temple on the most sacred holidays, to atone for their sins, to be sealed in the Book of Life for Health, Happiness, and Prosperity and to visit, catch up, gossip, be seen etc. 

So being a generally roudy group, someone has to take them in hand and keep them in tow. This duty falls to the Heysidonder Man. He is usually a well respected member of the community and the temple, takes his religion and the act of praying seriously, is almost always quite old, and speaks with a foreign (read Yiddish) accent.

It is his job to tell the people attending the service but who are being disrespectful to the Rabbi, the Cantor and those who are serious about their prayers, "Hey Sit Down There!" The offenders almost always listen and the Heysidonder Man's job is done for the time being. Sometimes he has to tell the offender(s) again, "Heysidonder!" They usually listen on the second telling.

The Ibish Oise Machine

This story comes from the time that my mom and dad went on vacation taking the train from Chicago to Florida. This was in the pre AMTRAK days when the rail lines were still privately ownedhand the trains had names like The City of New Orleans, The California Zepher,  and the Super Chief. 

The trip took close to 40 hours going from Chicago to Washington, D.C. and then transferring to another train to Miami. In those days, travel by train was in its heyday and the trains were filled to capacity. Besides single travelers, families and larger groups would travel together.

There were your assigned seats or compartments for sitting and sleeping, observation cars, snack cars, dining cars, and cars for drinks. Many people packed their own food for breakfasts, lunches, dinners, and snacks.

As you can imagine, the train cars got more and more rank as the 40 hours (if the train was on time) dragged by. Human odors, bathroom waste in toilets that didn't always work, leftover food like salami etc, stale odors, garbage, wrappers, pop bottles, etc. piled up. By the end of the trip, the living conditions on the train were almost intolerable and it was quite the mess.

My father's idea was that when the train was at its destination and all the people disembarked, the doors connecting the cars would be propped open and a HUGE vacuum type machine would be attached to the last car. It would be turned on and would suck out all the all of the odors and garbage in one easy sweep.

He call it the "Ibish Ois Machine." Ibish ois in Yiddish means: to clean out.

Childhood Memories

Recently, Gregory and I went to see "The Pajama Game" at the Northwestern Theatre and Interpretation Center. The musical is set in 1954 in Cedar Rapids, Iowa at a pajama factory. The story includes love, labor unions, strikes, and more.

When I was very young, seven or eight, my sister Libbe purchased the album of the musical. We listened to it all the time. I do not remember if I ever saw the musical on stage before the other night but I know all the songs.

My sister and I used to play the various roles in the story and lip sync the songs. After a lot of practice we used to "put on" the show for our parents. I do not remember if we performed for other relatives.

But we had a lot of fun and I do remember feeling like I was "on Broadway" when we were performing.

We would sing "Seven and one half cents" as part of the factory workers strike to demand higher hourly rates. For "I'll Never Be Jealous Again" Libbe played Mabel and I played Hinesi. We would feel sexy (as sexy as an eight year old and his twelve year old sister could feel) singing "Steam Heat" and "Fernando's Hideaway."

Strange how some memories hold on so strongly for a lifetime. It seems like yesterday but my "staring" in the role of Hinesi was actually 60 years ago.

My Father's Drawer

My father has always kept a secret place for treasures and memories. The top left drawer of his bedroom dresser was its address. All of my life I can remember being aware of his secret place. It was a magical place to visit.

Now and then we would visit the drawer together. He would offer me a wallet, still in its original gift box. Once he gave me a miniature harmonica. We would look at the marbles he found while digging a garden.

He would show me a picture of his mother and father and tell me stories of his father’s shoe repair shop, the five brothers and sisters all  sleeping in one bed because of the limited space behind the shop, the victory garden where Max and Sarah grew, among other things, onions. He would show me his picture in Navy uniform taken in one of those “four for a quarter” photo machines. He showed me his “dog tags” from World War Two and his medals.

He had a talent for finding lost coins on the sidewalk, in the parking lot, in the grass. He had a box which at the time seemed very heavy, at times filled with over fifty dollars in found money. Since his death, it seems that he has been communicating with us by leaving pennies around in the most unexpected places…and you could swear that the penny wasn’t there a moment ago!

He would take out the “Jew’s Harp” or was it a “Juice Harp?” The harp was a metal object, round on one end, tapered into parallel lines at the other, with a spring of metal down the middle. It was placed in one’s mouth and used for making rhythms and sounds based on tongue placement and breathing. He always warned me about being careful not to knock out a tooth while playing the harp.

Now and then I would visit his dresser drawer alone, when I was the only one at home. I would marvel at his memory items and covet the treasures. There were travel clocks, watches, tie tacks, more harmonicas, rings, screws, nuts and bolts, miniature toys, marbles, flashlights, transistor radiors, a “Little Bill” pin from the electric company, cars, and more.

Most amazing of all, I discovered his stash of condoms. Rubbers. Sealed like little treasures in round, golden, foil containers. As a teenager, I remember taking one from his dresser drawer to keep in my wallet. I did try to imagine what sex between my father and mother was like. To this day, I cannot! Can anyone imagine this of their parents?

As my father aged and during the last months of his life as he became more ill, I thought a lot about that dresser drawer. I thought about the “dad” I would never know. I was not yet born to experience his growing up, his life as a teenager or a young man. His trying to imagine his folks having sex. What was it like when his younger sister, Frieda, died on his birthday? What were his hopes, dreams, fears, disappointments, sorrows, joys. His sense of loss when his mom and dad died. His fear as one by one, over the years, all his brothers and sisters died. He was the baby of the family. His mother’s favorite.

I would never really know how he felt marrying my mom, seeing his daughter born, holding me in his arms, in 1945 just home on furlough, in his sailor’s uniform, in the picture I keep in my dresser drawer. I thought about all the conversations we never had, all the questions never asked, all the sharing that we just couldn’t or just wouldn’t do.

When my father was close to death the dresser drawer became even more symbolic. I knew that I would go through that drawer by my self once more at the end. I would absorb as many memories from his life as I could after he was gone. It would be my way of saying goodbye to my dad. Of saying I love you dad. Of saying I am so sorry for all the missed opportunities of our getting to really know each other.

I know you loved me and I know you know I loved you. I wish I could have told you so at the end. I wish I could have held your hand and kissed your forehead. I wish when I told you I loved you the last time I talked to you, you could have said you loved me too instead of just – “OK.”

Before you left, I wish I could have told you again that I was grateful for everything you did for me growing up, for helping me become who I am, sometimes despite or in opposition to whom you were or whom you wanted me to be. You did the best you could for me and I accept that with unqualified love. And I did the best I could for you.

There was a gold ring in that dresser drawer of yours that had a ruby stone in the center. I think it may have been your mothers. The back of the band was worn thin. I had always dreamed of having that ring. I looked for it last night while I was saying goodbye to you and your dresser drawer. It wasn’t there. Maybe it hasn’t been there for quite awhile. Maybe it was there only in my mind. What ever happened to it? Now you are there only in my mind. What ever happened to you? Come let me know, will you, and then be on your way.

March 19, 2005