Sorry for My Loss

August, 2010 on the steps of our beach rental in Maine.

"Sorry for your loss."

How many times have you heard that?

On Facebook.

Or on Instagram.

On TV.

(I'm hearing it now, in my head on the show Blue  Bloods, which my husband still mistakenly calls NYPD Blue.  One of the Reagans and his partner walk in to the widow's apartment and blurt out "Sorry for your loss," before they interrogate her and surreptitiously snoop around the pantry and breakfront for clues.)


It's been quite a long time since I've heard it "in real life."

Sorry.  For your loss.  My loss this time.

My Mother-in-law, Lois Barr, passed away on Friday, Feb. 3, just a few weeks before her birthday. which, not coincidentally, is today.  She died in her home, surrounded by her four sons, her husband, her cat, and me.  At that moment, two health care workers were also there, providing wonderful attentive care, for which we were all grateful.

I have known her for 39 years, having been an official part of the family since I married her third son Michael in '84.   Since at least 83, if not earlier, we have spent a glorious week at beach together in a rented cottage in Old Orchard Beach, Maine (which I've written about here).


Lois worked hard all her lifetime, and left a legacy of helping others, building a family, and being the communicator, the glue and the strength of the family.  She enjoyed life to the fullest, tried new things and took risks. Even when her health began to fail, she took pleasure in the lives and pursuits of her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.  Until the very end, she still made her famous brisket and chopped liver for her boys, and coffee chiffon pie if you were very lucky.

 Lois was famous for another thing - and that was her dark brown beehive hairdo. When she was near the end, and bedridden, her dear friend and hairdresser Reina made sure that the every hair in the hive stayed neatly in place.  On the day Lois died, she still had less gray hair than I do.

You might wonder, how did this elegant coiffure stand up to long days at the beach?  I don't really know.  In fact, once, when her wonderful friend Dotty was commenting on my own mass of un-comb-able salt-air-infused curls in our summer beach rental, Lois was heard to reply, "Yes, well, she likes it that way," in a  somewhat less than complimentary tone.

I thought that I'd honor her memory today by sharing a story that makes us smile whenever we think of it.

It was during an event-filled trip to Israel that really put the hair-do to the test.  Come to think of it, that trip put a lot of things to the test: our nerves, our stomachs, and our tolerance (or lack thereof) to the heat.  The year was 2000.  Our son Zachary had become a Bar Mitzvah in May, and he requested to have small luncheon following the service, and celebrate with a trip to Israel in the summer after the school year was over.

We invited anyone among our friends and family who wanted to come, and once we knew who was joining us, my mom and I sat together and made an outline of the type of trip we thought would work.  My own mother was a pro - she had spent many years organizing trips of this type for our local JCC, and knew everything from secret spots to the perfect guides.  We matched that with the people who said yes, and by July, we had ourselves a perfect itinerary.

Our Group: Back Row, L - R Yossi (Greatest tour guide ever), Michael, Me, Dotty, Lois, Ben, aka Bunny, Cat, Geof, Henry, Dana, Paula, Bill.
Front Row L - R Zachary (13), Madeleine (10) Jacob (winking, 7), Talia (3) Ben (7)

One of the most special aspects of this trip was taking my in-laws to Israel for their first, and as it turned out, only time. How powerful to stand side by side with my father in law, as he saw Jerusalem for the first time, and sat in silence at the Holocaust memorial, knowing that he was a World War II veteran and liberator of Buchenwald.

Lois held onto her Judaism through childhood  and even kept Kosher, until that was no longer possible (Zack wrote about that here) and she raised a Jewish family in Maine, making sure that all four of her sons  had a Jewish education along with their secular education.  All four boys became B'nai Mitzvah.  (I actually attended the last one as Michael's date!)

So this was a very special trip.  We planted trees, coated ourselves with mud and swam in the Dead Sea, we ate great food, we celebrated Zack's Bar Mitzvah on our friends roof top with a fabulous dinner with a lot of wine, and sang into the night.  We rode donkeys and made pita over an outdoor fire.  And we went white water rafting on the Jordan River.  All of us.

Lois helps Jacob off the donkey.

The two moms, dressed up for the special night.

The Bar Mitzvah Boy!

This was my second experience white-water rafting, the first having been on the rapids of the American River in Northern California back in the 80's.  So I was pretty confident that this would be very tame.  I took the aft of our raft, with my daughter Maddie (then age 10) in the middle, and Lois in the front.  I don't recall much about who was with whom in the other boats.  I remember that the first thing that happened was that Michael fell out of his raft, into the shallow, and slow moving Jordan River.  This was a humorous way to begin.

The flotilla moved its way down the river, which was really anything but rapid.  At times there were a few rocks, but basically it was a very easy, gentle ride.  Except that our raft kept going into the sides of the river, where willows and other branches overhung the water.

I'm not an expert, but I understand basic paddling (I did learn how to canoe in camp, and it is pretty intuitive) and I could not understand why we kept going into the sides of the river.  We also were going very slowly and sometimes getting turned around.  Finally our guide Yossi came over to "help us" and by help us I mean scold us and make us feel worse.

But through it all, we kept our spirits up.  Well, let me rephrase that.  Maddie and I did.  Because, for the first and only time ever, Lois was cursing her head off.  Words that would make a gangster blush.  Maddie heard words she had never heard before in her life, and maybe not since.  Each time we grazed the side of the river, my hair got tangled up in the overhang of the bramble, and I guess so did Lois' perfectly coiffed 'do, which had been covered with a silk scarf.  I cannot reprint the words she used, but imagine the ones your grandmother would NEVER use, and add some adjectives to make them more colorful.

Finally we made it to the end of the run.  Someone helped Lois out of the raft, and Maddie and I jumped in the water for a swim.  As I mentioned, it was not really rushing anywhere, though it was pretty cold.

I was teased for a long time of my lack of paddling ability.  It wasn't until I unearthed this photo and found out why I couldn't keep us on track.  My mother in law kept putting her paddle on the wrong side of the raft!

This is the way we will remember my mother-in-law.  72 years old and having the hutzpah to try something new and maybe a little dangerous, cursing her head off down the Jordan River.  Wearing stylish white shorts, oversized sunglasses and a Jordan Marsh scarf keeping her hair perfectly in place.  I guess she liked it that way.

Lois and Benjamin Barr Summer of 2015

Her memory will be a blessing.

The First (and only) Noel

A True Story.

I have never had Christmas envy.  

Growing up in a Jewish home, we celebrated all the Jewish and American holidays in full style.  We have enjoyed each at its given time, with the proper full table and decorations.  As a little girl, I never dreamed of waking up to see what Santa might have left me, I knew that was for the other kids.  I was happy with my eight nights of Hanukkah, my gelt and dreidels and latkes and knowing I was that anomaly at school who didn't blend in.  

But... one year... things were different.

It was 1969.  That year, my family had moved from Newton Centre, Massachusetts to Cherry Hill, NJ. Shortly after we moved in, we watched with amazement as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon. I went from not understanding Red Sox fever to not understanding Mets fever.  (AGAIN with the kids and their transistor radios!)

I was in 4th grade, and my little brother Geoffrey was in 1st. Of COURSE we walked to school, and it was quite a hike.  As we walked along, we met up with our neighbors and friends.  We made friends quickly and summer turned to fall turned to winter.

I remember one very cold and slightly snowy morning, and our usual friends were sparse.  As we approached the "major" intersection where the crossing guard usually protected us from the dozen or so suburban cars, who slowly made their way toward the school, we saw she was not there.  Being the big sister, I took my little brother by the hand when the light turned green.  We boldly crossed, me feeling proud and accomplished.  When we arrived, unscathed at the school, we found, to our delight, it was a snow day!  Our small group turned around and trudged back home, through the inch and a half of accumulated snow, most likely to my mother's chagrin. 

As was the norm back then, the school was decorated beautifully. As you walked into the lobby, there was a huge Christmas tree, and it made the foyer smell great.  The tree had ornaments and lights, and back in those days, that metallic tinsel that came in single shreds. The lobby had other decorations as did every hallway and classroom.  The school was positively festooned with Christmas decorations. 

Was there the obligatory menorah in the lobby?  I doubt it.  Did one or two teachers hang up some Hanukkah decorations?  Maybe. Was there a Kwanzaa candelabra up?  There wasn't even Kwanzaa yet. I don't know what other parents told their children, but I just knew it wasn't my holiday.  I knew when I got home there would be my holiday waiting for me... and it was okay. 

And then, it was time for Christmas vacation.  The school did what they had always done, they entered every child's name into the raffle to see who would get to bring the giant Christmas tree home.  They did not ask who wanted to enter.  They did not consider who might not want a tree, or who might already have one.  And little Juliet Cantor, one of a handful of Jewish children in the school won that Christmas tree.

I didn't think for a second to argue with the principal of the school, or turn down this tree.  At 9 years old, I had not yet even considered standing up to authority, and it was true, we didn't have one...

So.

There I was. 

At 3:30 on a snowy afternoon at the beginning of Christmas break with a giant naked pine tree. 

To my surprise (and probably dismay) winning the Christmas tree did not mean winning any of the lights, ornaments or that pretty tinsel.  The custodians had made quick work of that while we were in our last classes of the afternoon.

I rounded up my friends, which included my boyfriend Andy and his best friend Paul (both Jewish) and little Geoffrey (we let him carry the top of the tree, since he was only 6).  And the four of us schlepped

this thing all the way home. 

As a parent... I can't imagine what I would do if any of my kids EVER came home with a Christmas tree.  But I can tell you what mine did. 

They let me keep it.

My dad configured some kind of stand for it in our den.  And I was allowed to make decorations for it... origami and snowflakes... and we admired it.  Since we didn't know about watering it, it dried out nicely, dropping its needles all over the place.  My cousin happened to be visiting and he taught me to draw a perfect 5-point star and we colored them in, punched holes, used Mom's yarn to make loops, and hung them up on the tree. Then we taught Geoffrey how to draw Stars of David, as I had just learned in Hebrew school, and did the same with them.  We did not see the irony.  

When Christmas came, there were no presents under that tree.  We didn't hang stockings with care, or leave cookies for Santa.  But for one year, we had that intoxicating scent of pine wafting through the house.  After that, my dad took it outside, chopped it up, and let it dry, and we used it for firewood.  It smelled wonderful in the fireplace.

It's funny to think of it now.  A Christmas tree in our house.  My parents acting like it's no big thing.  And because they acted that way, it wasn't. (Although I did ask if we could buy tinsel and lights, and they said no.) 

When I reminded them of this story, family lore at this point, I asked them if there were photos I could use to enhance the blog. They both looked, but, not surprisingly, there were no photos to be found.

Since that time, we've always enjoyed Christmas as guests, celebrating with others. Enjoying their traditions, foods, stories, and Christmas trees.  And definitely the music.   But that one year was the beginning and end of Noel in our house.

The author, as artistically  "elfed" by @pawhite. 

To read more of my Jewish blogs about Christmas, click on these links:

http://myso-calledblogat.blogspot.com/2013/12/why-theres-plaster-jesus-in-my-basement.html



http://myso-calledblogat.blogspot.com/2011/12/in-memory-of-friend-at-christmas.html

Family Dinner

Since 1987, when my husband Michael and I packed up our baby son and drove from San Francisco, across the United States to live back in the great state of New Jersey... we have had a tradition of the Family Dinner with my parents.

At first, it was just natural.  We lived in their house while we were looking for a new home, so every night was family dinner.  Actually what I remember most was keeping my two cats locked upstairs in what used to be a playroom (now my mother's art studio) and our beloved 5:00 cocktail hour when my husband and my dad would both come home from work and we would meet in the kitchen for martinis and laughs about the day with our  joyful toddler Zachary bouncing from one person's arms to the next.

Soon we were in our own home, with our daughter Maddie joining the family; my brother had moved to the area as well soon to start a family of his own. Family dinners were usually on Sunday nights.  We chose places which were kid friendly.  I remember that Chinese food was a favorite of ours.  There was also a deli we loved.  We had a pizza place we adored, and it was there, a few years later,  having pizza and a great antipasto when we got the phone call that my niece Talia was born!

We meet and share the news the of the week.  New jobs, new boyfriends and girlfriends (the kids, not the adults... don't worry!), house troubles.  The snow.  The rain. The hurricane.  If the weather is terrible we meet for dinner.  If the weather is great... we meet for dinner.  We bring sad news, and we bring great news.  Heavy news and frivolity.  We laugh and we  are sometimes loud. We sometimes change seats before dessert.  We sing Happy Birthday in Hebrew.  Jacob and Ben, the same age, would sword-fight with tooth-picks when they were little.  Then, in the blink of an eye, they were already in the "sneak-texting" phase!

And before we knew it, our first was grown and off to college, and the reservation was for 10 and not 11 anymore.   And more often than not, the kids had things to do, rehearsals, social engagements, homework.   And just this September, the last grandchild, little Talia went to college.  Family dinner is just six of us, my parents, my brother and his wife, my husband and me.

We went out to dinner last night.

My brother chose sushi, because it was his birthday... 5 days ago.

As we order I think about all the years of the family dinners.  My husband isn't here because of work. The kids are all off, three are in college, two of mine are already through with school and on their own. October has been a rough month for me and I am somewhat pensive.

My parents are through with the menu and my sister-in-law and I are ready to order.

My brother pours some sake into his glass while we wait for the waitress.

He starts a story.

"When I was in London, sushi was very rare."
"Too bad," Dad says, not missing a beat, "because it should have been raw!"

While we are laughing over this I get a text.  As impolite as it is, I secretly check my phone at the dinner table.  It's a photo of my three kids.

They are having family dinner at my daughter's house tonight in Cambridge.  They know I love a good selfie, so they sent it to me before they cleaned up the dishes.

I see they sent it to my husband who clumsily tries to send back a smiley but sends the angry face emoji by mistake.

I smile, and I hear myself laugh.  I look up and see my brother has caught me "sneak-texting" on my phone.  I slip it back in my pocket.

Surrounded by love, I get back to the family dinner. (Insert happy emoji here.)

All About a Barbie

I had the unfortunate experience to find myself in the mall a few weeks ago on my one precious afternoon off.  Apparently, after the age of 45, the punishment for myopia is either wearing reading glasses over your contact lenses, or wearing complicated eyeglasses.  If you don’t know what I am talking about, take a walk to the closest CVS and try on a pair of readers and it will all become very clear.

Anyway, my complicated glasses needed to be adjusted before the Seder, as they were so scratched, I literally could not see the words in the Hagaddah.  I was seated next to a bespectacled mother and her adorable son, who was clutching a bag from the Disney Store. He was begging her to play with his new Anna doll. 

In a hushed voice she suggested, “How about Olaf instead?”

“No, Mommy.  I want to play with Anna!”

“I told you, not until we are in the car.”

“But Mommy, why can I play with Olaf here and not with Anna?”

Now, the little boy is not having a fit, he’s just asking, but the mother is getting that panicky look on her face.  She glances at me, and shoots me that “I’m so sorry” look, and I can see she’s mortified.  I try to come up with an “I understand look,” but I’m not sure she sees me; she’s trying so hard to diffuse her “situation.”  The situation of her little boy wanting to play with a doll. 

When someone finally comes out to wait on us at the glasses repair counter, I offer to let them go ahead of me, but mom decides to take her son out of the store rather than have a scene.

As I wait while they work their magic (aka change the lenses and charge me accordingly)… I think about the playthings I had for my own children. 

Before we even had children, my husband and I had a lot of discussions about how to be as parents.  One of the biggies was no toy weapons in the house. I didn't get much push-back from my husband, though growing up, he and his brother had a bee-bee gun.  He also had some pretty terrible stories about that gun (and bee-bees in the ears) so he was fine with that.  (He had a much harder time with the “let’s go with only cloth diapers” conversation.)

And then we had our first baby.  David was beautiful, perfect little boy.  We filled his room with toys.  No weapons ever came into the house.  Ah, see how easy that is?  Our little house was filled with art toys and building toys and musical instruments. Stuffed animals and train sets.  Trucks and dinosaurs. 

When we learned that I was pregnant again, we got little David a Cabbage Patch doll so he could attend a “big brother” class, and there he learned about changing diapers, feeding with a bottle, and giving babies a bath.  When the class was over, he got a sticker that said he was a prepared big brother, and he barely played with the doll again.

When David was 3 ½ along came his sister, Emily.  He was doting and loving.  None of the typical jealousy that you hear about.  He “read” to her from his favorite books (which he had memorized) and helped pick out what she should wear.   As Emily grew, we stood by our “no weapons” rule with ease.  She was more into the art kits and the stuffed animals, and David, though not the greatest sharer, was always happy to play with her.

One day after a playdate with David’s two best friends, twin girls from pre-school, he came home and asked if I’d buy him a Barbie doll. I was a bit taken aback, and let it go.  I had never been allowed to have a Barbie, I am not into the whole Barbie thing as an adult.  I just don’t think it is a good image for women.  AND let’s face it,  David is a boy.  A few weeks later, David who is only about 4 now, tries a different angle with me.  He suggests that Emily (6 months old) might like a Barbie, because little girls like that.

The next time he has his playdate at the twins’ house, I go and hang out with their mom, who is also nursing a new baby.  We smile as the three kids are playing dress-up together.  And then they are playing Barbie dolls.  For Hanukkah, David’s babysitter asks if she can get him a Barbie, he wants one so much.  I say okay, but get a Ken too.   He is thrilled.  I even make her some clothes on my sewing machine.   Ken’s hands get chewed up by the dog, having been left lying on the floor.

Poor Ken.

Three and a half years later, and we welcome Samuel.  Born on Shavuot, and a gift to our family.  He’s our wild child from day one.  This little guy starts climbing out of his crib and running by 9 months. When David meticulously builds the Brio Train into a majestic web of intertwined tracks, and Emily builds the town center around the veterinary clinic, Sam bull-dozes it with a truck in each hand.  When David builds the marble machine to perfection and Emily times the red marble against the blue one, Sam knocks the whole thing down with the leg of the teddy bear she has just had me sew, and has put a “cast” on.   Sticker books are taken apart, and Sam is covered with Emily’s animal stickers.  David’s school projects are kept up on the mantle of the fire place or on his top bunk bed.  Child-proof gates at the stairs are a joke, more of a barrier for our poor dog than a deterrent for Sam.

But the kicker?  Everything… EVERYTHING has become a weapon.  The snorkel from last summer is a sword.  The hammer from the little workshop is a, well I don’t even know what, but it went everywhere with him.  Every tree branch is a gun or knife.   He gravitated to the Lego sets that had the pirates, or the knights.  And somehow the videos that were once benign Disney videos to the other two suddenly suggest violence to Sam.  He wore a cape every day.  (I had to send him to daycare with a dishtowel tucked in to the back of his shirt or he wouldn't get in the car.)

And then it happened.  My mother-in-law sent Sam, a cowboy gun and holster for his 3^rd birthday.  After that I said yes when my husband wanted to get the costume with the plastic sword and I tried to hide the gun. When Sam played, he put on armor.  Sometimes he got others to join in. Sometimes he just pretended by himself for hours.  As he got older he pretended with little figures.  They’d work out their battles.  They’d fight.  Sometimes little guys would die.  Then they’d get back up again and fight some more. I was more than a little worried about this streak in him, as I had never seen it in my other two children.

Do they even make these anymore??

And we suddenly we had weapons in the house. And more than that.  We had the Lego Pirate Ship. We had the Playmobile soldiers fort.  The Mystic Knights.  Zorro. We had costumes. Battle ships. Videos. 

So what happened to these two little boys and their sister?

Turns out, David is gay.  But that Barbie doll didn’t make him gay.  And letting him play the way he needed to play with no judgement on him undoubtedly allowed him to feel safe, at least at home.  Even at that young age, he identified that it was a “girl’s toy” but he liked it.   He is a teacher, and is deeply dedicated to his work.  His students love him and he makes a difference every day.

Sam is a gentle, peaceful soul. In fact he is a volunteer for Ultimate Peace, a Frisbee Camp in Israel that teaches Israeli Jewish and Palestinian children to work out their differences on the playing field.  Still in college, the only sword is wields is his wit.  He is one of those few people his age that can relate to children, teens, peers and adults. 

And their sister?  Well, Emily did not actually pursue becoming a veterinarian, despite the hints above.  One summer she interned in vet’s office and was so turned off, she changed direction.  She now works for a company that helps people afford solar heating for their homes.  This is her passion, and I kvell to see her thriving in a living that makes the world a better place.

So, did I have to change my direction? Yes. I learned that a child needs to play.  I decided not to put a limit on play, as long as no one was getting hurt.  I may not have quite understood what was happening, but whatever it was, they needed to get out through play.

I also learned that they charge a ridiculous amount for eyeglasses and for the Anna and Olaf dolls. And if your son would rather play with Anna or Elsa, it’s going to be okay.

Let all who are hungry...

Grandma's special plates, the ones I only use for gefilte fish, are already put away.
The seder plate is in the drying rack. 
Silver kiddush cups are upside down on a towel, the sunlight is hitting them just now making them sparkle.
Matzah crumbs are everywhere... as they will be all week.

My house is again way too quiet... this is the way it is now that the kids don't live here.  After the joy of the Seders and having them home, they have gone back to Boston to get back to work. 

As it has happened twice before, one of my three children was not here.  This year, my it was youngest who was not home for Passover, as he was away for his semester abroad.  He actually spent his Seder in Israel, with the same family that hosted me when I was 20, and I loved that.  But of course he was missed.  

I would like to share with you the words he sent to his sister to be read at our Seder table.  

Shalom and Chag Samayach from the holy land.  This is Jacob (Barr), writing while I wait for Yael Betzelel to take to me to her husband's family's Seder near tel aviv.  As it says in the Torah, B'shanah haba'ah b'tel aviv.

Last year at the Seder, Maddie (*point to self*) read us a portion of the New Haggadah edited by Jonathan Safran Foer where he examines the text "Let all who are hungry come and eat," and makes us really consider if we are following this commandment.  Foer  challenges us not to make this another phrase we say because of the holiday, but actually turn it into a reality.  Practically speaking there is no use saying that when you are already sitting down to eat.  Those who are hungry can't hear you.  

I've been reflecting on this since I arrived in Israel (did I mention I'm in Israel?), where I've been coasting on the generosity of friends and strangers for some time now.  I could list many many instances of when Israelis have helped me, fed me, even clothed me.  I went on a four day hike from the Mediterranean to the Kinneret and each night stayed with a different trail angel, a person who lives near the trail and opens his home to travelers.  Sometimes it was planned, sometimes not.  One family invited us in when it was raining, gave us dry socks and shoes to keep, another took us to his kibbutz breakfast, and at our last location a large group of Thai workers at a kibbutz shared their (incredibly spicy and questionably prepared) Thai food with us while they took videos of us eating from across the table.

Did my characteristic pluck and boyish charm help?  Of course.  My unparalleled wit?  No doubt.  But all this aside, I have never felt so welcomed as I have been in the weeks before Pesach. We took a trip to Safed for a shabbat and stayed with the trail angel we stayed with on the hike weeks ago, and before we left he told our group of five that if any of us or any of our friends needed a Seder we were welcome to his and to stay at his house.

I emailed my birthright tour guide from December to ask about small day trips I could take from Tel Aviv and he responded first with an invitation to his Seder and to stay in his house, and second with ideas for trips.  An adult on the Frisbee team I practice with here told the entire team of twenty that if any of us needed a place for the Seder we were invited to his.

The list goes on:  Chabad Rabbis, Taxi drivers, my Israeli friends from camp: All of them ask us not out of courtesy but from a real desire to help us and give us a place to go.  There may be turmoil, political crisis, and absurdly expensive ground beef here, but in some ways the people here really do act like its the promised land.  So b'shanah haba'ah b'yerushalyim, may next year bring us closer to a world where everyone acts with the same genuine care as I've experienced with the people here.   

At a time when I am so caught up in my own work, and then in my preparations for the holiday, I have not been able to stop to be reflective.  I am deeply grateful that my son has.  



The Haggadah he refers to is amazing...  Click here for the link on Amazon.

Carry that weight

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Throw Back -- Any Day

The other night I had dinner with my parents.

Just me, and my mom and dad... it was really nice having them all to myself.  It was a rare occurrence and I was basking in all that attention.  We lingered over cocktails, and took our time over dinner as well.  We spent a lot of the conversation on my kids (how great they are) and then, over decaf, my mom took out a photo album which blew my mind a little bit.

When I was 8 and my brother was 5, my grandfather Benjamin turned 75 years old. My mom and her sister threw him a surprise birthday party at a local restaurant.  I remember bits and pieces of this, because of a significant moment... that being that I received a swat on the head from my mother for saying something I shouldn't have.

After all these years of having a memory of that night felt more like  a series of fuzzy  snapshots...my grandparents smiling, my itchy dress which didn't twirl, sitting with my older cousin Barbara who I always admired (and still do of course), saying something and having everyone laugh (except my mom), and thinking to myself, "who would ever want cigars for a birthday present?"... I finally saw the photo album of ACTUAL snapshots my dad made for my grandfather after the event.

I guess when my Pop died (nearly 30 years later!) they got the album back, which explains why I never saw these pictures growing up.

So here's a photo essay and a little walk down memory lane in a blog where the pictures speak for themselves.  But just in case, I have added a few captions.

December 2, 1967

The Clinton Inn

Benjamin and Madeleine, aka Poppa Ben and Mom Mad walk in... Surprise!

I'm guessing those little hands are my brother Geoffrey's, but they could be mine.
That's my mom Paula on the left, and her sister, Auntie Jan on the right.

In come my OTHER grandparents, Ysobl, Grandma, and Herman, Pop Pop.
It would be years before this expression would come around, but worlds did collide.

My mom, her mom, and little me, next to my cousin Barbara.

Oh, would I love to know what they were saying to each other.
I'm sure what I was hoping was:
Mom Mad: "I never make Juliet pick up her toys... do you, Ysobl?  Ysobl?"

A fantastic photo of Mom Mad and Poppa Ben.
Or, as I spelled it for years, Pop-A-Ben, probably because of the Rice-A-Roni commercials on tv.

A really great photo of my parents, and my Aunt and Uncle.
L to R: Paula Cantor (30) William Cantor (30) Jerry Spiro (52 z''l) and Janet Spiro (41 z''l)

Pretty typical shot of the grandkids with the birthday man.  Missing is cousin Mark who was a first year at the Citadel.
L to R: Barbara (15), Me (8), Pop, Geoffrey (5), Gary (12) 
Looking good in the bowtie, bro.

Back when I used to pretend I liked cake. 

I had to enlarge this because there's so much going on here.
The big question for me is... what's going on with Uncle Murray and the waitress?

And then it happened... someone gave Pop a box of fancy cigars with a special one on top, wrapped separately.
"Big deal," I said, "One cigar." This shows the moment my mom thwacked me across the head. Barbara, behind me is already laughing.

Unfazed by the head-swat, I wait for a better present to come along. Pop is cracking up, and look at the smirk on Auntie Jan's face!  Little Geoffrey is uncharacteristically sucking his thumb.

Pop-A-Ben, a big fan of the home-made cards.  Whatever my gift was, it had to have been better than a cigar.

Tucked into the photo album is a thank you note from Pop to my parents.  It's so beautiful and grateful.  We were living in Boston at the time and had driven down and kept the whole thing a secret, apparently a very tough thing for me to do.  (Probably still would be.)

 "I have had many surprises in my life but the one at the Clinton Inn was the happiest since all the family were present (except the Plebe)...Juliet and Geoff were remarkable in keeping the secret.  I asked them so many questions and not once did they slip..."

How precious these photos are...thanks Dad for taking them and thanks Mom for letting me borrow the album and scan them all.

Post script...
A conversation after writing this blog...

Me:  Mom, did you read my blog? I think you'll like it.
Mom:  No.  Where is it? On Facebook?
Me: Yes.  I tagged you in it so you can find it.
Mom: Oh, Jewel, you know, I can't seem to find anything on Facebook.  I keep getting a message that says "page not available" or "please refresh page."  You need to come and spend a whole day here and show me how to use it again. 
Me: Nevermind, Mom, I'll just email it to you.
Mom: Okay, I might have time to read it tomorrow between my Pilates class and taking my paintings to hang before the opening of my art show.

Me... (sufficiently humbled) Okay.
Next day, via email...
Jewel, great blog, I loved loved loved it. But you should add that it was Mom Mildred who gave Pop the cigars, which makes the story even worse (better?).

So here is a picture of Mom Mildred, who was Uncle Jerry's Mother, sitting next to my PopPop, not sure why.  She loved us to pieces, and was really like a third grandmother to us.

Left to Right
Unknown Aunt, My Pop Pop (Dad's Dad), Cousin Gary (with Camera) Mom Mildred (Uncle Jerry's Mom)
Pop Pop Herman was not related to either of those two women.  I don't know why he was sitting there.