Planes, Trains and Automobiles. But mostly planes.

Not me.

In order to really grok where I am coming from, start with these two pieces of understanding.

• I am a Jewish educator.  I used to run the religious school of synagogues, and now I run programming for many synagogues' schools.  
• There is no need for regular travel for work in my business.  I live in an area where there are many synagogues, and many opportunities for work without having to travel, except for the occasional educational conference.

Me, doing what I do.

But as luck would have it, I was asked to fill in as an interim school director for one year in a state that pretty much could not be farther from my own.  Most of the time, I do the work from home, working on the computer, timing meetings with the 3-hour time difference in mind, and using Skype,  texts, and emails to keep up with the faculty and families.  Once a month, however, I fly out to Portland and drive up to Washington State to be present at this synagogue.  

No kidding, the view from my office window.  Mt. Hood.

When I am there, I love it.  The people are warm, gracious, laid back and appreciate of my hard work.  The teachers are a joy to work with and make me want to work harder to bring them to be their best.   The Rabbi is the reason I said yes in the first place. She's dedicated to the congregation and gifted with the students in a way that I have missed dearly in my new ventures in Jewish education. 

But this flying thing is another story.

When did flying start to suck so much???

I don't want to sound like Dennis Miller going off on one of his 1980's rants, but really?? When did the passenger on the plane become the bad guy?  From the minute I get near the airport, I feel like I am being punished, and vaguely guilty for a crime I'm not quite sure of, but I've committed it with a lot of other people.

Last year I had to commute in and around New York City, Westchester, and Long Island. Sitting in my car on the Long Island Expressway, not moving, listening to traffic on the 8's made me want to take that perky traffic reporter and throttle her.  On one occasion, it took me so long to get home, I had to find a place to stop to use a bathroom and to eat something.  I had been on the road for hours.  I found myself in a shopping mall on Route 4 in Paramus NJ (luckily it wasn't a Sunday, just saying...) and found sustenance. On my way out, I was accosted by kiosk workers who tried to tell me my skin was overly sensitive, my hair needed straightening and my nail beds were in bad shape.  (My NAIL BEDS?  I don't even know what they are and you can see they need fixing as I zoom past you?) 

Then there were days when my work took me into Manhattan.  Taking the train to NYC was not as bad as driving.  Until it was. Until your train just is not running that day, or your car is overcrowded, or your seatmate wants to chat, or is already chatting, loudly on her cell phone, or has fallen asleep and is drooling way too close to you, or he's wearing short shorts and his sticky sweaty legs are touching yours (the WORST).  Or you miss your express train because of traffic getting to the station and the next train stops at EVERY. SINGLE. STATION.  

"Never Again!" I vowed as I searched for a job closer to home (New Jersey).  No bridges.  No tunnels.  No train stations and bus schedules. No figuring out the subway system in New York, only to have it shut down and then figure out the bus.

So now, what have I done? I have traded all that for flying across the country.  

I guess it was my last trip when it finally all started to get to me.   

My hotel in Vancouver, Washington is a short drive from the airport, and I'm packed the night before. I'm organized and ready to go so I can get as much sleep as possible.  What can go wrong? 

After getting up at 3:30 in the morning, I returned my rental, WITHOUT filling up, because, DUH, gas stations are closed at 4:15 am.  I dragged my fairly heavy suitcase, laptop and pocketbook through the tunnels to the Portland, Oregon airport... it's a long walk, but I know it well by now... over to United Airlines.  Of course when I get there, it's  completely unclear where to go, and I chose poorly.  After being redirected up the escalator to the correct counter, I wait (of course) on a long line of people fumbling at the check-in kiosks.  

I have come to the conclusion that at any given time, the make-up of people who are flying is about half newbies and half regulars.  The regulars are really annoyed that the newbies do not know exactly what they are doing.  The newbies are completely frustrated that there is no one to help them.  The check-in would go much faster if someone would just stand there and help people who have never checked themselves in before.   Even my machine said "check in with a driver's license, passport or credit card," so I put in my driver's license.  The person next to me said, "Oh, these machines don't recognize your license, they only recognize Oregon licenses, you have to use a credit card."    AND I'M NOT A NEWBIE. Regular, smart, functioning people are now reduced to feeling like the new kid at a new school where you don't speak the language. 

I checked in, it's now about 5:00, for a 6:50 flight, and head to the security.  The line is ridiculous. The longest I've ever seen it at PDX (Portland Airport).  I eat my yogurt and banana on the line to save time. I observe about 10 mini-dramas.  I think maybe I'll tweet them, but I refrain. I try to take a photo of one guy's massive leg tattoo  (why is he wearing shorts in December?) declaring his everlasting love for Rosinda--could make a funny post on Instagram-- but again, I decide not to.  (Not because I'm afraid he'll see me and possibly hurt me, but because I can only do so much, what with holding my laptop, pocketbook, empty yogurt container, water bottle and banana peel.)

Finally, I'm near the top of the line, where they are yelling instructions.  And I realize that several people have to get out of line (newbies) because they won't get through security.  But if they had said those instructions at the beginning of the line those people might have saved about 20 minutes.  As grouchiness is starting to set in, the TSA agent looks at my passport, looks at me and says, "For real? Your hair? It's beautiful."   Ok.  Grouchiness averted.  FOR NOW.

And here we go.  Shoes off. Belt off. Laptop out. iPad out. ("Oh, Miss, you don't need to do that." "Well, I did in Newark, and it's out, so there you go.") Hand cream, contact solution, chapstick, in a ziploc out.  Watch off, pockets empty, coat off.  

Have I just been arrested? I'm going through the motions and I see that people in wheelchairs get to go right through.  I wonder how I feel about this.  My mind wanders. No terrorist has ever been physically challenged?  Or pretended to be--

"Miss, this is over regulation."

WHAT?

NOOOO.  My Ahava hand cream is over the size limit by one ounce.  Newark let it go.  Portland is gonna be a stickler.  

"Oh, please?  It's the best cream.  It's very expensive and it's so great for the ..."

"Do you want to squeeze it into smaller containers or give it to a companion at the gate?"

"no" I say in a small voice, of someone who has been caught doing something horrible. "I don't have a companion over there, and I have no empty containers."

That was the last I saw of my fantastic, skin-saving Ahava Dermud  cream. She let me take one last squeeze. I feel anger and grouchiness returning.

Good-bye my precious.

I re-dress myself and amble to the gate.  

I'm there early enough. I buy my $5.00 water for the plane, peruse the magazines and settle into a seat.  I check my email, 15 minutes until we board.  

I call my husband (it's three hours later) as they announce first class, and people in the military.  Zone 1. (I check my ticket, and I am zone 7. ) Zone 2. Zone 3. People with babies.  And then there's some whispering and a lot of buzz going on at that desk.  I'm watching them with great interest.

"Yes, um, there's going to be a slight delay with our boarding. Please take a seat."  

No problem, as I hadn't gotten up.  

It turns out that something had broken on the plane overnight.  Oops. 

When the captain was doing his safety check, he found it, which I must say I appreciate.

I don't appreciate a lot of what happened but I do appreciate not flying on a broken plane.

They announced that we should make alternate plans.  They offer to help people re-book their flights, and most of the people quietly line up at the three computers and patiently wait their turns as they are shuffled around and put on new flights.  (I mentioned that this is Portland, not Newark, right?) No one cursed. No one yelled, except those, like me, who chose to call United Airlines directly and were heard yelling into their phones this phrase:

"SPEAK TO AN AGENT."

When the automated system did let me speak to an agent, I finally got myself on to US Air, getting two flights to Newark, which would have me landing at about 7:30 pm, after changing planes in Phoenix.  As the agent on the phone was giving me a confirmation number, the ground crew at United announced that the broken part was fixable, the new part was being flown up from San Francisco.  This plan should be good to go at about 11:00, getting us to Newark by about 7:00 pm.

Hmmm.  Stay on the broken plane, spend 3 more hours at the airport, but then have a non-stop flight home which is BOUND to be less crowded?

or

Accept the new flights, risk losing my luggage, run over to US Air, fret about the change in Phoenix, and get home at the same time.

I told the agent on the phone to put me back on the United flight.  She said she couldn't .

I said she could.

She said she needed a manager.

I told her to hurry up and get one.

She felt inconvenienced.

I felt my New Jersey coming on.

Eventually I was back on my flight.
After the line went down, I confirmed with guys at the desk at the  United counter that I was indeed on the flight and that my luggage was staying on it too.  They gave me a $10 voucher to buy breakfast.

Hah.  Even in Portland $10 does not buy breakfast at the airport.  But it did buy a humongous Bloody Mary, which helped reduce my stress level by about 30%.

I walked the entire length of the airport a few times so I wouldn't fall asleep before my flight... (It almost worked.) I tipped the guy playing Christmas carols on the xylophone, and the guy playing Bach on the mini-cello.  (That's probably not what it's really called.)  Back at the gate I went onto United.com and changed my seat on the flight so I could have three seats all to myself.  I was fairly smug about that clever move.  I then got a new boarding pass, and asked the attendant to try to keep row 31 clear for me. Wink Wink.

Eventually the flight took off.  They did not give us free food, but it seemed that people who ordered beer or wine were not being asked for their credit cards.  After that I conked out for 2 1/2  hours, stretched out like 9 year old, using my laptop case as a pillow.  It was the first time I had been on a flight that wasn't packed.

For our trouble, United gave us a token of appreciation, $75 off any flight, good for a year.  I was hoping for a bit more...(First class forever?  Free drinks forever? Free companion flights forever? )

But I made it home safe and sound... and I was greeted by two bounding dogs and a happy husband who had dinner ready and a cocktails on the counter for the weary traveler.

Flying used to be special, and customer oriented.  Now it's something to get through.  Sitting on a cramped "air-bus" on a seat that reclines about an inch if you're lucky, next to someone who is sloppily eating a smelly Subway sub or buffalo chicken wrap because the planes are so stingy about their food.

But  still.  Every trip is a mini adventure.  It's exhausting, sometimes exhilarating.  The photos I took of Mt. Saint Helens and Mount Hood were amazing. The time I am in the sky is my only time "offline," except for Shabbat.   I've also gotten better at falling asleep sitting up straight.  And you'd be amazed at the great finds available in the sky mall catalog!  Dog crates that look like coffee tables!  A Snuggie that has your favorite football team printed on it that plugs into the car lighter!

Anyway, time to end this somewhat lengthy post and go book my next trip.  I'm sure it'll be uneventful. (Please read that with lots of Jersey sarcasm.)

Happy New Year.  Hope you don't have to travel to be with the ones you love.

Mt. St. Helens covered with snow, from my airplane window. Cool, right?

Air Alaska gives you a free beer on the puddle jumper from Portland to Seattle.
But you have to drink it really  fast. One flight attendant actually said, "Come on, down it like you're still in college!"

For the record, my miserable experience was with United Airlines... the photos are from Air Alaska.  Why not promote the Airline with whom I have had nothing but positive experiences and free beer?  :-)

Get Rid of the Guns NOW

There are no words, or let's just say, no adequate words, to describe the feeling that our entire country has right now as we sit, glued to TV,  Internet and radio.  Heartsick? Bereft? Miserable? Furious?  Helpless...

My children are 18, 22 and 25 yet I rushed to hear their voices on my cell phone and cried again knowing that mothers in Newtown, Connecticut would never see  a simple milestone like a seventh birthday.

It became unbearable when television news finally put faces to the families and names to the deceased.  Those innocent children. The teachers and principals who were immediate heroes. 

And then. I was hearing them talk about school safety... metal detectors at the doors, locks on the windows, safe rooms in each wing... Making schools like mini-prisons?

I wanted to scream and say:  GET RID OF THE GUNS NOW.

How many more?

And yes, the appropriate discussions about helping those with mental illnesses.  Of course.  And still whether you are getting everyone the help they need or not... GET RID OF THE GUNS NOW.  

Yes.  Get them out of the house.  Isn't it obvious?

What will those Newtown and Sandy Hook families do with the unopened Christmas and Hanukkah presents?

How will they feel when they do the laundry of children who will never wear their clothing again.  Will they ever EVER be able to look at their children's  favorite cereal, hear their favorite songs, walk past that playground without crying.

Will the kids who survived become broken?

What good are our prayers and broken hearts and Facebook messages of concern right now?  Maybe they help us get through this a little bit more easily.  But they don't help those families and they don't stop the next guy.

GET RID OF THE GUNS NOW.

I feel like I can't move, I feel like I can't breathe.  I hope that the rest of the country feels the same way.  Will this FINALLY be our nation's wake-up call?

GET RID OF THE GUNS NOW. 

December 22  Additional Note: It's been one week since I wrote this, and it's still getting readers.  Good.  I don't feel much better since posting this, and I hope you don't either. The NRA has spoken up now, after a few polite days of silence, and said, basically, let's arm the good guys to combat the bad guys.  More guns are NOT the answer.  If you agree, please let your elected politicians know how you feel and don't let this go.  Don't let those children and teachers have lost their lives without us making a change to honor their memories.
jb

Reunion

It's here.  Tonight.  It's too late to lose those 15 pounds I meant to lose.  It was even too late to have my hair highlighted.  As a matter of fact... I had not even reached out to those long lost friends to make sure they were going to be there.  I grabbed my High School yearbook off the shelf, dusted it off and threw it in the backseat of the car. 

I always go to my reunions. Why?  Why not?  I live near where I grew up, and it's a fun thing to do, to throw myself back into the mix for a night and reminisce for a while.  I keep in touch with only  handful of friends;  it takes me a while to remember people, and incidences, but I like the experience.  The funny thing is, I usually start by feeling that everyone has stayed put, while I have changed, that we would have nothing in common.  I am no longer that person captured in the black and white picture in the yearbook.  

The pre-reunion cocktail party was at the same hotel where the reunion would be the next night, very convenient to where I live.  My husband bravely agreed to join me for this first event, so, after a dinner at my parents' house (also nearby), we ventured over.  Someone had the idea to invite teachers to the cocktail party, which was a nice idea.  I didn't happen to remember any of them, but I could see they were the ones who looked even older than the rest of us, and their names tags were preceded by Mr. and Mrs.       


Within the first five minutes, a friend I've known probably longer than anyone else opened up to me in a genuine way and we were off.  A real conversation. A great start.  I suddenly missed her.  And I wanted more of this.   Another conversation, the ice broken with truths and smiles, ancient hurts uncovered, opened up and pain allowed to escape.    

And this was just the PRE-reunion.  I realized my husband was not to be seen.  He texted me to let me know he was happily at the bar, watching the baseball game. Later, he brought me a tequila with impeccable timing.

I'm the one with the red clogs.  And the beads.  This was during the high school tour.

We didn't stay for very long, the next night was the real reunion. But I pondered my surprise at the success of the night.  Over the last, well,  I'll just say it, 35 years, I'd knew that I had changed from a kid who tried to fit in, and look and act like everyone else to the person I am now:  A very active, observant Reform Jew, who makes a living in the Jewish world.  In our high school there were very few of us "Members of the Tribe," and even fewer who stayed practicing members after we went out into the real world.  

I was also a bit reckless and of course I now see the world, and navigate my way through it, as a mother.  And and older, wiser, and more seasoned citizen of that world. But then, everyone in the room was older, hopefully wiser as well. And almost everyone in the room had been married and had children.

What else?  A Democrat.  A Deadhead.  A Cancer Survivor. Animal lover and (multiple) pet owner.  A struggling environmentalist and failed (this year) gardener.   People who knew me then do not know me at all now.  What would we talk about?  What would we have in common?   As my son put it, "Mom, these people knew you before you sewed beads onto all your clothes and wore clogs to weddings and funerals. You can go there and act normal."    

Well, I don't know if I did go and act normal, but memories came back to me like little YouTube clips, flooding my brain that weekend, and for a few days afterwards.   I started to list them here, but that seemed too personal and too boring at the same time.  (Select all, delete.) 

So, what's the take-away? 

Besides a bunch of slightly drunk 53-year-olds dancing to Paradise by the Dashboard Lights in a too-small, too-loud room? 

We don't exactly have everything in common, but a lot more than I thought.  We have all fought some battles, and have survived.  We want to show pictures of our kids or our dogs, and then we want to put them away and remember the good old days. The Beach Boys Concerts.  The times we went down the shore.  The Musicals.  The football and basketball games. Championships won and nearly won. Things we shouldn't have done and things we wish we could do one more time.   And oh yea, the classes.

And then suddenly, much too early, the DJ says it's the last dance... and the class does a group hug dance where there are no longer cool kids, or nerds, or stoners,  or jocks, or geeks, or drama queens or choir kids.  For 2  1/2 minutes, there's just a class dancing together in a way that there never was.

And that's why I go to reunions.

you can walk down memory lane...

Hold the Onions

I bageled someone in the airport yesterday.

It's not as invasive as it sounds.  It's our (the Jewish People's) way of finding out if a stranger is a Member of the Tribe (MOT*), or just someone from Manhattan.

I could have come right out and said, "So, are you rushing home for Kol Nidre?" 
But that would be too obvious. 

So, I waited til the conversation naturally came around to the perfect moment.

We are sitting in the fairly comfortable Sea-Tac (now I understand... Seattle-Tacoma! Ah-hah!) waiting area for our flight.  Facing the big window and watching the planes.  I'm on my laptop.  She's on her phone.  She's speaking so loudly that I can't help but hear every word of her conversation, which is not unpleasant, but just a bit distracting. Lots of food mentions.  So far these are my three clues, not to stereotype my own people or anything.  But, actually no mention of Rosh HaShannah, the Jewish New Year I assume she has just celebrated with them all, or Yom Kippur, the mighty day of awe I figure we are both trying to get back for.  More clues are needed.

She's off the phone. Brand new iPad is out.  She is complaining loudly to it.  Hmm. So she's richer than me, and probably older than me, but this is also not a dead give-away.   She's muttering about how to get "the Internet hooked up" around here.  I'm pretty sure I can help... do I dive in?  No need, her phone rings again.

Why am I compelled to connect with this woman in the airport who might be Jewish?  Is is because I have been travelling already half a day and have hours more, and just want to chat with someone?  Is it because I feel the need to find another MOT (member of the tribe, remember?) in middle of an area where we are so few? Or maybe, during these "Days of Awe" as we call them, when we are supposed to take time to reflect, I have been so busy I have not stopped to BE.  And seeing this woman made me feel that it was time to come home to my people.  (Which I literally was on my way to do...)

And then my chance came.

She hangs up the phone, and this time I had been so deep in my thoughts, and updating my Facebook page, that I actually had not been eavesdropping on her conversation.

"Excuse me...?"  It's her! 
"Yes?"  She has an upset look.
"Do you know what kind of plane we will be on?  My daughter just told me it's a small one.  I'm nervous."
"I do actually.  I looked it up.  It's a 737.  It's two rows of 3 seats.  A lot bigger than the plane I took here from Portland."  
"Is it safe?"
She's serious.  Wow.  Isn't every plane pretty safe except when it's not?  
"Yes!  Of course... and look, it doesn't even look like it'll be that crowded... When I flew out here, every seat was filled and I had a middle seat.  I'll tell you, I had such shpilkes**"

That was it.  I had my chance.  I bageled her.  She not only forgot she was nervous, she took the bait, or shall  I say, the lox, and we had a great conversation about Judaism.  She shared some of her story with me, and I shared mine.  And she WAS in fact, rushing home for Yom Kippur, as I was.  There we were, the only two Jews in all of Sea-Tac, finding each other at gate N-9, waiting for a plane.

Later on the plane, I heard two people from the exact same tiny  town in Minnesota make a similar connection.  I wonder what they call it?  Beef Jerkeying each other?  

I wanted to say good-bye to her when I saw her at the baggage claim, but, of course, she was on her phone.  So I gave her a little wave and went on my way.  

I didn't make up the term "Bageling," and I don't remember who did, but I love it. If you have a similar story, I'd love to hear it.  And now back to preparing for the awe-filled days of awe.

Yep, I traveled on Air Alaska. For the record, just as sub-par as the rest of them.

*Thanks to Marjorie S. for this nifty new abbreviation!
**Shpilkes:  When you cannot possibly sit still one more second.  

Good-bye Dear Friend

A beloved friend, Aharon Bezalel, passed away about 3 weeks ago.  I have known him more than half my life, and have come to think of him more as family than as a friend.

I can't think when I first met him.

But I do know exactly when I last saw him.  My dad and I were spending a few days in Jerusalem this past January, and I could see that Aharon was not his usual self.  I didn't know this would be the last time I would see him.

Aharon was an Israeli, born in Afghanistan where the climate was not particularly friendly to Jews.  (Not like now!)  According to Bezalel legend, he was a little boy when he and his family walked to Eretz Yisrael (the land of Israel) so they could live in freedom as Jews.

When I really got to know Aharon, his wife, and his three daughter, Butzit, Tali and Yael, I was living in Tel Aviv for my Junior Year of college.  They were the closest thing I had to family, and Aharon insisted that I join them on many weekends.  I can remember arriving just in time for a lively family meal, where I was included at the table and enjoyed great dinners and conversations that I could barely understand at first.  Saturday, Shabbat, I was left to my own devices as the sisters all went out on their own, and Aharon disappeared into his workshop in the morning and then he and his wife would spend the afternoon napping. I'm now quite a fan of the Shabbat nap!  But back then I'd take long walks and explore Jerusalem, or sit and read in their fantastic garden.  It was here that my Hebrew got better and better, I felt at home in Jerusalem, and in their house. By the end of my semester, they had become my Israeli family.   

Yes, that's me with the short hair, making matzah with Aharon in 1980.

  Over the next 20 years, we would see each other whenever we could.  Aharon's art was famous on an international level, and he frequently travelled to New York, among other places.  He was a guest at our Passover Seder on more than one occasion, and he loved it when I told the story of making matzah in his brother's garage when I celebrated Passover with his family in 1980.  I saw his daughters less often, but we tried to stay in touch, and finally with email and then with Facebook, we started to reconnect in ways that we could not have done before.  I remember conversations with Aharon in my parents' living room that showed how deeply he understood me, and the love he had for me and my family.  It was startling sometimes to see how much could be conveyed without and beyond words.

Perhaps the most moving, emotional and uplifting time we shared as a family was when my oldest son, Daniel, became a Bar Mitzvah in 2000.  It had been his dream, and ours as well, to celebrate in Israel.  But of course, we also knew that we wanted Daniel to be called to the Torah here in the US, so that we could share this simcha with the family here.  So that is what we did.  In May of that year, Daniel became a Bar Mitzvah at our synagogue in Suffern NY, and when school ended we took a family trip to Israel with Maya, who was 10, little Jack, who was 6.  Joining us were my parents, my in-laws, my brother's family, our best friends, and a dear friend of my mother-in-law.  My mother, who has spent more than half of her life dedicated to leading trips to Israel for our local Y, sat with me and helped me to plan the trip of a lifetime for this family group.  We'd get our own bus, and we'd have the most remarkable tour-guide.

But where should we have Daniel's Bar Mitzvah ceremony?  

Since Daniel had already become a Bar Mitzvah, I had been working with him to write a short, meaningful service, which could include a few different readers. We immediately eschewed the idea of the Western Wall, as we would not be at all comfortable with separating men and women for an event like this.  Another popular option for many tourists is on top of Masada, but this did not sit right either.  And because it was July, we were not sure everyone in our group would even make it to the top of that mountain in the desert.  

My mom was researching restaurants that be big enough to accommodate our whole group, as well as the ever-growing Bezalel family.  But there was no need for her to make the phone calls.   Aharon lived in a great place just above his sculpture studio.  He invited us to bring our party to his house! Although our group would never fit inside his house, we could dine on his rooftop.  

We were thrilled with the idea and when we got there it was overwhelmingly beautiful. He had ordered wonderful  food from a Lebanese restaurant in town and his daughters had decorated his rooftop with fresh flowers, candles, and tiny little lights strung from poles across the walls.  By now his three daughters were parents as well, and their children couldn't wait to meet their American "cousins" and try out their English.  Daniel led the short service, and they all ooh'd and ahh'd at his flawless, yet American-accented, Hebrew.  Then we ate,  drank, and sang songs, while the lights of Jerusalem danced in the distance.  After a while, the kids disappeared to play inside, and the grown-ups continued to eat and drink and sing some more.  Aharon sat contentedly at the head of the table, with a huge grin, knowing he had brought his family together.  Hebrew and English were co-mingling right there at the table, and it was a truly a celebration of much more than one young man's rite of passage.  It was the joy of two families sharing a real bond that transcended beyond age and  language.

Aharon, in the center of things, has made the crowd laugh.

I couldn't resist.  Young Daniel, at 13, leading us in prayer.

Since then we have been together many more times.  

When Daniel turned 20 and took his Junior Year in Israel, he spent many weekends at Aharon's house, and spent a Passover there that was unforgettable.  Although we missed him at our Seder table, at least we knew he was with his "other family."

Tali, Yael, Me, Butzit, January 2012

And this past January, my Dad and I took a trip there.  I was so glad that I spent time, meaningful time, with Yael, Butsit, and Tali, my Israeli family.  And I saw our beloved Aharon, this patriarch, for the last time. 

May his memory be a blessing to us all of us who knew him, and may his story inspire all those who are fortunate enough to be touched by it.

About a Blog

A blog about a blog.  It's been about a year since I started writing, and to celebrate I went back and read a few of my earlier pieces.  I resisted the urge to edit.

I recently hit 5,300 hits on my blog.

Blog.

Silly word isn't it?  It's from the combined word "web-log."

I'm frequently asked what I write about.


That's a tricky one.  (I'd like to just say... "Go read the blog!")

If  I say I write about myself I sound narcissistic.

I was told (by my kids) not to have one of those lame blogs that blathers on about my kids all the time.  So I just write about them some of the time.

Jewish Education is a big part of my life, and while I do love to write about that, I also frequently refrain, as we learn in Pirkei Avot 5:9 "wise people do not speak in the presence of those who are wiser than they are." There is always  someone out there who can more deftly interpret the Torah portion or the political climate in Israel much better than I can.

I feel compelled to write sometimes, and the words begin to jump from my fingers, the sentences start forming in my head before I can even get to the computer.  Scraps of paper or the iPhone "notes" app become a sorting station for ideas, some that never come to fruition, and some that practically write themselves.

Lately the blog posts are self-contained stories.  It feels good to get those out.  Like I can stop trying to hold on to those details now.  Some stories can never be written, not unless I start a new blog under a pseudonym.  (Those are some good stories too.)

What has surprised me about this randomly-spaced-in-time, usually cathartic blog even more than the writing, is the readers. The fact that people are reading this in the Ukraine, Russia, Venezuela, and just today, Greece, India, China, Brazil, Israel and Serbia.  Wow.  That's just mind-blowing.  Thanks to Google translator, someone a world away has just read my extremely personal and emotional cancer survival story.  I hope it gave that person some comfort.

I sometimes wonder if someone somewhere who was just really looking for a good picture of New Jersey tomatoes, or maybe just some porn, happened along this blog and I challenged their thinking, or at least gave them a smile before they moved on with their images search and found what they were really looking for.

The funny thing is that these strangers out there know the story of how I made cocktail hour for my dad, and how a tree fell on my house.  They read about my passion for Furthur and my love of my kids, and many more tidbits as well.  But my own family won't read the blog!

Dad:  "Jewel, I have no need to read how many times you walked your dogs and what you are wearing every day."
Me: "Dad, that's not what I write about in my blog."
Dad: "Jewel, that's what a blog is. It's all about fashion and shoes."
Me: "Dad, that's not what MY blog is."
Dad: "I'm not reading your blog or anyone's blog."

So, where were we?

I try very hard after I "birth" each one not to say this sentence:

"So did you read my blog yet?" 

That even sounds annoying to me. But I really love the feedback when I finally do get it, even when its anonymous.  One friend sent me a book on writing the personal narrative.   I hope he will notice my style improving!

Just yesterday, when I was at the doctor, one of his partners showed me a huge framed photo of Jerry Garcia on the wall and said, "I read your blog, it was great."  We bonded over tales of shared concerts before his next patient and my own appointment. 

Who knows what I'll write about next?  My two most hit upon entries were The Letter to Chris Christie (regarding Same Sex Marriage) and Let There Be Songs To Fill The Air (a love letter to the Grateful Dead).  I don't know why, but these keep getting hits, and search engines keep finding them.   By the way, Chris Christie wrote back to me, and the Wheel keep turning for us Deadheads, so there will be a lot more to write on both topics.  Another that gets a lot of hits was a heartfelt letter to my college roommate who died too young.  I guess a lot of people can relate to losing a friend before their time.

So, I will keep writing when I have something to say, and I thank you for reading.

It continues to be a long strange trip, I see no reason why I'd run out of adventures and ideas now.

Where's the Big Puppy?

By Guest Blogger Scout Barr

Guest Author: Scout Barr

I'll be filling in today for the Big Mommy.  That's what I call Juliet.  I offered to write a piece for her blog, and she said it would be okay, as long as there were a few photos and no typos.  If you think it's easy to type when they haven't clipped my toenails in months, think again.

I'm worried.  I know Big Mommy has a lot of readers, so I'm hoping someone can help me.

The Big Puppy is missing.  At first, I thought he'd be right back.  After a few days, I thought maybe it was one of those longer trips he sometimes takes.  Then it became clear that he was not coming home.  Big Puppy has never been gone this long.  And Bear and I are starting to worry.  Without the Big Puppy, things are going to be pretty dull around here.  Here's what he looks like.

Big Puppy

In our pack, there's Bear, the other canine*, and Big Daddy and Big Mommy.  They take care of us.  They sometimes leave, but they always come back.  Ever since I was born, they have been here.  Back then, there was Little Mommy too. To show my love for her, I sleep on her bed and chew up her stuffed animals.  When Little Mommy comes for a visit, she can tell how much I love her.  Little Mommy takes Bear and me for really long walks, sometimes up to the mountain.  And the Other Daddy who doesn't really love us, but is nice to us and will take care of us when he visits.    

 Big Mommy,  Big Daddy in the back
Little Mommy, Other Daddy and Big Puppy Seated in the Front

And there was Big Puppy.  Big Puppy was one of us.  Big Puppy walked us every day, and fed us sometimes.  Big Puppy took us outside no matter what the weather was, and played rough with us.  Big Puppy stopped whatever he was doing to show us love, and he and I grew up together.  I slept next to him at night.  Big Puppy has gotten bigger and bigger, but he always makes time for us.  

Bear Barr

But Big Puppy has been gone for a long time.  After a few nights of waiting by the door and sleeping in Big Puppy's room, I realized he wasn't coming home. I started sleeping in Big Mommy and Daddy's room, where it's cooler.  Bear still sleeps outside Big Puppy's door, like he's still waiting.

Other Daddy and Little Mommy have come to visit, but still no Big Puppy.  Sometimes Big Mommy takes us  outside and she tries to play with us the rough way, but it's really not the same.  A few times she even threw the frisbee and the football for us.  (Lame.)  Bear and I humored her for a few minutes but then we just came in and let her give us a cookie and plopped by the front door and waited for someone more fun to come along.  

So if any of you have seen Big Puppy, please tell him it's time to come home now.  It's just not the same without him.  

*There are other pets in this house too, but until the Cat and the Turtle start being even remotely fun, they do not get a mention.

Parenting 101

This happened.


At a party last week, I was cornered by a long-time acquaintance whose three children are each about eight or ten years older than my three kids.  She wanted to know my "secret" to parenting.


"How did you manage to keep your kids Jewish?  How is it that they still are so respectful?  How did you get them to get along with each other so well?"


"Um, Dianna, isn't it a bit late for you and your kids?"


Luckily she assumed  I was making a joke, took it with a smile and said that she's working on her doctorate. She was looking for information on birth order and parenting.  I assured her I'd give her all my parenting "secrets," but just not right then, as we were making our way to the the dinner table.  I started to think about what I'd tell her if she did call me.


You make a lot of decisions when you are a  parent.  (Well, I hope you do...)  This is part one of what I think will be a multi-part blog piece with some thoughts about raising kids to be healthy, mentschy, "normal" human beings in this not-so-normal world.


Before we even had children, and certainly when they were very young parents, my husband and I were deliberate in our choices... We will raise our three children in a house that promotes peace, and love. I believed then, and believe now that every generation must be the next generation that comes closer to an understanding of true peace.  I wanted our home to reflect what I teach in my classes.  

• No weapons in the house. 

• Toys will be gender neutral.  

• No violence on television.

• No cursing or negative, hateful language.

Hah hah hah.

The first time we were challenged just slightly with our crazy gender neutral parenting ideas was when our oldest, "Daniel," was in nursery school.  He must have been 4, and our daughter, "Maya" was 1  1/2.


His teacher, Miss Laura, asked me to stay after the other moms had left with their toddlers.  She was very solemn.  Daniel was never naughty.  Not at home and not at school, so I was immediately concerned.   She let Daniel continue to "read" in the library corner, and said to me in a hushed voice, "I need to tell you something very serious."  I felt my heart race.  I looked at him.  He seemed fine.  I looked back at Laura and she was clearly very nervous to tell me...
"Yes, what is it?"
"Daniel wants to be Queen Esther in our Purim Parade."
"Oh, ok."
My pulse goes back to a normal beat.
"You know, not Ahashveros, not Mordechai or Haman.  Queen Esther."
"Yes, I get it.  That's fine."
"It's fine?"
"Yes, it's completely fine, let him make the Queen Esther costume."


I looked at my perfectly happy, healthy son and breathed a huge sigh of relief.  Having completed cancer treatments less than a year before and not being sure my next scan would be clean, this was anything but serious.  He identifies with Queen Esther, eh? The hero of the story...I always related more with Vashti, but okay. (I'd be a lot more worried if it were Haman, the evil-doer who wanted to kill the Jews.)
I scooped up my delicious, healthy, son and put him in his carseat and brought him home.


On the day of the Purim parade, there marched my son, with his crown and cape, and he beamed as he knew how great he looked.  (The fact was, the kids made their costumes and they all looked pretty much the same.  Except for the little Hamans.  They had sinister looking black paper hats, and black paper mustaches that fell off about 2 minutes after the parade started.)


Not long after that came the twin cursing incidents of the winter of '92.


I supposed that every family has a story or two like these.  


I had asked my husband to work hard to curb his language when we had children.  He agreed with me that this was a good idea.  It was not just about cursing, but all kinds of language that I did not want our children to ever hear in our house.  I'm proud to say that we do not use "hate," "stupid," or "shut-up" directed at one another to this day.


A bit of history here:  Our two cats, of blessed memory, had been with us for many years and had edged right up into pure decrepitude by this point in our family life.  Not a day went by when one or the other cat didn't miss the litter box entirely, or cost us a fortune at the vet. To say that they were long past bringing us joy is putting it kindly.  One night, little Daniel came in to see my husband very upset about something.  He was muttering and tromping around the living room, and innocently, Daniel asked, "Dad, is it the fucking cats?"


This was immediately followed by a family dinner to our favorite Chinese Restaurant, the Great Wall.  Little Maya was on her daddy's shoulders, and we ran from the car to the doors of the restaurant, through the snowy, slushy parking lot.  I held Daniel's hand on this messy night, right behind them.  As we walked in through the doors, a huge pile of melting snow/slush fell on my husband's bald head, causing him to yell out, "Shit!"  This delighted my toddler daughter to no end: The splash of the snow, the yelling of a brand new word, the excited reaction from me.  The rest of the night, Maya sat in the high chair at the Great Wall restaurant exclaiming "Shit! Shit! Shit!" enjoying her soup and noodles, and mortifying me and my mom, (and probably secretly delighting my dad).  My husband became MUCH more careful about his language after that.


As our kids grew up, the BAN on cursing morphed into a tolerance on cursing, but only when it was funny.  Which was to say, you cannot curse at another family member, but it was okay for comedic effect.


Then there was my ban on weapons.


Easy enough to enforce with our first two children.  Daniel and Maya never missed them.  At other children's homes, they were not interested, and  I was the slightly smug mom who raised the peaceful new generation of mini-hippies.  They shall learn war no more.  Not in my house.  Nope.  Not until "Jack" was born.  Before this little guy was out of the crib, he had turned everything in sight into a weapon.  We still didn't buy him any guns or swords; there was no need!  Each tree branch was a perfect pistol or rifle.  Whether he was a Jedi or a ninja, every toy in the playroom was re-purposed into his trusty weapon, and stowed into his belt.  A favorite sword was the snorkel, which I believe also served as a secret walking stick, until he left it in the movie theater in our town.  He was so utterly despondent we went back to find it, but it had been discarded with the containers of half-eaten pop-corn and overly-sweetened slushies.  Eventually we got Jack a knight costume that came with a little plastic sword, and there was no going back.  


I came to understand that this was the way he needed to play.  Pretending that the plastic knife from the play kitchen was a dagger during the Robin Hood phase satisfied or soothed something in him and allowed him to pretend, in the same way that my older son found joy in creating masterpieces with Legos, and my daughter found outlets with her art kits.  If I had taken away the markers from Maya, she would have found the crayons, take them away and she would find the colored pencils.  Was little Jack going to grow up to be a war-mongering overlord?  I didn't know.  I decided that I would continue to parent as best as I could, trying to monitor what he watched on tv and supervise the way he played with others so that he learned what was and was not appropriate play. Pretending you are pirates on the swingset is okay.  Pushing younger kids off and saying they have fallen off the plank is not okay.  ("That's a time out.  Why?  Because you aren't really a pirate.")


After I said yes to Jack having a sword, and later, a fake gun* from Wild West City** I was pretty sure I knew what I'd say to Daniel when he asked if he could have a Barbie Doll. I can't say I didn't think about it a little bit.  I had a few concerns.  Would he want to bring it to school, and if he did, would he get teased?  Should I insist that he should get a Ken doll? Should I ignore his request and see if he forgot about it?  And the big question... if you buy a boy a Barbie, will that make him gay?  


Let's get that last question out of the way, and let me just say that was for the benefit of any parent who is reading this now and is going through something similar.  Because let's face it.  A toy cannot possibly have the power to change a person's sexual identity.   So the real question was, is there a chance that my child may grow up and realize he's gay?  And will buying him a Barbie now change that later?


Here's what I did, and I am pretty sure I discussed it with my husband, though now I don't remember the conversation.    The kids' babysitter, Meggie wanted to buy the kids each something for Hanukkah, and Daniel had asked her too.  So she asked us if it would be alright, and knowing this was a way that Daniel needed to play, I said yes, please don't spend too much, but sure.  Meggie bought him a Barbie and a Ken, and Daniel was a very happy guy.  He did not ask to bring them to school. 


What lessons did I learn from my children's play habits?  My daughter Maya loved to play with little toy animals, and for a while wanted to be a vet.  She also liked to draw on the walls with Sharpie, but had no inclination to become a graffiti artist.  She now teaches children in an after-school environmental education program.


My older son, Daniel, as it happens is gay.  Jokingly, he says it's because I let him play with the Barbie, but seriously, I think we both know that letting him play with the doll then just means he doesn't need to play with one now, as a 25 year old young man.  He's a teacher and a great role model to young people.


And my son, Jack, who, during his Zorro phase carved a giant "Z" into my parents kitchen table with one of their knives?  Well, we don't know about him yet.  So far he seems to have left his need for weapons behind and has followed in his mother's more peaceful ways, but he's only 18, so we're keeping an eye on him.  After spending the summer as a camp counselor, he probably has a few stories of his own to share.


And after all this thinking and writing... so far, Dianna has not called me.  And these aren't really all my secrets, not by a long shot... just the first few things that came to mind when I thought about my children, and what I had to think, and re-think as parenting theory gave way to parenting reality.   


I wanted to raise each child to be the best most unique person that he or she could be... I hope I am still doing that.












*I did not really say "yes" to the fake gun so much as I didn't have a full-blown fight with my husband in the middle of the OK Corral when he bought it for Jack while I was in the bathroom with Maya.
**Wild West City:  The worst, tackiest theme park in NJ.   So terrible that we had to go there twice during Jack's cowboy phase.  Click here to check it out.