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.

On the Road Again (or Canandaigua Getaway, Getaway)

Click here to get some listening music for this blog. "On the Road Again" Baltimore Civic Center 4/19/82

For those of you who have been following along with the delightful drama that is my life... you may have picked up on the following.. 

• There are no kids (of ours) around again this summer... The coming and going has slowed, so it's grown-up play time.
• I just changed jobs AGAIN and sort of have the next two months off, not on purpose, but I can't say that I'm exactly bummed out, those two months being July and August.
• And what do you know, all this is happening just in time for the Furthur Summer Tour!  Time for me to take a little summer tour myself and catch a few shows! The Finger Lakes and Coney Island show tickets are on my bulletin board and I'm ready to plan some fun for my husband and me.

I took a little yellow pad, wrote a list of things we'd need, drove over to our local AAA office to get  a map. AAA is a wonderful resource.  I'll say right now that that although the woman helping me was as nice as could be, when I asked what she'd suggest for this road trip, she replied,
"Oh, my husband and I don't like to drive.  We only fly and we always go to Disney.  We love the Magic Kingdom."
(Yep, that's just who you want working for you at the Automotive Association of America.)  No ideas, no hints... nothing.
Nevertheless, I left with two car-ride mini-trash bags filled with a TripTik, a few Tour Books and a stack of maps.  (She also threw in a map of Long Island for our Coney Island trip and a Boston map for future trips to Boston.)

Figure 1: Triple A Treasure Trove

My vacation began Thursday, July 5.  Why not July 4? Why indeed...

My husband and I thought we'd stay in town for the local celebration, which includes live music and fireworks.  How silly of us, as the town moved the 4th of July to the 7th of July (Saturday night).  So on the 4th, we did what we've done for years, which is stand in our backyard and watch the fireflies, and wait for the fireworks from the next town, which we can see over the tree-tops.

(Not great pictures, and to tell the truth, not a great view, but there you have it.)

The morning of the 5th, we packed up the car, said good-bye to our pets and headed up north... destination: Watkins Glen NY.  Why? 

One reason.  The famous Grateful Dead / Allman Brothers Concert of July 28, 1973.  My husband and I had listened to a tape of the soundcheck from July 27 '73 for years, until it became unplayable.  Now I have the show on my iPod, and we played it on our long drive from NJ. We thought of Watkins Glen as a sort of Deadhead hallowed ground.  What to do when we got there?  I had a few ideas... but the main thing was to visit this town. It was a long drive and once there we were shocked to imagine over half a million people in this tiny town (which looked like it had not yet recovered).  

To hear a great version of the Allman Brothers Mountain Jam with the Grateful Dead playing in, click here. 

We stayed at a sub-par motel, with the last parking spot available, right next to an overflowing dumpster.  In Watkins Glen there are three things to do.  Go to the Speedway, check out Lake Seneca or explore the Gorge.  The Speedway happens to be the site of aforementioned concert, but we are not fans of car racing, and felt no need to go to the actual site and dorkily guess where the stage might have been.  But, being the proper tourists that we are, we did take advantage of our other two options.  Thursday night we hastily booked a "Burgers and Blues Cruise" on Lake Seneca, where a band played quite passable blues and we dined on not quite passable burgers as we motored up the lake.  The scenery and sunset made the trip more than worthwhile.   The cash bar on the "cruise" was a pretty good deal, as we are used to steeper prices down in the metro area.  


When we are on vacation I like to chat it up with other travelers, and locals alike.  Our one interaction with another guy left us an awkward spot.  My husband and I had finished our meal and we were standing out on the deck of the Seneca Princess wishing the food would somehow digest.  We were enjoying the scenery and our cocktails, when a guy started to make friendly conversation with my husband.  He had a tattoo on his face, and a cigarette between his remaining teeth.  He was probably in his 40's but due to what I can only guess has been a life of hard-living, he looked like he was anywhere from 35 - 60. 

 "Hey man, do you know the song 'Smoke on the Water?'" he asked.  My husband said he did, and I, of course, tune in on this conversation.

"Wasn't this the lake it was written about?" he asked my husband.

Oh brother.

Before my husband can really even answer, (and he has no idea what the guy is talking about)  I say,

"Um, no. This is Lake Seneca, in New York. That was about a fire in a bar on Lake Geneva. You know, in Switzerland?" The "You idiot" was not said but even I could hear it in my tone.  My husband went off to get dessert.  I felt terrible.  To make amends I said to the dude, 

"Sorry if I sounded a little bit dismissive.  I'm not the expert on Lake Seneca.  We are only here because the Grateful Dead once played a concert in Watkins Glen."  I give him a BIG SMILE.  "And Geneva is the town at the north end of this lake... so I can see why you'd think..."

"Oh," he interrupts, with a look of disgust, "you're Deadheads." And he turned around to speak with a woman next to him. 

I felt that my penitence was standing there and taking 6 or 7 minutes off my life by breathing in their second-hand smoke (on the water).
To learn more about this little chapter of musical history, click here.   To hear the classic Smoke on the Water, which admittedly, I then couldn't get out of my head, click here.  (This is a live version, the album versions all had ads in front of them which ruins the karma of the blog, in my humble opinion.)

After the cruise, we walked back down the main street of the town, we knew that this had been our best bet for an evening activity, every store, restaurant and bar was closed up for the night.


The next day we checked out of our little motel room and headed for the Gorge.  What a great surprise.  Although the temperature was soaring up into the 90's this mile and a half hike up and down into the waterfalls was mostly cool and always breathtakingly beautiful.  My pictures don't come close to doing it justice, but we were in awe of the beauty of this place.

We left Watkins Glen and headed to Corning to check out the museum.  Also a pleasant surprise, although we wished we could have gone into the town for lunch instead of the museum's cafeteria.  But it was Friday, concert day, and we wanted to get up to Canandaigua, find our hotel, America's Best Value (turns out it was!) and check in, and then find the concert venue, as this was new territory for us and we weren't sure how long things would take.  

Our timing worked out just fine and we got to the Marvin Sands Performing Arts Center (CMAC) in time to eat our very meager dinner and have a cold drink before braving the 97 degree heat and leaving the a/c of the car.  The crowd seems different than the usual cast of characters... I can't put my finger on it... even now as I'm reflecting back a few days later... were they locals who come out to see every show and not really fans?  Were they wine enthusiasts (we were in the heart of New York wine country after all) who thought they'd see what the Grateful Dead were up to after all these years?  Tourists in the right place at the right time hoping to hear a greatest hits show?  If you are reading this and you were there... I'd love to get your feedback on the show and the crowd.   

Once the music started, I became even more baffled.  As a veteran concert-goer, I know that it sometimes takes one or two songs to get the sound mixed just right.  But even at the cavernous Madison Square Garden, where the noise bounces all over the place, eventually, no matter where you are sitting, it does settle in to place.  But much to my deep chagrin, that was not the case at Canandaigua.  For nearly the entire first set, the sound was entirely muddy and the vocals were inaudible.  And we had pretty good seats.  So good in fact, that I got some very good photos. (See for yourself...) I was shocked, and very disappointed, that a nice little amphitheater did not have better sound.  This, coupled with the 97 degree heat made for a very lack-luster first set.  And it seemed that the band was not giving it their all.  

I started to bum out.

I hadn't heard sound this bad since The Boston Garden Show in 1979.  Then they played a pretty nice version of Crazy Fingers.  And my husband said with a smile, 

"Next week we have two nights at Coney Island.  Cheer up."

And I did.  Mason's Children was a rare and unexpected treat.  We got a nice cold beer and a big pretzel during the break, and the sun set, cooling the air.

The sound got better during the break, and the crowd woke up.  

Bob and Phil gifted us with a Scarlet Begonias->Eyes of the World->The Eleven and life was perfect again.  I laughed to myself thinking how Smoke on the Water would be the perfect encore.**  Instead it was Touch of Gray, their legitimate hit, besides Truckin' and a real crowd-pleaser. 

We drove back to our hotel, hot, tired and not too disappointed with the night.  I wanted to find other Deadheads and ask what they thought of the show and the venue, but there were none to be found.  The next morning we spotted a few fellow fans at Denny's for breakfast, but they were so busy complaining about the service (it was indeed horrible) that we did not invite them into lively conversation about the show.

While we were waiting for our breakfast, and let me just say, we had PLENTY of time... we plotted out our day's activities.  As I mentioned above, the Finger Lakes Region is known for its wineries.   So using the maps, guidebooks and handy iPhone, I found a winery that also had a brewery, and featured live music and a restaurant.  Sounds good!  We agreed that if we ever got out of Denny's we'd head over to this spot.  

After a lot of driving through beautiful farm land and a lot of vineyards, we found the place and enjoyed the afternoon.  It seemed it was a destination for bridal parties, there were three, and people were in very lively moods.  I don't drink wine, so I was the designated driver and photographer.  I believe I didn't miss much as my husband took many tastes and tossed out the rest of nearly every wine he sampled.  We did enjoy the beer tasting, but it was too hot to drink more than just a taste.  It was fun to sit in the shade and listen to the bluegrass band play and watch one particular bridal party mix it up with a motorcycle gang, all of whom were getting silly on some very sweet, very fruity raspberry wine.*  I tried to surreptitiously take a picture of these two vastly different worlds colliding over sparkly pink soda-wine.  By now the band was playing Marshall Tucker's "Heard it in a Love Song," which everyone was singing (incorrectly and incoherently) along to... "Purty Little Lo-o-ove Song... C'ain't be wrong!" 

Just the right music...

And a loopy bride-to-be and a biker get to talking...

And before you know it, worlds collide to a "purty little love song!"

  
After a long day of driving (me) and drinking (my husband) we ended up at our final destination, a lovely Bed and Breakfast in near one of the lakes.  It was then that my beloved husband  decided to tell me that he hates Bed and Breakfasts.  I sensed something was wrong as we drove into the parking lot and we were shown to our lovely room... the Blue Room.  There was no lock on the door or shades on the windows, and the proprietor was just SUPER friendly and just the tiniest bit racist... and breakfast was at 8:00, oh was that too early? ok, 8:30.  I had no idea that my husband didn't like B&B's, but we did not hang around long... we headed into town and to our great joy and surprise, got there just in time for the town's July 4th Parade (yes, critical readers, it was on Saturday evening the 7th!) so we enjoyed festivities after all!  

King and Queen of the Parade.  Oh, is it gonna be rough
when school starts back again and they realize they AREN'T royalty.

Why march when you can ride with your band on a flatbed truck? Why didn't my town think of this?

We found dinner at a local tavern that had a nice varied menu, and then hung out to hear the live band (heaven forbid a day go by that we did not hear live music).  To make the day just perfect, we even saw fireworks over the lake as we walked back to our car.  

Dipping our feet in Lake Cayuga, so we can say we did.

The next day we went home via Ithaca so that we could do a little shopping and eat at the famous Moosewood Restaurant.  The shopping was a great success (for me) but unfortunately, the Moosewood Restaurant was closed for lunch on Sundays.  We did have a great lunch at a Mexican place, and then we were on our way home.

So are we!

I plugged in the iPod and set it on "random."  Mark Knopfler  gets us started for a nice long string of musical selections that the iPod has magically chosen for this mellow ride.  I checked in with our kids and called the dog-sitter.  Just for fun I looked at the set lists online of the shows that Furthur played in Philly ...  and took out my little yellow pad of paper and started making my list of things to do before the Coney Island shows.  

The author, enjoying a pretzel  at the show.

*My comment to the bartender (BARTENDER? here I go again... ) local 21 year-old who's only talent to work here is that he can "pour," regarding that pink raspberry wine: "This must be the wine people use to get their kids to drink wine."  He looked at me like I was the worst parent on earth.  Clearly he has never seen some of the parents one sees regularly at Costco.


**Smoke on the Water is not a Grateful Dead song, it's a Deep Purple Song, and The Dead have never played it, as far as I know.  Okay, now I'm going to have to Google that.  I'm going to publish this anyhow, but I'll correct this if I find out otherwise.  How cool would that be??

Commencing

I have been keeping the UPS guy very busy lately.  Birthday gifts.  Graduation gifts.  Bar Mitzvah gifts. Wedding gifts! (Read previous blog).  I am not a shopper, but at least I know my way around the Internet.  We've been celebrating a lot.




In May my daughter graduated from Brandeis University.

It was the weekend after Mother's Day.  The weather was spectacular.


The build up to the weekend was intense ... May is such a busy time.  Our youngest son just celebrated his 18th birthday and was in the midst of his AP tests, proms, and Hebrew High School Graduations.  His finals and social life were colliding and crashing together and not leaving much time for trivial family obligations, but thankfully, his sister's graduation ranked high enough to carve out the entire weekend.


Our older son, who turned 25 the following weekend, was juggling a full time job, two grad classes and a part time job at a synagogue, but had to miss the last day of Hebrew School to celebrate graduation day with his sister. Since he lives in the Boston area, he didn't have to travel so he also managed to squeeze in a Bar Mitzvah that weekend and of course finish his lesson plans for the week.  (Did I mention he is putting himself through grad school?)


I think the blog would go on forever if I told you about what my husband and I were doing.  But to give you a snapshot, it was an incredibly busy time for my husband that required quite a few late nights and a lot of travel.  And as for me, I found myself at a crossroads again.  Certain things this year didn't turn out as I had hoped jobwise, and I was in conversations with new leads, sending out resumes, and trying to finish up with the work I had left to do in the current situations.  I had this feeling I was running out of time... both at my current work, to get things done, and out there in the job market to find new employment.  And for the first time, I had heard the feedback that "they were looking for someone younger" when I did not get a call back for a particularly good position. Not legal, maybe not fair, but reality. Youch.


Back to our story.


An enormous kvell-point (hey, that's catchy!) was the fact that my parents and my in-laws were with us to join us for the festivities and nachas shepping (okay, now that sounded better in my head than it looks on the screen).  We had a great weekend in and around Boston, catching up with friends, cousins and each other.  Family dinners were events that the best party planner on the planet could not have more skillfully arranged.  


That's not to say that there weren't some awkward moments.  My dad ordered an expensive bottle of wine and the newbie waiter poured everyone a glass and the bottle was empty before my father got even a taste.  My mother-in-law spilled that very same wine on her jacket and nearly refused to be in the great group photo you see below.  (You'll notice she's in the back row, despite her diminutive height, making sure the stain is covered by the graduate.) 

 There was an incredible amount of phone calling and texting back and forth between all of us to make sure we all made it  to each spot at the right time.  (What DID we do before smart phones???)  


And, on Sunday, my father-in-law, who is 87, was finding it difficult to walk to the next event... which was up a steep hill.  We had just missed the shuttle, and the line for the next one was long, and in the hot sun.  I went to the police and politely asked for a ride for just my in-laws, and maybe some water for them, as the rest of us could walk.  As the police cars were all being used he quickly radioed the Brandeis Emergency Team, and in no time we are surrounded by the crackerjack squad of uniformed Brandeis students who all had walkie-talkies and little else.  They had no available car, van or other mode of transportation; no water, and no chair for my father-in-law.  In the meantime, my husband, having assessed the ineptitude of the situation, had walked the half mile to our car, and is back for his dad.  Then the pre-doctors and pre-lawyers, having feared the worst, walked my father-in-law up the hill to the car, and the crisis was averted, as we rehydrated with the water that is always in the car.  As we parted ways, one of the young squad members, a bright Brandeis junior, said to us, "think of it this way... in 10 years we will all be doctors."  Well, there's a relief.


The weekend culminated in the big event.  Graduation.  We sat in the bleachers, far removed from my daughter, though I did see her a few times from where we were sitting.  As the seniors came marching in I was flooded with feelings. 


First, my pride in my daughter, graduating with honors from this  school known for its academic excellence.  She had a great four years, and I could not believe that this day was here.  I looked around at the faces of my family, and then at the faces of the others around me... and I realized that we must all be feeling the same feelings... bittersweet really does describe it.  We are all pausing to recognize that a milestone has been reached.  I glanced at my older son, who had graduated from Brandeis just three years earlier.  Was he remembering those feelings his sister must be feeling? Was he amazed, as I was, how much he had done on his own since his graduation?  I looked over at my younger son.  His graduation from high school was a month away   Was he thinking about going to college?  Working at camp?  Finding a snack?


And I couldn't help but think of my own graduation, from this same institution...31 years ago... ours was outside on a beautiful sunny day, the Sunday after Mother's Day.  Rumor has it that a few of my classmates took to the bong prior to commencement ceremonies, but just to clear up any misunderstanding here, those heavy-lidded looks and glazed-over eyes were caused by the soporific speech of a Mr. Walter Mondale, using us to slingshot his Presidential campaign into the headlines...of the Brandeis paper "The Justice" at the very least.


I remember being eager to be done with school and get on with my jobs: the Unit Head for a summer camp, and then in the fall, the program director at the Hillel at Northeastern University.  I sat at my graduation and ignored the words being spoken at us.  I had sewn pockets into my graduation gown and tucked a water pistol into one, and a container of bubbles into the other.  I had fun playing during the ceremonies, as carefree as I'd ever be.  I had my whole life ahead of me.


Now I looked at the row of robed graduates and tried to find my daughter.  How much more seriously had she taken her studies?  Her graduation?  I wondered what her face might look like now as she listened to the speeches.  


I listened carefully.  "Carpe Diem." "Go for it." "Take chances." That was the theme.  In a world where finding a job is so difficult, and so much emphasis is placed on the almighty dollar, these kids were also told that they might never do as well as their parents.  I thought about my daughter, and my two sons... and thought about people's definition of "doing well."   What kind of a world were they inheriting?


The President of Brandeis gave a great speech.  I have attached links to his speech and the other speeches at the end of this blog.  But here is the part of that speech that really got to me:

As for risk-taking, is there any greater risk in this society than the shear risk of being yourself? Of trying approaches to life without certainty of success or outcome? Here we can refer to two great modern philosophers, if you will. One, the great Dr. Martin Luther King, who said that faith is being willing to take the first step without knowing that the rest of the staircase is there. The other, another great philosopher, Dr. J., Julius Erving, who some of you will remember invented playing basketball above the rim. It seems to me that if we’re gathered in Gosman, we should talk a little basketball. Dr. J., when he played his college ball not far from here at the University of Massachusetts, was cautioned by his coach once, “Son, never leave you feet without knowing where you’re going to come down.” He said, “Sir, I can’t play basketball that way.” And you can’t live your lives that way either. 

As I sat in those bleachers, watching my daughter and her peers, a lot of my life was unclear, and a lot of decisions were ahead of me.  That was the same for all of them, I realized, and that little piece of wisdom rang as true for me as I hope it did for those college seniors.   


They have their whole lives ahead of them, and I guess it's okay to leap before you look sometimes.  It's scary but it's exciting too.


After graduation, we waited for my daughter and I delighted to see a global celebration on that giant lawn outside the gym at Brandeis University.  Families of every different background, speaking every different language were hugging and taking pictures and appreciating the accomplishments of their special one.  As I got out of my own head for a moment and took a mental picture of this, it was really something to celebrate.  We were all celebrating the future.


My daughter has her whole life ahead of her.






Click here for the official Brandeis Commencement slide show.







Yesterday my son graduated high school, and the myriad of feelings arose again.  He was all smiles, and waved to us in the crowd.  He is ready to move on, and ready to be at camp and then college.




Again it's bittersweet, as we are about to learn what it is like to have no children at home, and parenting will take on a new meaning.  I sat and pondered the dichotomy between endings and beginnings. It all happened so fast.  

I still have some giant decisions to make. 
These events have given me time to see that my most important job, raising my children, continues to give me the most pride.   Now that they are all reaching their milestones and about to leave the house, I'll get back to my giant post-it pad of pros and cons and decide what the next step is for me.


Last week I attended a wonderful seminar, Teva, which engages learners in three and a half days of classes and experiential learning combining Judaism and the environment. At the conference, I met Theo, a sophomore in college, during a  class where we went into nature with our cameras and matched our photos with pieces of text.  (My masterpiece is below... )


We got to chatting on the lunch line.
He isn't sure what he wants to do, not sure what to major in.
"You have your whole life ahead of you," I tell him, as that's what I've been thinking about and writing about lately.
He looks at me with a confused expression.
"Don't you?"  Theo asks me.
"You're right. I do. Thanks for reminding me."

This idyllic spot is Suprise Lake Camp, in Putnam County, NY, the site of
the Teva Summer Seminar.

Click here to read Brandeis President Fred Lawrence's address.
Click here to read the Commencement address by student Daniel Liebman