Gonna Make that Garden Grow

Inch by inch... row by row...

It’s Saturday night at 10:30.  As usual, the night before a Hebrew school night, I’m taking it easy, watching a little tv with my husband before an early bedtime so I can get up at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning (on the only day of the week when I have to).

I say we’re watching tv, but the truth is, he is.  I’m actually on my laptop, furiously scrolling through iTunes, and my humongous library, using key words like “tree," “planting,” “garden,” and so on.  Tomorrow is our first Bagels & Blox program and the theme is Tu B’Shevat, the Jewish holiday of the trees.  I want some background music for our planting activity. 

(Click here to listen to my one of my favorites on the playlist!)

This program has been in the works since I was hired last June.  It’s designed to be an inclusive parent (or grandparent) and child program that introduces your young one to Judaism in a joyful, musical, movement-filled way.  I will co-lead this precious program with the Rabbi and the plan is that we'll work together, building on each other’s’ strengths, engaging both parents and children.  We also hope to build a community for the parents, grow our school, and by extension grow the two synagogues that feed into our school.  But that’s looking too far ahead.  Right now I just want to put together a seamless 45 minutes program for the four children and their parents who signed up for our first session.

In the middle of the night, I wake up and realize that two of our four children have already done the planting activity, when they attended the Tu B’Shevat Seder last Sunday with their older siblings.  Somehow in my half sleep, my brain creates an alternate idea, that would not require any shopping at 7:00 am on a Sunday.  I fall back to sleep, dreaming of juice boxes and alef-bet songs.

Finally the moment is here.  I get to the synagogue early and set everything up.  The children arrive, and three of them are waiting, not very patiently, in the lobby. Little Billy is 2  ½ and he’s used to being here.  He’s a barrel of energy, with white blond curls, and unlikely to stay in one place for more than a few seconds.  He’s all smiles, as usual this morning.  Looks like it Mommy’s turn to wrangle him today.  And sweet shy Kaitlyn.  She and I are buddies, because her older brother also attends our school. She usually likes to show me her shoes, which are typically quite stylish.  She’s attending with her mom and dad today, and so far, is sticking pretty close to them.  She’s 4 and she loves arts and crafts.  Ali arrives and is excited but nervous.  She’s clutching on to her daddy, but curious to see what’s going on.  She comes in to the social hall to see what’s what.  I show her what I’m setting up.   “When I start that music that means it’s time to start, okay, Ali? Then you can come in.” I get a big smile from her.  She goes into the lobby, and I see her warming up to Kaitlyn and watching Billy zooming around. 

The Rabbi finishes cutting up the bagels and setting up the coffee, and juice boxes and it’s nearly 10:15.  He opens the back door, so Sage’s mom won’t have trouble getting her wheelchair up the ramp.  We both do a final check.  Craft materials are set, toys are near the play mat, music is cued, snacks are ready.  It’s 10:14 am.  I hit play and we say to the families, "come on in!"

We give them name tags and welcome them to the foam mat where we will start and finish our morning.  Sage and her mom arrive just then and join us.  Sage is bigger than the others, and not verbal, but is very present and very happy to be there.  Her mom helps her out of her wheelchair and into the circle. Kaitlyn and Billy barely notice.  Ali sensitively asks her daddy if Sage’s legs got hurt.  “They just don’t work very well,” he answers.  After that it’s all about Tu B’Shevat, being together, and having fun.

We begin with a welcome song, and then do a movement exercise led by the Rabbi.  I hear him say "pretend you are a seed" and a round of giggles follows. They sing another song for Tu B’Shevat and it’s time to move to the art table to make trees.  I put on the music, explain the idea, and each child finds a way to enjoy the project.  

Sage takes great delight in feeling the tissue paper crunch and crumble in her hands. Though she cannot tell me with words, already I can tell she is “calling” me over, and I come right away to be near her.  Ali and her dad carefully make a pattern of colors and name them, they take their time, meticulously gluing the tissue paper buds to the branches.  Billy and I break sticks for the others, I show him how to hold his hands close together to break the wider twigs, and he feels super strong; meanwhile Billy’s mom does the project in a zen-like way. And Kaitlyn becomes completely absorbed by the project, so deeply, we have to tear her away when it’s time for bagels.   The Rabbi, who was taking pictures, has stopped to make his own branch and is making a mess with the glue and having a great time with the families.

During snack, the Rabbi and I give each other a look.  Yes.  It’s good.  We are both full of joy.  These are the seeds we are planting now, right now on Tu B’Shevat.  The seeds of joy, love of Judaism, kindness toward others, community.  These children will know their Rabbi and Educator and remember us from sitting on the floor and from glueing tissue paper to a stick, and not just from far away on the bima or (worse) sitting in an office writing programs on a computer.

As our program comes to an end, we teach them Shalom Chaverim.  Peace friends, until we see you again.

L’hitraot!

If you would like to learn more about our B'Yachad program, or our Religious School, located in Pompton Lakes, NJ.  Please check out our website: B'Yachad School.

Strangers Stopping Strangers

For most people, it was a typical Wednesday night commute.  Not for me, since I don't live or work in New York City.  I was on the train, heading in to go to a concert, to see my favorite bass player*, Phil Lesh, in  a concert in Central Park.  So while most people were just thinking about getting home, I was excited to meet my brother and friends for a fun night under the stars, listening to my favorite music.  I knew the band Phil (we all call him Phil, with love and reverence) had put together would be stellar, and historically, New York City seemed to bring the best out of him.

The ride from my town to Secaucus was uneventful.  I texted with the people I was going to meet, and did a crossword puzzle.  At Secaucus I had to change trains for New York's Penn Station.  This is a 16 minute trip that delivers you right underneath Madison Square Garden.  It's the best if your concert is right there, but still pretty handy to get anywhere else, because it's a subway hub.  (Not that I have the slightest idea which subway lines go where, but luckily, my brother does.)

It was on that 16-minute ride that something somewhat extraordinary happened.

I found a seat right away, and gave the guy already sitting in the other seat the "mind if I sit here?" look.  He moved his stuff away, but apparently he did mind. He was wearing khakis, and a short-sleeve plaid shirt, and now put his brief case on his lap to make room for me.  He gave me a sort of put-off quasi-disgusted look, as if I just ruined his day.  (Yes, I had showered that day, and NO I was not wearing patchouli oil.) I sat down, putting my bag with the concert supplies on the floor, and my pocketbook on my lap.  He took his phone out and was furiously texting or emailing. 

As the train started to go, we sat like that, in silence, ignoring each other. I was lost in thought.  He was typing away on his phone.  

About 6 minutes into the ride the door between the cars opened, and a man came stumbling into our car. He seemed to be an older guy, pants drooping down, three or four shirts sloppily layered on, with a torn jacket over all of them. As I was on the aisle, I could smell him as he walked by, an unpleasant smell of urine and something else... beer maybe?  His hand was out, and I remember his hands most of all. Gnarled knuckles, and fingernails that were too long.  They looked like old man's hands. I saw two different sleeves, frayed and torn. 

And he was shouting this up and down our car,  "I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. Who's gonna give me my two-fifty for the 3 train uptown?"

Everyone looked down.  Or out the window.  Or at their iPhones, which don't work under the Hudson River. But I didn't look away. I looked at this guy.  Wandering on a train asking for $2.50. 

And I did what I always do.

I took out my wallet.  And if the story ended there, I would not be writing about it.

But as I was getting money out for this man in need, Mr. Plaid Shirt was taking out his wallet, and saying to me, "I'll split the difference with you."  

I just looked at him, and started to smile.  

He continued, "If you will give it to him."

I took the dollar from Mr. Plaid Shirt and took a dollar from my wallet, and stood up and yelled, "Excuse me, sir?" and the man stumbled back to where we were sitting and took the money.  He had almost left the car when he remembered to mumble, "Gah bleh you" before the door slammed shut.

Plaidman was a different person now. He smiled at me and said, "I was making all kinds of excuses in my head about why I couldn't give him the money.  I can't reach my wallet.  We're almost at Penn Station. What if it's not safe to give it him?  What if he just spends it on drugs?  Then I saw how easy it was for you to do it and I realized I could do it too. Thank you."

"Yea," I said, "It's not up to us to decide what he might spend it on, it's sad enough he's at the point where he needs to beg. I give it to him and remember to be grateful that I can."

My new friend smiled and admitted that he always wants to give, but he just walks past "those people."

Remembering the countless stories I'd heard from people who had found themselves homeless, I said, "If, God forbid, I am ever down and out, I hope my acts of kindness will come back to me.  Maybe your act today will start a chain of good deeds."

"I was thinking that maybe by helping that guy, I just prevented something really bad from happening to me," he replies.

"Oh, I never thought of that.  So if you go and have a fantastic day, you'll know you got your reward?"

"Something like that!" he says, and he is smiling now.

"I picture you walking around the city, just barely missing pianos and anvils falling on your head!  You could write a children's book about that!" I say, now really enjoying the idea of doing a mitzvah and protecting yourself from harm.

"I think that's for other people to do."

We are almost at Penn Station.  We are both standing up near the door.  I wonder if he will be empowered to give to the next person in need.  He is certainly a different person than the one I sat next to 14 1/2 minutes ago.

We say good-bye.  He goes off to his life, protected, I hope by his act of kindness.  I go off to mine, already in progress.

As a reward for my act of kindness, Phil plays a song just for me.  I hold it close as the music and words pour into my soul and fill me with joy. 

And for a little while, all is right with the world.

Photo credit: Jack Baribault

Pictured: Jack, Peter White, me, and my brother Geoffrey's back. I forget why we are showing the number one. Maybe someone can enlighten me. 



*Phil Lesh is my favorite bass player, except for my cousin, Rick Cantor.

Superbowl or Super-mistake?

Dear Football Fans,
  I don't watch a lot of tv, and I don't watch any football. So, it's really ironic that I'm writing a blog about the Superbowl.  But I am going to to help you all out today and save you from spending a LOT of money that could be better spent pretty much anywhere else.
  I have seen a few commercials and print ads, and I need to dispel this massive untruth right away. If you choke up the big bucks for your Superbowl tickets and think you are coming to New York, you are NOT.  You are coming to New Jersey.  
   Yes. That's right.  The Meadowlands Sports Complex is in East Rutherford, New Jersey.  Not that I've ever seen a sport played there, but I've seen countless concerts in that big bowl of echo-y sound and I know that they play football there too, even, as ludicrous as this may sound, in the winter.

And WHEN did it become METLIFE stadium?

   I don't know why New Jersey is getting the Superbowl. 
   Maybe we need the attention.  We barely ever make the national news.
   If you have to fly here, well, good luck dealing with our airports.  If you thought you were going to New York and you booked your flight to Kennedy or LaGuardia, you won't make it to the game anyway because of traffic.  If you fly into Newark, I will apologize right now for the downright surly manner in which you will be treated upon landing... 
"Excuse me, where do I get my luggage?" 
 "What do I fucking look like? Google maps? Look at the signs."

Traffic getting in and out of the stadium will be horrible.  It's not like they've had years of practice.  And I just checked, game time is 6:30, so it will be getting dark then too.  Perfect.

Oh, yea, good luck finding your car after the game.  "Fuggedaboutit."

  There are only one or two hotels near there, so you will probably have to drive a way on one of our congested highways. But don't think about taking in the sights, because the funny thing about East Rutherford is that there is exactly nothing else to do around there.  
  If you like fast food, you're all set, so that's a plus.  We have every type on both sides of Route 17 North and South of the Stadium, and a dozen CVS and Walgreens' stores to buy antacid after eating all that fast food. The last time I drove past, there were about 4 Starbucks', at least one with a drive-through, which will be handy since you'll probably have rotten weather.



   Okay, there is ONE good restaurant.  My family and I like to go there, and I really should get a slice of the total my blog brings them.  Check out Park and Orchard,  in East Rutherford, for a casual, but delicious dinner.  Buddy's Pasta is my all time favorite dish there.  And you can go swimming in their martinis.
   There's really nothing else to do near the Meadowlands except for one topless bar, and rows of discount tire stores, strip malls and gas stations.  Half of which will be closed because of the Blue Laws still in effect in our county on Sundays.
    So, for goodness sake, STAY HOME.  Stay in the nice pleasant place you already live, with warm weather and friendly people. Watch the game on television with your nachos and hummus and beer.

So, who did Sabra have to muscle out for this dubious distinction?  

   Don't give NJ the money, we will just spend it foolishly, on Xanadu, or bright red traffic cones.  You can use that money for your kids' college tuition, or saving the whales or adding on to your home.  Or send it to me, and I'll use it (for my kid's college tuition, or saving the whales or adding on to MY home!).  
  But if you're really set on coming, at least you can know that you're staying in New Jersey and not New York, so you don't have to worry about the bridge traffic.  And I have three empty bedrooms I'd be willing to rent out for the weekend for a very good price.  

Hey buddy, we got your snow removal right here.

I found this on Instagram... this is pretty much how I feel about the whole thing...

I just found this on twitter... Hilarious..

My name is Juliet B.

My name is Juliet B. and I am an addict.  

I am addicted to my phone.  Seriously.  Though I'll attempt to find some humor in it.

For those of you who know me, this may not come as a shock.  And whether you know me personally or not, you might think, "What's the big deal? Every person you see is one his or her phone all the time."  True.  But yesterday, I had a few minor epiphanies, and I thought I'd share them.  Maybe they will give you insight into your own phone use (abuse?) as well.  Or just open a window into mine.

I live in a New Jersey suburb, but I had to commute into Manhattan for a seminar downtown. I packed for a 45 minute train ride and a 10 minute subway ride, as I have many times, with my wallet, my iPad, a small note book, my new Bose headphones (not tiny earbuds any more... going for the superior sound quality and comfort), a train schedule, a water bottle, a pencil case filled with pens, pencils, & sharpies, my camera, and a few other things, including, my iPhone, SO I THOUGHT.

It's a very short drive to the train station, and when I got there, I locked the car, and bought my ticket for the train and sat down to send a few texts to my husband and son.  I left them each  $50 and wanted to make sure they knew it.  I rummaged around my fairly sizable pocketbook* for my phone and couldn't find it right away.  With the train coming in 2 minutes, I figured I'd wait until I was on the train and seated to really look for it.

Settled into my spot by the window, I began to look in earnest for my phone. It wasn't the first time this has happened.  It's a big bag. Out came the wallet, the iPad, the notebook, my new headphones, camera, reading glasses, sunglasses, water bottle... getting near the bottom now... oh, look, those ginger mints I got at Sea-Tac airport...hand cream, lip balm (a mild panic is setting in as I start sifting through the small stuff), loose change, the missing button from my suede jacket...no phone yet.  I look in the pocket compartments of the bag. Nope. I check my own pockets again. I check the outer lining of the pocketbook, as if an invisible rip could have appeared. Nothing. 

A sick feeling was rising up.

I forgot my phone. I must have left it on the dining room table.  

As I replaced the contents of my bag, I looked out the window of the train. I'm now two stops away from home. I could disembark, wait for the next train, go home, get the phone take the next train and I'd just be late for the seminar.  No, that's not right.  I could call my husband, ask him to bring the phone to the next stop on the train jump out, get the... no, I can't call him, and he's probably gone to work.  I could go home, get the phone, drive to New York, pay to park, maybe be on time, maybe hit a ton of traffic in either direction... or maybe I can go one day with no phone.

Maybe I can do this. Maybe I have to.

The first thing that happened is I started to think about all the things I could not do.  I could not do what I always do on the train, which is text people, check my email, play sudoku, scrabble, and check the return trains on the NJ Transit app.  

As I mentioned, I do have an iPad, but I have the type which requires wifi.  I am my own personal hot spot. (I know how that sounds, but I pay a little extra to AT&T and through some voodoo magic, my iPhone makes me a wifi  hotspot.)  My iPad does have a book on it, and I decided to read.  I took it out and read a few pages, and then actually took a nap on the train.  So, for those of you waiting for the silver lining in this tail of woe, that was it.  I slept on the train.  

Part of my plan was to grab breakfast in town before the seminar, so I looked for a place with free wifi (which in NY is pretty easy) and while eating my omelet I sent off messages to some of the people on my list with whom I had hoped to connect.   "No phone, talk to you later."  "In the city today with no phone, home tonight."  To my son, I typed where I was going to be all day, in case of an emergency.  (He later said he hadn't seen that email, but it gave me peace of mind at the time.)  

I pictured my iPhone on the dining room table buzzing and ringing all day.  Poor little ignored thing.  No one to Tweet with it.  No one checking Instagram regularly.  No one looking at email and Facebook.  All those missed texts.  And the calls I was missing!  I could not stop thinking about that.  

As I walked through New York to my seminar, I was not noticing the beautiful day.  I was not people-watching, or smiling at the parents with their kids, or the dog-owners with their dogs.  I wasn't even noticing fun shoes or great architecture like I usually do.  I was still thinking about my phone, and the things that I hadn't done, follow-up work calls I hadn't made, emails I hadn't sent, texts that had to wait until I got home much later. It was my parents' anniversary... should I borrow someone's phone to call them? Would I even know anyone at the seminar well enough to impose on them like that?

This was when it hit me.  I am addicted to my phone.  I don't need to be ON IT all the time, but I need it to be ON ME all the time.  Is there a 12-step program for this?

I do sometimes unplug, from my computer for sure, and from my phone... almost completely.  But even at those times, I know that my phone is nearby, and available if there is an emergency.  If I had an emergency yesterday, it would have had to be at a Starbucks, so I could use the wifi to email someone from my iPad!

At the seminar, like any good presenter, our teacher went around the group and had us introduce ourselves.  When it was my turn, I nearly said, "I'm Juliet, and I forgot my phone today."  I didn't, but I did have a hard time focusing in the beginning.  Luckily, he was a great teacher, and I dove into the day.  The building had wifi, and I checked my email during the break, and had the chance to follow up with a few of the things that were pressing.  

By the time it was time to leave, I knew I was going to be okay.  I walked back to the subway station, this time cutting through the park.  I looked around and noticed people this time.  Everyone was on their phone, iPhone, iPad, Kindle, and so on. Even a young man and woman who looked like they were having a fairly intimate moment both had their headphones on and were holding separate iPhones.  Only one 20-something guy was reading an actual book as I walked through the rows of benches.   

I got near the subway station, and dug out my ticket. Normally I would have checked the NJ transit app to see which train I could make.  Instead, I pulled out the paper train schedule when I got on the subway, and calculated my timing.  

When I got home, I remembered to hug my family and say hi to my dogs before I rushed to the phone.  And there it was. Right on the table.  Now to see how much I missed.  

No calls.

A few Facebook posts, none specifically for me.

One text.

Several emails, but nothing urgent.  Most of the people who received my earlier notes replied with "No iPhone, Juliet? Are you okay?"

Life went on without my phone.  It didn't kill me.  Did it make me stronger? I don't know about that.  It did make me a bit more self-aware.  Will it make me change my phone habits?  Maybe.  I consider myself a polite cell phone user already.  But maybe after I'm done writing this, then Tweeting it, I'll turn of the phone and go outside to my garden and leave the phone in its spot on the dining room table.  It seems that I generate a lot less work for myself that way.

Oh my apps, how I missed you!

*Fun fact:  They don't say pocketbook in the Pacific Northwest.  They say Purse or Handbag.  They looked at me like I was Ethel Mertz when I referred to my bag as a pocketbook when I was out there.

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?  :-)

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...

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.