I was driving my family down to my mother's house for an Easter supper, when an interesting conversation came up in the car. Easter is part of this, but not perhaps, in the way you'd think.
We have an interfaith family and cover all our bases...at least on the celebration end of things. For Easter we acknowledge it as a time of renewal and rebirth - embracing perhaps more of the original intent behind the holiday before the Jesus story came to be. We hunt for treat filled eggs and eat far too much from a feast prepared by loving hands, counting our blessings with every bite. We enjoy time with family and friends and toast to good things past and to bright futures to come. For a little while, we all put away our more pressing issues, and leave the cacophony of the popular culture and just enjoying the very nature of being. I mention all of this to give you an idea of how we look at Easter in our family - though my husband was raised as a Catholic, he doesn't cling much to that dogma and tends to identify himself as Jewish when asked. I am a Jew, raised in an interfaith household as well, as my mother converted to Judaism before marriage, and her entire family celebrated the holiday as well, but again...mostly secularly. The message of Easter sent to me was mostly about bunnies and candy. I knew it was a Christian holiday, but didn't get it's larger meaning until middle school, much less it's previous incarnation until later in high school (the festival of Ishtar). And now that I understand it, after asking many questions and doing my own research, I greatly respect what the holiday stands for and how important a Holy Day it is for my Christian friends and family (and all those who I don't know) who observe it. But I digress...
So, we're driving down to my mother's, and in the distance we see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles on the left hand side of the road. Traffic begins to slow as drivers are pulling out of the way, and others are simply craning their curious necks to see what had happened. I believe there were four emergency vehicles, a flatbed truck with the damaged car already mounted, and a handful of people milling about with a load of whatever was likely in the damaged vehicle now sitting on the side of the road.
I whisper, "I hope everyone is all right."
My husband says aloud, "Someone's making double time today."
I don't put this out there to present an obvious difference in the way we think with regard to compassion. My husband tends to more of the compassionate side for the most part, but I still thought it an odd choice of comment to make. So I asked him why.
He replied with something about the fact that it was Easter, and how sorry he felt for all those emergency personnel who were called out to work on the holiday. (For the record, he did add that as he had more time to look at the situation as the passenger, he had surmised that everyone, for the most part, was safe and unharmed. But that part simply isn't germaine.)
This is where I found the more glaring difference in our thought process. My husband made the assumptions that 1. all of the emergency personnel were Christian, 2. they were all observing the holiday and 3. that Easter would be considered a holiday to the extent that employers would pay holiday time for.
I pointed all of those potential flaws to his logic. He paused for a long time, and then said, "I just didn't think about it that way."
It's these very same assumptions that those who are not Christian in this nation come up against so often. It's these assumptions that cause so much angst and frustration. It's these blind assumptions that even when pointed out, day after week after year...that build resentment and hostility.
And day after week after year those of us who are not Christian, for the most part, are expected to simply forgive the misunderstanding or innocent ignorance, and roll with the punches, accepting, yet again, another heartfelt apology, and simply adjust our lives to accommodate the exclusionary scheduling.
Prom on Passover? Exams on Eid-al-Fitr? Dance Recital on Diwali? Oh...we're so sorry...we didn't know. Reviews on Rivdan? Finals on Vaisakhi? We didn't realize. We didn't even think about it. We just assumed...
Stop the assumptions. Think outside yourselves.
I know I should wrap this up with some inspirational recommendation on being bigger and better than who you are, and learning and embracing (rather than simply tolerating) what is different from what you know, and being inclusive and educated. But the whole thing is just so...bothersome and I don't want to come across as too pedantic. I'm going to assume you've already figured that out. So instead, I'll leave you with this...
Remember that old saying about when you assume? It still holds. For all of us.
Sunday, March 27, 2016
I've started a change in course that could and will likely have some relatively radical outcomes for my way of life. I stress the word "relatively". Not reality-show life changing, nor Nobel-Peace-Prize-winning changing, nor winning-Powerball life changing. But I've taken a first step that I'd hoped would give me a sense of relief, but that hasn't come yet. There has been so much chaos over the past few years and I've finally admitted that I can't, as much as I'd like to, hope or depend that someone else is going to pick up any of these broken pieces. And so I've been starting the clean up. One small piece at a time.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Warning: Grumble In Progress and Possible Pedantic Pedagogy
It's not a new revelation, certainly, but I have a hard time trusting people who claim to have spiritual superiority and wish to share that enlightenment or methodology when they also, perhaps coincidentally, possess enormous material wealth. I know that's...classist...I guess would be the term, but I don't even like the word "class" to define financial strata. Some of the classiest people I know have not much money to their name and so many in this country who have so much demonstrate the least class (although I know it's not the same thing). It's a form of prejudice, surely. Perhaps it is the luxury of their wealth that allows them the time to look so deeply inward and be able to take the time to evolve their soul. And I know we can't judge a book by it's cover, or purport to know what anyone is going through or weight of the world they carry on their shoulders. But one who has not a worry for where their next meal comes from, or where they make their bed tonight, or if their dependents are provided for...I would think finding solace of the soul has a shorter path. And I don't or won't deny that they can find peace and enlightenment - I'm sure they do. But I don't think they can necessarily teach most others well.
Find me a person with next to nothing who can still find joy in the blessing of every breath, find the strength to lift up others and give of the only things they may have - their time and their talent...while still being able to be healthy and happy, (and not overcompensating to a point that's hazardous to their or their dependent's well being)that's who I want to take a tip from.
Some of you might immediately leap to Buddha, or to Jesus, or any one of a myriad of other righteous, religious, and spiritual leaders from the past who cast off their earthly possessions to find their bliss. But their context doesn't work for me. Nor do I believe that it is necessary to shed all material things to find inner peace. And none of them lived in our now.
Realizing the potential of every day and acting upon it. Even if on some days it simply means to take in the beauty of a sunset or the relish the simple grace of the mundane. Living intentionally. Acting purposefully. Acknowledging when enough is enough - whether for better or for worse. I think the solution is in there somewhere. I'll keep looking.
Tuesday, February 02, 2016
Is It Really That Hard?
Over the course of my kids' educational careers at public schools, I've had to (more than once, mind you), gently remind staff and faculty at their public schools that those in charge of the calendars oopsied. I guess this annual tradition will have to continue because it seems, as of late, that no one else is willing to do it. Perhaps they are, and are just getting the cold shoulder, but I just refuse to believe that. And I'm not sure that result would make me feel any better - in fact, it would probably make me feel worse.
What's the oopsie? Scheduling any significant school event on a major Jewish holiday. Oy.
Is it really that hard to look at a calendar? And if you've taken the time to actually look at the calendar, and maybe aren't reeeeeally sure how it works, because maybe, one time, somewhere in your academic career you vaguely recall something a bit wonky with how Jewish holidays work, and often, regular calendars don't quite get it right, and maybe...just maybe, you should check with more than one of your go-to Jewish employees or friends or neighbors, because maybe, just maybe they might not quite have it right either?
There was a grade-level program on the first night of Passover. A test on Yom Kippur. A field trip on Rosh Hashanah, among others. Each time I've taken the time to point it out, I've been met with profuse apology, an appeal for understanding, and a schedule change. Which is nice. But this isn't MY job.
And yes, I know, the Jewish population isn't huge where I live, but it's not non-existent either. No, we're not New York, or Miami, or Los Angeles...but COME ON ALREADY.
Now I come to find out that our local high school (where one my kids is a freshman) has their prom scheduled for the second night of Passover. Oy vey.
I'm guessing someone did glance at a flip page calendar, saw Passover typed on Friday and shrugged "we're good". Or they might have gone a little deeper, maybe used the web, and saw that it starts Friday, the 22nd of April. They might not even have noticed the end date. And even if they did, most gentiles only think of Passover as a one-night deal - this isn't Chanukah, for goodness sakes (their thought, not mine).
Oy veyz mir.
My kid isn't going to Prom - he's not old enough yet. Or at least, if some senior has asked him to go, he hasn't mentioned it to me yet. I'm going out on a limb assuming, based on his circle of friends, that this isn't happening anyway. So, one could argue this doesn't affect me, why should I care?
But I do care. And I know kids who ARE seniors, and who are Jewish, and will now have to make a choice - even if it's for a millisecond - just a fleeting thought in their heads - between Prom and Passover.
And I know, Prom will win. Of course, Prom will win. I get it.
It's a big school by population. And we're a tiny minority comparatively. I don't think there are any Orthodox kids at the school, but I'm not sure. I would presume there may be at least a few Conservative kids, and I know of a handful or so of Reform. But not one of them should even have to have the thought cross their minds. Not in this day and age.
I'm so miffed and confounded and confuddled I can't even come up with a poignant summary, a salient closing statement - a provacative end point followed by an ellipsis. And I love my ellipses.
What do you think?
What's the oopsie? Scheduling any significant school event on a major Jewish holiday. Oy.
Is it really that hard to look at a calendar? And if you've taken the time to actually look at the calendar, and maybe aren't reeeeeally sure how it works, because maybe, one time, somewhere in your academic career you vaguely recall something a bit wonky with how Jewish holidays work, and often, regular calendars don't quite get it right, and maybe...just maybe, you should check with more than one of your go-to Jewish employees or friends or neighbors, because maybe, just maybe they might not quite have it right either?
There was a grade-level program on the first night of Passover. A test on Yom Kippur. A field trip on Rosh Hashanah, among others. Each time I've taken the time to point it out, I've been met with profuse apology, an appeal for understanding, and a schedule change. Which is nice. But this isn't MY job.
And yes, I know, the Jewish population isn't huge where I live, but it's not non-existent either. No, we're not New York, or Miami, or Los Angeles...but COME ON ALREADY.
Now I come to find out that our local high school (where one my kids is a freshman) has their prom scheduled for the second night of Passover. Oy vey.
I'm guessing someone did glance at a flip page calendar, saw Passover typed on Friday and shrugged "we're good". Or they might have gone a little deeper, maybe used the web, and saw that it starts Friday, the 22nd of April. They might not even have noticed the end date. And even if they did, most gentiles only think of Passover as a one-night deal - this isn't Chanukah, for goodness sakes (their thought, not mine).
Oy veyz mir.
My kid isn't going to Prom - he's not old enough yet. Or at least, if some senior has asked him to go, he hasn't mentioned it to me yet. I'm going out on a limb assuming, based on his circle of friends, that this isn't happening anyway. So, one could argue this doesn't affect me, why should I care?
But I do care. And I know kids who ARE seniors, and who are Jewish, and will now have to make a choice - even if it's for a millisecond - just a fleeting thought in their heads - between Prom and Passover.
And I know, Prom will win. Of course, Prom will win. I get it.
It's a big school by population. And we're a tiny minority comparatively. I don't think there are any Orthodox kids at the school, but I'm not sure. I would presume there may be at least a few Conservative kids, and I know of a handful or so of Reform. But not one of them should even have to have the thought cross their minds. Not in this day and age.
I'm so miffed and confounded and confuddled I can't even come up with a poignant summary, a salient closing statement - a provacative end point followed by an ellipsis. And I love my ellipses.
What do you think?
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Midlife Crisis?
For a number of years now, I've half-heartedly joked that I've been gearing up for a mid-life crisis. Almost as instantly as the word tumbled out of my fingers or mouth, I would quickly do some math and then reneg on the whole idea because obviously, I was then too young...not to have a crisis of faith, hope, life, etc., but to call it a mid-life one.
But in this year of 45, and looking at the lifespans of my grandparents, and their parents, barring any major complications, I'm okay with calling this mid-life. If I can get at least this many years on the downslope...I'm okay with that. Don't want to be greedy - as attractive as "As old as Moses" sounds (120) or even the accolade from White House may be (for 100), I can see living into that tenth decade would be pretty gratifying.
And so, now satisfied with that math...I can allow the crisis to begin. Hold on, because I've a feeling it's gonna be a bumpy ride...
But in this year of 45, and looking at the lifespans of my grandparents, and their parents, barring any major complications, I'm okay with calling this mid-life. If I can get at least this many years on the downslope...I'm okay with that. Don't want to be greedy - as attractive as "As old as Moses" sounds (120) or even the accolade from White House may be (for 100), I can see living into that tenth decade would be pretty gratifying.
And so, now satisfied with that math...I can allow the crisis to begin. Hold on, because I've a feeling it's gonna be a bumpy ride...
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
I'm Gonna Be What Now?
So something very exciting is happening, (not like, huge, ginormous life-changing exciting - well, maybe - kinda tip-o-the-iceberg thing...maybe), and I'll share it when it's all said and done. Don't get too excited...it's super small scale in the big picture of things, but somehow there's some old proverb here about how a grain of rice to an ant is tantamount to Everest or something to that effect. It has to do with writing (YAY!). No, not a book...not yet. But in order for it all to happen, as per standards of practice, my piece has to be edited.
Silent pause (much more appropriate than a southern-belle gasp, lace fan a-flutterin', back of hand slapped to forehead...you get it).
I've been an editor, both informally, and professionally (when I got to capitalize the 'E'). I get it. Of course pieces have to be edited. That's the way it's done. It's extremely rare to find a piece of reading that's literally, perfect in every way. Especially to the eyes and sensibilities of experienced and professional writers and editors. Oh, the field day one could have with this, for instance! But I'm relying on blogger-life license for the freedom from the constraint of literary style manuals.
But most of my writing, when submitted to publications gets pretty much laid in just as it is. I typically give it a few rounds of editing myself before sending it anywhere, and of course, always have other eyes on it - but not necessarily those of writers/editors. I'm fact-checking - making sure I understood things right, that I'm inviting the public to the right place, date, and time, etc.
This is the first piece I've submitted anywhere that's not in the journalistic style. Oh, well, now that I think about it, that's not entirely true. But that only other one that I did, was indeed, slapped up on the internet in its entirety. That page doesn't exist anymore. They were hungry for content and collected as fast as they could. Not exactly a recipe for success. That's no reflection on the editor (who did not create the page) - it was a business that spread itself too thin to begin with. But I digress.
So being the kind of piece it IS...I'm fraught with wondering what they'll do to it. It's not that long, and what did I or didn't do? Did I miss some punctuation? Do people punctuate anymore? Are they miffed at my double spacing after a period (sorry, won't let that one go - call me a dinosaur - a spaceosaur, as it were)? The word count was constrained, so I had to really cut things down to make it fit - what could they possibly take out? Did they not realize how much time I spent on it before (apparently not)? Don't they know who I am (definitely not)? Don't they...
Yeah...they might. And they probably don't. It's just a first for me - a new set of feelings that I never wanted to deal with before. And really, in the grand scheme of things does it change who I am? Will it change my style? My intent? No. Their job is to actually help me look good to more than say...just my mom (who's opinion I do value greatly - just making a point). Just like I used to tell people whose work I edited.
Ah...I get it. I really do.
Silent pause (much more appropriate than a southern-belle gasp, lace fan a-flutterin', back of hand slapped to forehead...you get it).
I've been an editor, both informally, and professionally (when I got to capitalize the 'E'). I get it. Of course pieces have to be edited. That's the way it's done. It's extremely rare to find a piece of reading that's literally, perfect in every way. Especially to the eyes and sensibilities of experienced and professional writers and editors. Oh, the field day one could have with this, for instance! But I'm relying on blogger-life license for the freedom from the constraint of literary style manuals.
But most of my writing, when submitted to publications gets pretty much laid in just as it is. I typically give it a few rounds of editing myself before sending it anywhere, and of course, always have other eyes on it - but not necessarily those of writers/editors. I'm fact-checking - making sure I understood things right, that I'm inviting the public to the right place, date, and time, etc.
This is the first piece I've submitted anywhere that's not in the journalistic style. Oh, well, now that I think about it, that's not entirely true. But that only other one that I did, was indeed, slapped up on the internet in its entirety. That page doesn't exist anymore. They were hungry for content and collected as fast as they could. Not exactly a recipe for success. That's no reflection on the editor (who did not create the page) - it was a business that spread itself too thin to begin with. But I digress.
So being the kind of piece it IS...I'm fraught with wondering what they'll do to it. It's not that long, and what did I or didn't do? Did I miss some punctuation? Do people punctuate anymore? Are they miffed at my double spacing after a period (sorry, won't let that one go - call me a dinosaur - a spaceosaur, as it were)? The word count was constrained, so I had to really cut things down to make it fit - what could they possibly take out? Did they not realize how much time I spent on it before (apparently not)? Don't they know who I am (definitely not)? Don't they...
Yeah...they might. And they probably don't. It's just a first for me - a new set of feelings that I never wanted to deal with before. And really, in the grand scheme of things does it change who I am? Will it change my style? My intent? No. Their job is to actually help me look good to more than say...just my mom (who's opinion I do value greatly - just making a point). Just like I used to tell people whose work I edited.
Ah...I get it. I really do.
Sunday, January 10, 2016
Stumped
I knew this would happen. I just knew it. As soon I make the commitment to exercise regularly (my writing skills - please, did you think I meant something aerobic? Well, I should do that too), I knew I'd get brain freeze. Similar to ass freeze when I make the, typically too loud decision to start going to the gym. My ass just gets stuck in the chair. Typically writing. Come to think of it, since I've made the commitment to write regularly I've been busying myself with all sorts of physical activity. Wait...what?
Somehow my wires are completely crossed. Commit to sweat, I get words. Commit to paragraphs, I get achy muscles. Not that either one is a bad thing - but somehow I have to flip the switch. Like that same dagnabbit switch that turns on about 10PM, no matter how flipping tired I during the day. The one that stays on for hours...as if my day has just begun. Or what I think a day just beginning is supposed to feel like, per everyone else's relentless ongoing commentary about being so freaking chipper after dawn, after their alone time before the rest of the world wakes up. Honey, that's when I'm typically turning in. But I digress.
I think I have to blow up that silly ball. Where is she going with this, you may wonder. Stay with me. A while back (longer than I care to remember) I went out and bought myself one of those fitness balls - those big ones that you can bounce on. I realized how long I do sit in this desk chair, whether I'm doing something for one of my various volunteer gigs, one of my jobs, or just surfing the social media landscape, and thought it better if I at least did it moving. I'm not paying to reorient the office into a standing desk scenario, so this seemed like the next best thing.
It's still in the box. I'm not sure where the box is. I see it in my mind's eye. I vaguely recall its last location, but then it all goes blurry. As soon as I buy a new one it will appear, of course.
But maybe that's just it, I have to do both simultaneously. Then I'll have no excuses, right? Still won't help my kitchen get clean, but at least I'll be doing good for my body and my soul. And maybe...I'll get something moving...the train out of the station, the ship out of the port, the kids out of the schoolyard (oh, wait, that's not good - they should stay, right?)...bear with me. The engines are revving...
Somehow my wires are completely crossed. Commit to sweat, I get words. Commit to paragraphs, I get achy muscles. Not that either one is a bad thing - but somehow I have to flip the switch. Like that same dagnabbit switch that turns on about 10PM, no matter how flipping tired I during the day. The one that stays on for hours...as if my day has just begun. Or what I think a day just beginning is supposed to feel like, per everyone else's relentless ongoing commentary about being so freaking chipper after dawn, after their alone time before the rest of the world wakes up. Honey, that's when I'm typically turning in. But I digress.
I think I have to blow up that silly ball. Where is she going with this, you may wonder. Stay with me. A while back (longer than I care to remember) I went out and bought myself one of those fitness balls - those big ones that you can bounce on. I realized how long I do sit in this desk chair, whether I'm doing something for one of my various volunteer gigs, one of my jobs, or just surfing the social media landscape, and thought it better if I at least did it moving. I'm not paying to reorient the office into a standing desk scenario, so this seemed like the next best thing.
It's still in the box. I'm not sure where the box is. I see it in my mind's eye. I vaguely recall its last location, but then it all goes blurry. As soon as I buy a new one it will appear, of course.
But maybe that's just it, I have to do both simultaneously. Then I'll have no excuses, right? Still won't help my kitchen get clean, but at least I'll be doing good for my body and my soul. And maybe...I'll get something moving...the train out of the station, the ship out of the port, the kids out of the schoolyard (oh, wait, that's not good - they should stay, right?)...bear with me. The engines are revving...
Wednesday, January 06, 2016
2016 The Year of Change
Fa la la la - year of change, resolutions, making a difference...we've heard it all before. I've said it before, I've kinda done it before, I've failed before. But you've got to keep trying. You can't stop. I can't stop. As much I want to. Each December I try to convince myself that come January, I won't be among the millions making public pronouncements of eating better, getting healthy, pulling myself up by the bootstraps, etc., etc....et..cet..era. But I can't help myself. Though I've become more quiet in my planning - subversively setting myself up to hide my failures...or rather, my short-lived successes.
But I'm giving it another go. How can I not? How can I not be hopeful that this is the launching point of something wonderful? That each day is not a new opportunity to be better than the day before (regardless of how it winds up...but especially if it winds up a crappy one)? I'm not quite ready to throw in that towel.
So here's my commitment - we'll start small...or rather...focused...so as to make things achievable - just as I so often advise many who come to me with all sorts of inquiries. I guess that's part one.
Part two is that I will write more. I will write often. I won't necessarily write dissertations - but I will exercise this skill that quite a few folks have reminded me I have. And hopefully, it will help make it better. And also...that you will enjoy it. And read it. And become a part of Magzland.
More soon...pinky swear.
But I'm giving it another go. How can I not? How can I not be hopeful that this is the launching point of something wonderful? That each day is not a new opportunity to be better than the day before (regardless of how it winds up...but especially if it winds up a crappy one)? I'm not quite ready to throw in that towel.
So here's my commitment - we'll start small...or rather...focused...so as to make things achievable - just as I so often advise many who come to me with all sorts of inquiries. I guess that's part one.
Part two is that I will write more. I will write often. I won't necessarily write dissertations - but I will exercise this skill that quite a few folks have reminded me I have. And hopefully, it will help make it better. And also...that you will enjoy it. And read it. And become a part of Magzland.
More soon...pinky swear.
Friday, September 26, 2014
Who Me? Suddenly I'm the Expert?
I grew up in NY. Downstate NY...the "old country". Originally the Bronx, and then most of young life in Westchester County, just a 25 minute train ride from the Big Ol' (then kinda stinky-raw-but-way-awesome, but now quite shiny-and-still-has-some-awesomeness-once-you-leave-Times-Square) Apple. There's people from everywhere all crammed in, going about their lives, all the same, all very different, all moving in one general direction, forward in time. Yes, there's neighborhoods of folks of one background or another, and there's plenty of stereotyping, and old-school hangers on of perpetuating those stereotypes, quietly, subtly - often inadvertently, however, the melange of culture is so rich that often, unless one leaves that area, they have no idea that their traditions, or hobbies, or vernacular come from places far beyond where anyone in their blood line has ever tread.
Being Jewish in that area was nothing outstanding, nothing unique, and certainly nothing that would get you grilled on. Synagogues abound, bar mitzvahs de rigeur, and everyone gets a day off on the Jewish holidays. Outside of Israel, NYC has the highest concentration of Jews than anywhere else, and I presume, that in the past few decades that includes its suburbs as they continue to grow, stretching a "reasonable" commute to over 2 hours on a train - ONE way, and you're okay with that craziness. And remember, this same city that has had seven of the last 11 mayors since 1965 be tribe members, also boasts the biggest freaking Christmas tree ever, and Santa comes barreling down 5th Avenue as the finale to the Thanksgiving Day Parade. So you can see, in NY - there's a lot of blend going on. But I digress.
Lots of friends were Jewish, and many were not. Of my Jewish friends growing up, however, I was the "ish" and they, indeed, were the "Jews". Their parents schlepped them to services on the weekends, they all went to Hebrew School, and only a few had anything up around the house during December other than menorahs, and even then they were referred to as Chanukah Bushes. I, on the other hand, being raised in a somewhat interfaith household (though technically it was a Jewish one, as my mother converted before my parents marriage), we waited for Santa (although our Chanukah Bush/Christmas Tree did have Stars of David on it)...right after the menorah was put away, and the Passover matzoh was stashed in an Easter basket. My parents gave me a choice of a bat mitzvah or a sweet sixteen when I was about 11. I had my sights set on a car, so I went with door number 2 (which didn't quite turn out the way I wanted, but that's another story).
Obviously, when it came to Judaism, I was the least likely candidate to be your go-to-gal.
We did attend synagogue on the High Holy Days...we'd enter the cavernous sanctuary, anonymous and intimidated. We'd always be in the back since the front was for the regulars, and Rabbi Cohen, who reminded me of Frank Perdue, would drone on and on about something and then speak in Hebrew. We would stand and sit and stand again and listen to the overzealous cantor bluster and bellow on in melodies that were foreign to me in words I didn't understand. We went to the JCC - which then was the YM/YWHA, and I did a play for Purim, cast in my first leading role as Esther - but I had no idea, unlike everyone else in the cast, what the story was about, (which went over great with the other kids as you can imagine). We had large family gatherings filled with kugels and matzah balls, we would sit shiva and help relatives cover mirrors and put stones on grave markers, family weddings were conducted under chuppahs and glasses were stepped on (and mind you, words like chuppah and shiva were never italicized in local papers following style guides of demarcating foreign words). But I had no idea why we did any of things really. They were just part of the fabric of life. No one ever explained and I never really asked.
Then I moved away.
Growing up with the last name of Goldman in NY was far from uncommon. It's like Smith or Johnson, Romano or DeLuca, Rodriguez or Ramirez. But once I left it became a stamp of identity, a marker of supposition, and apparently a flag that said, "You've never met a Jew? Well, here I am and ask me anything because I, apparently, have all the answers!"
"What do you eat?" "Can you eat this?" "What's the deal with Saturdays?" "Do you have horns that get removed in some kind of ceremony? (I know you think I'm joking about that one...but, sadly, I am not)". "Can Jews get married outside?" "Seriously, how do you live without bacon?"
The questions came fast and furious, shallow and deep, serious and utterly ridiculous (see above). I'd always be surprised at how little people knew about a culture and a religion, that for me, was no more special or outstanding than anything else. And even more surprised that people just assumed that I would have all the answers. Or even be willing to explain. For my own integrity's sake, I enrolled in a class in Judaism in my junior year of college just for catch up. The class didn't really engage me, the professor was just as dry as my Rabbi, and while I did pick up a few things here and there, all it did was really remind me how Jewish I wasn't.
In my childhood, no one ever asked me any questions about being Jewish. In my teens, the only questions I got were from my Jewish friends about why I didn't have a Bat Mitzvah or why we didn't go to temple regularly. People just didn't ask. I don't know why. I guess it was a combination of that they didn't really care and a lot of it they already knew, no matter their religious affiliation. Besides, all the attention got drawn to Tina Santos...the lone Jehovah's Witness at our school, who always had to sit in the Library during holiday parties and when cupcakes were handed out for birthdays. Come to think of it, I guess we did ask her a lot of questions for a little while until she finally said she had no more answers, it was just Jehovah's bidding. We never really understood what that meant, but we did know she had reached a breaking point when she ran out of the cafeteria in tears one day. So the questions stopped.
But the ones directed me have not. They still come, less and less frequently as generally the folks I'm around have settled into a less caustic approach at life as we have all aged together. Well, that and my married name doesn't have a mezuzah mounted on it anymore. My shock and awe have dulled over the course of 20 some odd years into a warm embrace, as I've come to anticipate them now, as part of my own Jewish journey. Ironically, they've actually allowed me to develop a stronger sense of Jewish identity than any of my prior years, and much to my own surprise, have ingrained in me a spirit of ambassadorship, as it were, a sense of obligation to represent the faith, the culture, the people in the most authentic way I can. As I've delved deeper into the nuts and bolts of Judaism I've come to realize that I was actually living my life much more Jewishly than I had thought. Things I did on a regular basis, thoughts I had, perspectives I've come to, all well in line with the current thinking of Reform Judaism.
As my son is working toward becoming a Bar Mitzvah in the next few months, and I become more and more involved at my synagogue, discovering and exploring my Jewish identity is becoming a pretty popular part of my life. And likely, I'll be expressing more and more about it, as I wrestle (in traditional Jewish style) with what all of it means, and how or if it will provide any kind of framework for my living.
When I sat down to write this, I actually had the intent of being somewhat snarky and flippant about it, as I've always found it pretty funny that somehow I'd become an "expert" on Judaism - based solely on being typically the only one in the room, both figuratively and often, literally. But as I've been processing, and my fingers have been banging away at the keyboard, an enlightenment has settled in of sorts. Keep those questions coming. They allow me learn, and they allow me to teach. I've often heard the best way to learn is by teaching...so have at it. I won't make up the answers, I promise.
L'Shanah Tovah Tikatevu and Shalom.
Being Jewish in that area was nothing outstanding, nothing unique, and certainly nothing that would get you grilled on. Synagogues abound, bar mitzvahs de rigeur, and everyone gets a day off on the Jewish holidays. Outside of Israel, NYC has the highest concentration of Jews than anywhere else, and I presume, that in the past few decades that includes its suburbs as they continue to grow, stretching a "reasonable" commute to over 2 hours on a train - ONE way, and you're okay with that craziness. And remember, this same city that has had seven of the last 11 mayors since 1965 be tribe members, also boasts the biggest freaking Christmas tree ever, and Santa comes barreling down 5th Avenue as the finale to the Thanksgiving Day Parade. So you can see, in NY - there's a lot of blend going on. But I digress.
Lots of friends were Jewish, and many were not. Of my Jewish friends growing up, however, I was the "ish" and they, indeed, were the "Jews". Their parents schlepped them to services on the weekends, they all went to Hebrew School, and only a few had anything up around the house during December other than menorahs, and even then they were referred to as Chanukah Bushes. I, on the other hand, being raised in a somewhat interfaith household (though technically it was a Jewish one, as my mother converted before my parents marriage), we waited for Santa (although our Chanukah Bush/Christmas Tree did have Stars of David on it)...right after the menorah was put away, and the Passover matzoh was stashed in an Easter basket. My parents gave me a choice of a bat mitzvah or a sweet sixteen when I was about 11. I had my sights set on a car, so I went with door number 2 (which didn't quite turn out the way I wanted, but that's another story).
Obviously, when it came to Judaism, I was the least likely candidate to be your go-to-gal.
We did attend synagogue on the High Holy Days...we'd enter the cavernous sanctuary, anonymous and intimidated. We'd always be in the back since the front was for the regulars, and Rabbi Cohen, who reminded me of Frank Perdue, would drone on and on about something and then speak in Hebrew. We would stand and sit and stand again and listen to the overzealous cantor bluster and bellow on in melodies that were foreign to me in words I didn't understand. We went to the JCC - which then was the YM/YWHA, and I did a play for Purim, cast in my first leading role as Esther - but I had no idea, unlike everyone else in the cast, what the story was about, (which went over great with the other kids as you can imagine). We had large family gatherings filled with kugels and matzah balls, we would sit shiva and help relatives cover mirrors and put stones on grave markers, family weddings were conducted under chuppahs and glasses were stepped on (and mind you, words like chuppah and shiva were never italicized in local papers following style guides of demarcating foreign words). But I had no idea why we did any of things really. They were just part of the fabric of life. No one ever explained and I never really asked.
Then I moved away.
Growing up with the last name of Goldman in NY was far from uncommon. It's like Smith or Johnson, Romano or DeLuca, Rodriguez or Ramirez. But once I left it became a stamp of identity, a marker of supposition, and apparently a flag that said, "You've never met a Jew? Well, here I am and ask me anything because I, apparently, have all the answers!"
"What do you eat?" "Can you eat this?" "What's the deal with Saturdays?" "Do you have horns that get removed in some kind of ceremony? (I know you think I'm joking about that one...but, sadly, I am not)". "Can Jews get married outside?" "Seriously, how do you live without bacon?"
The questions came fast and furious, shallow and deep, serious and utterly ridiculous (see above). I'd always be surprised at how little people knew about a culture and a religion, that for me, was no more special or outstanding than anything else. And even more surprised that people just assumed that I would have all the answers. Or even be willing to explain. For my own integrity's sake, I enrolled in a class in Judaism in my junior year of college just for catch up. The class didn't really engage me, the professor was just as dry as my Rabbi, and while I did pick up a few things here and there, all it did was really remind me how Jewish I wasn't.
In my childhood, no one ever asked me any questions about being Jewish. In my teens, the only questions I got were from my Jewish friends about why I didn't have a Bat Mitzvah or why we didn't go to temple regularly. People just didn't ask. I don't know why. I guess it was a combination of that they didn't really care and a lot of it they already knew, no matter their religious affiliation. Besides, all the attention got drawn to Tina Santos...the lone Jehovah's Witness at our school, who always had to sit in the Library during holiday parties and when cupcakes were handed out for birthdays. Come to think of it, I guess we did ask her a lot of questions for a little while until she finally said she had no more answers, it was just Jehovah's bidding. We never really understood what that meant, but we did know she had reached a breaking point when she ran out of the cafeteria in tears one day. So the questions stopped.
But the ones directed me have not. They still come, less and less frequently as generally the folks I'm around have settled into a less caustic approach at life as we have all aged together. Well, that and my married name doesn't have a mezuzah mounted on it anymore. My shock and awe have dulled over the course of 20 some odd years into a warm embrace, as I've come to anticipate them now, as part of my own Jewish journey. Ironically, they've actually allowed me to develop a stronger sense of Jewish identity than any of my prior years, and much to my own surprise, have ingrained in me a spirit of ambassadorship, as it were, a sense of obligation to represent the faith, the culture, the people in the most authentic way I can. As I've delved deeper into the nuts and bolts of Judaism I've come to realize that I was actually living my life much more Jewishly than I had thought. Things I did on a regular basis, thoughts I had, perspectives I've come to, all well in line with the current thinking of Reform Judaism.
As my son is working toward becoming a Bar Mitzvah in the next few months, and I become more and more involved at my synagogue, discovering and exploring my Jewish identity is becoming a pretty popular part of my life. And likely, I'll be expressing more and more about it, as I wrestle (in traditional Jewish style) with what all of it means, and how or if it will provide any kind of framework for my living.
When I sat down to write this, I actually had the intent of being somewhat snarky and flippant about it, as I've always found it pretty funny that somehow I'd become an "expert" on Judaism - based solely on being typically the only one in the room, both figuratively and often, literally. But as I've been processing, and my fingers have been banging away at the keyboard, an enlightenment has settled in of sorts. Keep those questions coming. They allow me learn, and they allow me to teach. I've often heard the best way to learn is by teaching...so have at it. I won't make up the answers, I promise.
L'Shanah Tovah Tikatevu and Shalom.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
I Miss Old Things
Recently, a local high school and it's surrounding community celebrated it's 100th anniversary. It was in the paper, there were some celebrations, I believe some historical markers may have been placed - or at the very least, talked about. It's a decent number of record, especially in an area filled with brand new everything - new roads, new houses, new strip malls, new lights, new, new, new.
I grew up in a town that was founded before the United States was - 1664. Just a couple of generations after those pilgrims landed in Plymouth and the British set up shop in Virgina. I never really gave much thought about it when I lived there. There weren't any celebrations in Eastchester about it that I recall; perhaps after the first 300 years they get blase. When that town turned a century old, there were some other things on its plate at the time - a revolution a-brewing, so to speak. There's a now defunct quarry in the town from which marble was unearthed and transported to Washington DC to build monuments and many of those vast, enormous edifices of government. There's a house down the street from the high school that we would tour as it was a stop on the Underground Railroad. A one-room school house from circa 1835 still stands in stellar condition. Finally, there's St. Paul's Church, built in 1765, which is now technically in a town called Mt. Vernon as time has changed some things - a place where George Washington directed the parishoners to bury the tower bell, that was cast in the same foundry as Philadelphia's Liberty Bell, during the Revolutionary war to protect it from the British (so they wouldn't melt it down). Rumor has it, that at one point, the town was used as a temporary capital of the US during the Revolutionary War, though I can't seem to find much to back that up - but I do remember hearing that somewhat frequently when I was a child.
Considering the harsh winters of New York, so much has weathered so well over time. But of course, things were built to accommodate the climate and were certainly built differently back then - built to last. To endure. To hold memories and secrets within.
As I grew older I developed an affinity for things old - for gravestones, tilted with time, for wooden double-hung windows with exposed pulleys, for thick oaken doors that now sit sub-street level because of the development around them. I loved to come upon stone fences that still run through forests or old stone pump houses tucked into greenways, grown over with moss, mother nature reclaiming her property. I would give all of these things their own stories, since I didn't have anyone to tell me their true ones.
I miss those things.
Of course, after a trip to Europe my perspective greatly changed on what was considered old. Tour after tour of church after church after ruin after church of buildings and structures erected hundreds to thousands of years before made me blush at my wonder of my local history. It was all so overwhelming for so many reasons I almost shut down and at one point I said I just couldn't do it any more.
I did go to a musical the other day in a theater that has been continuously used as a civic building of some sort or another for that same century as the high school. The current proprietors are very proud of the history of the building, as they should be, but for some reason, it just didn't seem that old. It didn't feel that old, or smell that old. You could have told me the place was 40 or 50 years old and I wouldn't have doubted it. But some of that I suppose has to do with the climate. Even with the hurricanes, rain and lots of sunshine are easier on things than hail, snow, and ice. Just ask all the folks who move down here.
One day, I suppose things here will get that old, but instead of staying, many will be replaced since, as I mentioned before, things just aren't built to last - even with the milder climate. Perhaps they'll stay on the same foundations, or within the same property markers, but since they were put up with limited funds, or in ways to save a dollar, you won't be sitting in the same seats within the same walls as your predecessors from centuries prior. You won't peer out the same windows that watched history being made.
Because of time and natural erosion, Florida has lost much of it's land, where the first peoples settled thousands of years ago. So much of that history is lost to the depths of the Gulf and to the Atlantic, whereas up north, beneath the stone structures of our European history, lay millennia of life, with their own sacred stories to tell.
I suppose its up to us to create that history for here. My neighbors and I...from my street to my town to my county...we are making the stories to tell. Someday, we'll be the stuff of the old things, since the "things" we make today are so limited in lifespan. And maybe, just maybe, someone will miss us.
I grew up in a town that was founded before the United States was - 1664. Just a couple of generations after those pilgrims landed in Plymouth and the British set up shop in Virgina. I never really gave much thought about it when I lived there. There weren't any celebrations in Eastchester about it that I recall; perhaps after the first 300 years they get blase. When that town turned a century old, there were some other things on its plate at the time - a revolution a-brewing, so to speak. There's a now defunct quarry in the town from which marble was unearthed and transported to Washington DC to build monuments and many of those vast, enormous edifices of government. There's a house down the street from the high school that we would tour as it was a stop on the Underground Railroad. A one-room school house from circa 1835 still stands in stellar condition. Finally, there's St. Paul's Church, built in 1765, which is now technically in a town called Mt. Vernon as time has changed some things - a place where George Washington directed the parishoners to bury the tower bell, that was cast in the same foundry as Philadelphia's Liberty Bell, during the Revolutionary war to protect it from the British (so they wouldn't melt it down). Rumor has it, that at one point, the town was used as a temporary capital of the US during the Revolutionary War, though I can't seem to find much to back that up - but I do remember hearing that somewhat frequently when I was a child.
Considering the harsh winters of New York, so much has weathered so well over time. But of course, things were built to accommodate the climate and were certainly built differently back then - built to last. To endure. To hold memories and secrets within.
As I grew older I developed an affinity for things old - for gravestones, tilted with time, for wooden double-hung windows with exposed pulleys, for thick oaken doors that now sit sub-street level because of the development around them. I loved to come upon stone fences that still run through forests or old stone pump houses tucked into greenways, grown over with moss, mother nature reclaiming her property. I would give all of these things their own stories, since I didn't have anyone to tell me their true ones.
I miss those things.
Of course, after a trip to Europe my perspective greatly changed on what was considered old. Tour after tour of church after church after ruin after church of buildings and structures erected hundreds to thousands of years before made me blush at my wonder of my local history. It was all so overwhelming for so many reasons I almost shut down and at one point I said I just couldn't do it any more.
I did go to a musical the other day in a theater that has been continuously used as a civic building of some sort or another for that same century as the high school. The current proprietors are very proud of the history of the building, as they should be, but for some reason, it just didn't seem that old. It didn't feel that old, or smell that old. You could have told me the place was 40 or 50 years old and I wouldn't have doubted it. But some of that I suppose has to do with the climate. Even with the hurricanes, rain and lots of sunshine are easier on things than hail, snow, and ice. Just ask all the folks who move down here.
One day, I suppose things here will get that old, but instead of staying, many will be replaced since, as I mentioned before, things just aren't built to last - even with the milder climate. Perhaps they'll stay on the same foundations, or within the same property markers, but since they were put up with limited funds, or in ways to save a dollar, you won't be sitting in the same seats within the same walls as your predecessors from centuries prior. You won't peer out the same windows that watched history being made.
Because of time and natural erosion, Florida has lost much of it's land, where the first peoples settled thousands of years ago. So much of that history is lost to the depths of the Gulf and to the Atlantic, whereas up north, beneath the stone structures of our European history, lay millennia of life, with their own sacred stories to tell.
I suppose its up to us to create that history for here. My neighbors and I...from my street to my town to my county...we are making the stories to tell. Someday, we'll be the stuff of the old things, since the "things" we make today are so limited in lifespan. And maybe, just maybe, someone will miss us.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
The Story of Mother and Daughter in 2.6 Miles
(originally presented on Facebook the day the story occurred as dated. One of things on my list to move over...better late than never. I saw a little girl learning to skate the other day and it brought back this memory)
This is a true story, that happened today, Jan. 3, 2011. It has not been edited.
My daughter learned to skate on roller blades today. She's had crappy, cheap versions of them in the past, with unmanageable, flat wheels that are only good for about 2 minutes before they get too pocked to roll. Yes, I bought them for her, perhaps with the cloaked understanding that they would keep her slow, keep her close, and keep her from falling too often.
Then as young girls are wont to do, she asked for better skates. She said she wanted to move like the other kids on the street - winding in and out of driveways, using their wheeled freedom and exhilerating speed as a small escape from the trappings of flip flops or sneakers.
So I finally gave in this recent holiday season. I found the coolest pair I could for the budget I was willing to invest, and they are pretty cool, actually. Black with hot pink trim and some Ed Hardy-esque stylings on the sides. But the important thing was the wheels. Real wheels, capable of manuevering up and down, over and under, in and out of the obstacles of suburban developments.
She kept asking to use them, since Christmas, and I kept putting it off - explaining that she had to find her elbow and knee pads first in our garage (and if you've ever seen my garage, you know my plan was set to buy some substantial time). So finally today she dug them out.
And I, reluctantly, agreed to help her out.
She held on so tightly at first, I thought my arm was going to fall off. My daughter, for seven, is quite tall, and is the size of an average 10 year old, and now up on her skates is even bigger (thank goodness for my 70 inches of height, or I might feel a bit overwhelmed!). But there she went, more walking than skating, scraping the ground with the sides of the wheels, intent on not falling down, pulling harder and harder on my arm.
My son was on his bike, riding ahead, and returning often to check on our progress as he dutifully taunted his sister about her inability to keep up with him or even our small dog. She took it all in stride, and was dead set on getting this skill mastered.
A few wobbles here, a couple of whoopsies there - she admitted she was glad to have put on the pads that I insisted on. But she kept going. And her strides became longer. And her grip became looser.
She'd let go for a second, then grab on again desperately. Laughing all the way.
And her strides became longer, and her grip became looser. And she'd let go for longer.
Eventually, her brother had had enough and challenged her to a race of sorts, insisting he could lap us around the lake before she could reach the 300 feet to the stairs. Her head went down, her elbows up, like a roller derby girl and she accepted. But she grabbed my hand and said, "come on, Mama, we can beat him." I was surprised she wanted me along. My pace grew faster, until I had to break into a trot - and then I realized that I...I had to let go.
I was holding her back.
She turned her head, and asked why I let go - and I said, "don't worry! Just go, just go, honey! You can do it - I'll be behind you if you fall!" She smiled and took off. I'd swear I saw a glint in her eye.
Her brother still won the race. And she was happy when I caught up. She was so excited about what she'd done - how far she'd come in such a short time - so proud of herself. Exhileration was an understatement.
But now we had the bridge to tackle. A long wooden bridge, in good shape for the most part, but with some boards in need of repair, some nails that need to be banged in, and it winds over a creek and some wetlands, before descending back into the paved trail. She wasn't ready to do this alone.
We got over the bridge together, giggling at the immense sound of her roller blades over the weathered wood. She compared it to a wooden roller coaster - and said she couldn't wait to try it again, but alone next time.
At the bottom of the bridge, returning to the smooth pavement, she took my hand. She said, "you know, Mama, I don't need to hold your hand now. I just want to because I love you." I smiled, and held her hand tighter than she expected.
Soon, I sensed her mounting frustration at our speed. I let her go and said, "go on - go as fast as you can - just watch the acorns!" And she went. I watched her take off, accelerate and round one of the corners of the trail, past the old uprooted tree, which since her birth had almost all but disappeared back into the earth. And she was out of my sight.
She hollered back, "I'm doing it, Mama! I'm doing it! I'm really doing it! I'll meet you at home!"
"Okay!" I shouted back, choking back that inevitable lump in the throat that gets implanted when one becomes a parent. "I'll be there soon..."
When I finally caught up with her, she was beaming. She said, "you know what, Mama? I even fell. I fell pretty hard, but I got myself back up again. I didnt' need anybody to help me. I didn't even use a thing...I just did it myself. And look at me, I'm okay!"
"That's awesome, honey. I'm soooo proud of you!"
"I'm okay! I'm okay! I can't believe how far I came today!"
You have no idea, little one. You have no idea.
My daughter learned to skate on roller blades today. She's had crappy, cheap versions of them in the past, with unmanageable, flat wheels that are only good for about 2 minutes before they get too pocked to roll. Yes, I bought them for her, perhaps with the cloaked understanding that they would keep her slow, keep her close, and keep her from falling too often.
Then as young girls are wont to do, she asked for better skates. She said she wanted to move like the other kids on the street - winding in and out of driveways, using their wheeled freedom and exhilerating speed as a small escape from the trappings of flip flops or sneakers.
So I finally gave in this recent holiday season. I found the coolest pair I could for the budget I was willing to invest, and they are pretty cool, actually. Black with hot pink trim and some Ed Hardy-esque stylings on the sides. But the important thing was the wheels. Real wheels, capable of manuevering up and down, over and under, in and out of the obstacles of suburban developments.
She kept asking to use them, since Christmas, and I kept putting it off - explaining that she had to find her elbow and knee pads first in our garage (and if you've ever seen my garage, you know my plan was set to buy some substantial time). So finally today she dug them out.
And I, reluctantly, agreed to help her out.
She held on so tightly at first, I thought my arm was going to fall off. My daughter, for seven, is quite tall, and is the size of an average 10 year old, and now up on her skates is even bigger (thank goodness for my 70 inches of height, or I might feel a bit overwhelmed!). But there she went, more walking than skating, scraping the ground with the sides of the wheels, intent on not falling down, pulling harder and harder on my arm.
My son was on his bike, riding ahead, and returning often to check on our progress as he dutifully taunted his sister about her inability to keep up with him or even our small dog. She took it all in stride, and was dead set on getting this skill mastered.
A few wobbles here, a couple of whoopsies there - she admitted she was glad to have put on the pads that I insisted on. But she kept going. And her strides became longer. And her grip became looser.
She'd let go for a second, then grab on again desperately. Laughing all the way.
And her strides became longer, and her grip became looser. And she'd let go for longer.
Eventually, her brother had had enough and challenged her to a race of sorts, insisting he could lap us around the lake before she could reach the 300 feet to the stairs. Her head went down, her elbows up, like a roller derby girl and she accepted. But she grabbed my hand and said, "come on, Mama, we can beat him." I was surprised she wanted me along. My pace grew faster, until I had to break into a trot - and then I realized that I...I had to let go.
I was holding her back.
She turned her head, and asked why I let go - and I said, "don't worry! Just go, just go, honey! You can do it - I'll be behind you if you fall!" She smiled and took off. I'd swear I saw a glint in her eye.
Her brother still won the race. And she was happy when I caught up. She was so excited about what she'd done - how far she'd come in such a short time - so proud of herself. Exhileration was an understatement.
But now we had the bridge to tackle. A long wooden bridge, in good shape for the most part, but with some boards in need of repair, some nails that need to be banged in, and it winds over a creek and some wetlands, before descending back into the paved trail. She wasn't ready to do this alone.
We got over the bridge together, giggling at the immense sound of her roller blades over the weathered wood. She compared it to a wooden roller coaster - and said she couldn't wait to try it again, but alone next time.
At the bottom of the bridge, returning to the smooth pavement, she took my hand. She said, "you know, Mama, I don't need to hold your hand now. I just want to because I love you." I smiled, and held her hand tighter than she expected.
Soon, I sensed her mounting frustration at our speed. I let her go and said, "go on - go as fast as you can - just watch the acorns!" And she went. I watched her take off, accelerate and round one of the corners of the trail, past the old uprooted tree, which since her birth had almost all but disappeared back into the earth. And she was out of my sight.
She hollered back, "I'm doing it, Mama! I'm doing it! I'm really doing it! I'll meet you at home!"
"Okay!" I shouted back, choking back that inevitable lump in the throat that gets implanted when one becomes a parent. "I'll be there soon..."
When I finally caught up with her, she was beaming. She said, "you know what, Mama? I even fell. I fell pretty hard, but I got myself back up again. I didnt' need anybody to help me. I didn't even use a thing...I just did it myself. And look at me, I'm okay!"
"That's awesome, honey. I'm soooo proud of you!"
"I'm okay! I'm okay! I can't believe how far I came today!"
You have no idea, little one. You have no idea.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Sleep Away Camp
I just spent a weekend with over 400 young people and the over 200 staff that support them at a camp in the Georgia mountains. I was an observer for the most part, with a few opportunities to interact with the group. My primary activity was actually participating in workshops and discovery sessions with fellow professionals and volunteers who are focused on youth engagement, at a conference that was held on site at this resident camp.
What an amazing experience!
I never went to sleep away camp. Sure, I went camping with scouts, and friends, went on extended stay field trips, and youth group conventions, and had plenty of sleepovers, but I never had the opportunity to attend a camp scenario like this. I had friends that went away for weeks and months at a time, but I stayed close to home. I have no regrets - I look back fondly on the summers of my youth - filled with day camps of all kinds - from music to sports to animals to scouts and so on. And in between and throughout, my idle time was anything but, spent with friends, or even solo exploring trails on bicycles or on foot (I can't believe how far I used to travel on my own!), or reading in summer programs at the library, or crafting at home, heading to a museum or a show in the city, or sometimes, just simply doing nothing...which in summer time, especially in summer time is not always such a bad thing to do. But I never went to sleep away camp.
My dad used to go every summer. I didn't know it then, but I do now, when my grandmother repeats the conversation about how incredulous it is that I don't send my kids off shortly after school ends, every summer of recent past. He never pushed it for me; he may have mentioned it once or twice, but never recounted fond memories, or told me stories that would make me wonder. Perhaps he didn't like his experience - that's what I have to surmise, otherwise, being the talker that he is, I'm sure I would have heard about it. And I would assume, had he loved his experiences, he would have encouraged me to do the same. I could be wrong on that too - he was a young dad, and maybe it just didn't occur to him. Nevertheless, I never went to sleep away camp.
I've known kids who hated their experience. I've known kids who liked it. I've known people who loved it so much, they returned year after year to the same places, eventually becoming counselors, meeting significant others who become spouses, and then in turn, sending their children to the same places. But I never went to sleep away camp.
Now that I've seen it, close up, live, immersively...I get it. To see so many kids - in a broad age range - bonded together, sincerely enjoying their time and being able to express their joy through so many outlets, both physically and intellectually, is exhilarating. To see so many kids - with such a wide range of personalities, physically embracing one another during a session of music, arms linked in solidarity, swaying in time with the songs they are singing, is moving and emotional. To see so many kids - making connections with others from across the ocean and right next door, building memories to last a lifetime, developing relationships that may influence their lives forever is utterly profound.
I kinda wish I went to sleep away camp.
I hope to give that gift to my children soon.
What an amazing experience!
I never went to sleep away camp. Sure, I went camping with scouts, and friends, went on extended stay field trips, and youth group conventions, and had plenty of sleepovers, but I never had the opportunity to attend a camp scenario like this. I had friends that went away for weeks and months at a time, but I stayed close to home. I have no regrets - I look back fondly on the summers of my youth - filled with day camps of all kinds - from music to sports to animals to scouts and so on. And in between and throughout, my idle time was anything but, spent with friends, or even solo exploring trails on bicycles or on foot (I can't believe how far I used to travel on my own!), or reading in summer programs at the library, or crafting at home, heading to a museum or a show in the city, or sometimes, just simply doing nothing...which in summer time, especially in summer time is not always such a bad thing to do. But I never went to sleep away camp.
My dad used to go every summer. I didn't know it then, but I do now, when my grandmother repeats the conversation about how incredulous it is that I don't send my kids off shortly after school ends, every summer of recent past. He never pushed it for me; he may have mentioned it once or twice, but never recounted fond memories, or told me stories that would make me wonder. Perhaps he didn't like his experience - that's what I have to surmise, otherwise, being the talker that he is, I'm sure I would have heard about it. And I would assume, had he loved his experiences, he would have encouraged me to do the same. I could be wrong on that too - he was a young dad, and maybe it just didn't occur to him. Nevertheless, I never went to sleep away camp.
I've known kids who hated their experience. I've known kids who liked it. I've known people who loved it so much, they returned year after year to the same places, eventually becoming counselors, meeting significant others who become spouses, and then in turn, sending their children to the same places. But I never went to sleep away camp.
Now that I've seen it, close up, live, immersively...I get it. To see so many kids - in a broad age range - bonded together, sincerely enjoying their time and being able to express their joy through so many outlets, both physically and intellectually, is exhilarating. To see so many kids - with such a wide range of personalities, physically embracing one another during a session of music, arms linked in solidarity, swaying in time with the songs they are singing, is moving and emotional. To see so many kids - making connections with others from across the ocean and right next door, building memories to last a lifetime, developing relationships that may influence their lives forever is utterly profound.
I kinda wish I went to sleep away camp.
I hope to give that gift to my children soon.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Into the Darkness
One of the roads I drive home on, the one I call my extended driveway since you can't get to much until you get to one end of it or the other, has a significant portion that runs solidly east and west. When I drive home, after a long, long day, full of work and errands, perhaps some shopping or dinner with the family or the girls or any number of activities that fill my life, and I hit that road at just the right time there is a phenomenon that strikes me as marvelous every time.
Ahead of me, darkness - and often, particularly in summer, that post dusk darkness is thickened by a deep cloud cover, which can result in a surprisingly early inky sky. In my side and rear view mirrors, however, a spectacular sunset glows - all pinks, and oranges, tendrils of clouds whispering to the sun, go to bed, go to bed.
There seems to be no blending, no gradual descent into night, just light behind me, and darkness ahead, like somewhere over the top of my vehicle a curtain has been drawn. It's almost distracting, as the even sleepy sky seems brilliant in reflection compared to the shade that lies ahead. Depending on my day, it can be disconcerting sometimes to have such a broad contrast between where I've been and where I'm going.
It reminds me of when I used to take the train when I was younger, that for a stretch ran true north, and one of side of the train slid along the darkness and the other still bathed in sunset. But I had more time to soak that in as I was just a passenger. It really felt like two different worlds - as I would loll my head from one side to the other, my irises dilating and contracting in rhythm with the train rumble. Funny that at that time of my life, the contrast ran bilaterally, allowing me to make a choice on which type of scenery I soaked in. And now, as I am quite a bit older, the directions have changed and with it the perspectives.
I suppose, in the wee hours of the morning, the phenomenon reverses itself, a sultry morning sky yawning ahead, while the darkness fades away behind. But that's not my schedule, at least not my natural one. And the few times I have driven that route at a time I might capture it, I am just awake enough to move the mechanics safely, and stay focused on the task at hand.
So for now, I'll just marvel at the rearview, nature's finale in harmonic hues and say goodbye to another day.
Ahead of me, darkness - and often, particularly in summer, that post dusk darkness is thickened by a deep cloud cover, which can result in a surprisingly early inky sky. In my side and rear view mirrors, however, a spectacular sunset glows - all pinks, and oranges, tendrils of clouds whispering to the sun, go to bed, go to bed.
There seems to be no blending, no gradual descent into night, just light behind me, and darkness ahead, like somewhere over the top of my vehicle a curtain has been drawn. It's almost distracting, as the even sleepy sky seems brilliant in reflection compared to the shade that lies ahead. Depending on my day, it can be disconcerting sometimes to have such a broad contrast between where I've been and where I'm going.
It reminds me of when I used to take the train when I was younger, that for a stretch ran true north, and one of side of the train slid along the darkness and the other still bathed in sunset. But I had more time to soak that in as I was just a passenger. It really felt like two different worlds - as I would loll my head from one side to the other, my irises dilating and contracting in rhythm with the train rumble. Funny that at that time of my life, the contrast ran bilaterally, allowing me to make a choice on which type of scenery I soaked in. And now, as I am quite a bit older, the directions have changed and with it the perspectives.
I suppose, in the wee hours of the morning, the phenomenon reverses itself, a sultry morning sky yawning ahead, while the darkness fades away behind. But that's not my schedule, at least not my natural one. And the few times I have driven that route at a time I might capture it, I am just awake enough to move the mechanics safely, and stay focused on the task at hand.
So for now, I'll just marvel at the rearview, nature's finale in harmonic hues and say goodbye to another day.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
The Hipsters Are Comin'! The Hipsters Are A-comin'!
I sat next to an uber-hipster family this afternoon at a yogurt shop. I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised - I mean, it was a froyo joint after all. But this is a relatively new phenomenon out here, in this burgeoning bedroom community between two of the largest cities in the state, Tampa and Orlando. The Orlampa corridor, as it were (I guess Orlando won on that since well, they have Disney and Disney always seems to win - and Tampando - hearkens too closely to feminine protection, I guess). I should have surmised that once the froyo joints attacked in force, the hipsters weren't far behind.
Anyway, this family was comprised of Dad, Mom, and Daughter - I think...to be honest I couldn't tell if it was a girl or boy, about 9 years old - a strikingly beautiful, highly androgynous child (a what hipster family would be complete with one?) with a short blonde cropped boys style hair cut, wearing a tattoo mustache, wearing all black, very gender neutral clothing with a few pink stripes and black Converse Chuck Taylors. The child sat perched on the chair with both legs tucked underneath, knees out to opposite sides - very gymnast/dancer style, quietly listening, engaged in the conversation dad and mom were having. Mom, almost fully reclined, had a similar haircut, so you could see the clasps on her multiple wooden beaded, short necklaces. Dad, upright on the edge of his chair, left hand slapping out a rhythm on the table, short hair under a fedora, which matched his well-groomed de rigeur beard, that he kept stroking through the conversation with his non-percussive hand...he would periodically break form to eat his yogurt, then immediately return to the stance. They were so well coordinated in their un-coordinated, expensive-made-to-look-not-too-expensive clothing, cropped flat-front, full cut leg pants with frayed hems and sandals (this IS Florida, after all) for both adults, style-conscious tatts conspicuously placed. The rings...so many on both, the string bracelets, casually mixed with copper and thin sterling wire. The discussion...about music, I think, bands I'd never heard of (they were only sitting about 2 or 3 feet away). The attitude...gracefully sardonic as they quietly critiqued each subject of discussion. I actually felt woefully under dressed, or under coiffed, would be more appropriate.
This was not a totally unique sighting, but one in which I had time to breathe it all in. I've been noticing the appearance of the kind with more frequency lately, as I suppose this generation is now coming up with elementary aged children, leaving the dens of urban life and relocating, somewhat surprisingly, but not too surprisingly to the suburbs. I've noticed some in passing at the local elementary school, but dismissed the phenomena assuming they were uncles or aunts, cousins, or visiting family friends. In our sea of yoga pants, running wear, mani/pedis and blowouts/flatirons, golf shirts, chinos and military chic haircuts, they do have a remarkable tendency to seem a bit conspicuous with their layered and accessorized styles, seemingly unkempt coifs and higher than average ratio of facial holes. But I suppose, upon further reflection, that they actually have arrived here in the Suncoast Suburbs. It will be interesting to watch the acclimatization. Which way will it go? Will we get hipper? Will they homogenize? Some say, the power of the suburbs is strong, and that resistance is futile...but this is a new generation that shouldn't be underestimated. I now have a front seat for the show.
When we came home, I found my son a few hours later, reading a book in his room, a fedora perched on his head that I had forgotten he had. Hmmmm....
Anyway, this family was comprised of Dad, Mom, and Daughter - I think...to be honest I couldn't tell if it was a girl or boy, about 9 years old - a strikingly beautiful, highly androgynous child (a what hipster family would be complete with one?) with a short blonde cropped boys style hair cut, wearing a tattoo mustache, wearing all black, very gender neutral clothing with a few pink stripes and black Converse Chuck Taylors. The child sat perched on the chair with both legs tucked underneath, knees out to opposite sides - very gymnast/dancer style, quietly listening, engaged in the conversation dad and mom were having. Mom, almost fully reclined, had a similar haircut, so you could see the clasps on her multiple wooden beaded, short necklaces. Dad, upright on the edge of his chair, left hand slapping out a rhythm on the table, short hair under a fedora, which matched his well-groomed de rigeur beard, that he kept stroking through the conversation with his non-percussive hand...he would periodically break form to eat his yogurt, then immediately return to the stance. They were so well coordinated in their un-coordinated, expensive-made-to-look-not-too-expensive clothing, cropped flat-front, full cut leg pants with frayed hems and sandals (this IS Florida, after all) for both adults, style-conscious tatts conspicuously placed. The rings...so many on both, the string bracelets, casually mixed with copper and thin sterling wire. The discussion...about music, I think, bands I'd never heard of (they were only sitting about 2 or 3 feet away). The attitude...gracefully sardonic as they quietly critiqued each subject of discussion. I actually felt woefully under dressed, or under coiffed, would be more appropriate.
This was not a totally unique sighting, but one in which I had time to breathe it all in. I've been noticing the appearance of the kind with more frequency lately, as I suppose this generation is now coming up with elementary aged children, leaving the dens of urban life and relocating, somewhat surprisingly, but not too surprisingly to the suburbs. I've noticed some in passing at the local elementary school, but dismissed the phenomena assuming they were uncles or aunts, cousins, or visiting family friends. In our sea of yoga pants, running wear, mani/pedis and blowouts/flatirons, golf shirts, chinos and military chic haircuts, they do have a remarkable tendency to seem a bit conspicuous with their layered and accessorized styles, seemingly unkempt coifs and higher than average ratio of facial holes. But I suppose, upon further reflection, that they actually have arrived here in the Suncoast Suburbs. It will be interesting to watch the acclimatization. Which way will it go? Will we get hipper? Will they homogenize? Some say, the power of the suburbs is strong, and that resistance is futile...but this is a new generation that shouldn't be underestimated. I now have a front seat for the show.
When we came home, I found my son a few hours later, reading a book in his room, a fedora perched on his head that I had forgotten he had. Hmmmm....
Is There a Badge for Consternation?
So...I just spent the better part of a day purging, sorting, and somewhat organizing five years worth of Girl Scout stuff. There should be a badge just for that! It's been a trip, looking back on the growth of these girls. Some of I've had for the entire ride, others more recently, all of them near and dear to my heart. These elementary years are such rapid developmental times for them - its' amazing to see how different they look and act and feel in just a year's time, much less half a decade. I wish I had an entire room to dedicate to scouts, but that's not the reality of my life and somehow I need to condense half of my dining room into reasonable and usable cabinet. It's been quite a experience, and one I almost didn't get. I became a reluctant leader the very first year my daughter was able to participate - kindergarten, and have been one ever since.
I went to the recruitment rally dead set on signing her up for something I wasn't going to be the primary adult for. I looked forward to an activity I wasn't making decisions about for the most part, where I would drop her off and pick her up and be surprised at a craft, or enjoy her stories of what she did that afternoon or on her field trip. Oh sure, I'd help out - I'd take on one of those support roles - maybe cookie mom, or snack coordinator, something with limited commitment. Momma was gonna get some down time.
As soon as I walked in, my name was heard aloud, followed by, "you'd make a great troop leader!" in a variety of persuasive styles from the perky cheerleader to the low-key non-chalant passive/aggressive approach. I held fast. I voiced my intent repeatedly. More for my own sake than anyone elses really.
Later that week I got the call. "We've got enough girls to put together a troop that meets in the early evening (I was working full-time outside the home at the time), but still no confirmed leader," "Uhh-huh, okay," I replied, "when might we know?" I was strong.
"Well, it could be soon, it could be a few weeks. We're having conversations with a few people. Have you given it any thought?" the recruiter asked.
"To be honest, not really, I'm just too busy." I was determined.
"A lot of our leaders work full-time too," she continued. "It's really not what you'd think. I've got everything you'd need too - no sense in reinventing the wheel."
"I'm sure, but I really want my daughter to have an experience without me - it would be good for her," I was confident.
"Well...I understand. I do have a spot in another troop I could slide your daughter into," she paused and I steeled myself because I could hear, as she drew in her breath that preparation for the kill shot. "I kinda have to..." I tried to get it in, to cut her off, to not even get to the awkward moment...I faltered.
"But bear in mind, if we don't find a new leader, none of these girls will to have this experience."
BLAM, a solid hit.
"I...well...." I stammered. I never should have hesitated.
"Your daughter will be fine. I'll put her in the other troop for now...and I'll have to contact those other moms..." POW, this one took me down a notch.
"Yeahh...it's always hard to disappoint the girls," she sighed. LORD this woman was GOOD. The shield went down in a glorious shatter. I caved.
"Well...I guess...I could try..." I guiltily fumbled. "What do I have to do?"
And five years later here I am, preparing for year six. Turns out it's been one of the best choices I've ever made, however reluctant it was.
I went to the recruitment rally dead set on signing her up for something I wasn't going to be the primary adult for. I looked forward to an activity I wasn't making decisions about for the most part, where I would drop her off and pick her up and be surprised at a craft, or enjoy her stories of what she did that afternoon or on her field trip. Oh sure, I'd help out - I'd take on one of those support roles - maybe cookie mom, or snack coordinator, something with limited commitment. Momma was gonna get some down time.
As soon as I walked in, my name was heard aloud, followed by, "you'd make a great troop leader!" in a variety of persuasive styles from the perky cheerleader to the low-key non-chalant passive/aggressive approach. I held fast. I voiced my intent repeatedly. More for my own sake than anyone elses really.
Later that week I got the call. "We've got enough girls to put together a troop that meets in the early evening (I was working full-time outside the home at the time), but still no confirmed leader," "Uhh-huh, okay," I replied, "when might we know?" I was strong.
"Well, it could be soon, it could be a few weeks. We're having conversations with a few people. Have you given it any thought?" the recruiter asked.
"To be honest, not really, I'm just too busy." I was determined.
"A lot of our leaders work full-time too," she continued. "It's really not what you'd think. I've got everything you'd need too - no sense in reinventing the wheel."
"I'm sure, but I really want my daughter to have an experience without me - it would be good for her," I was confident.
"Well...I understand. I do have a spot in another troop I could slide your daughter into," she paused and I steeled myself because I could hear, as she drew in her breath that preparation for the kill shot. "I kinda have to..." I tried to get it in, to cut her off, to not even get to the awkward moment...I faltered.
"But bear in mind, if we don't find a new leader, none of these girls will to have this experience."
BLAM, a solid hit.
"I...well...." I stammered. I never should have hesitated.
"Your daughter will be fine. I'll put her in the other troop for now...and I'll have to contact those other moms..." POW, this one took me down a notch.
"Yeahh...it's always hard to disappoint the girls," she sighed. LORD this woman was GOOD. The shield went down in a glorious shatter. I caved.
"Well...I guess...I could try..." I guiltily fumbled. "What do I have to do?"
And five years later here I am, preparing for year six. Turns out it's been one of the best choices I've ever made, however reluctant it was.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
A Path Less Traveled.
There's a strip of road I drive almost every day, sometimes a few times a day, that I typically pay little attention to. I'm fiddling with my radio, running over the course of my day in my head, slurping my morning beverage, and if traffic is slow probably checking my cell phone for one notification or another. I'm sure many of us have that experience, for the majority, in fact, of the roads we tackle day in day out. What now makes this section different is that I walked it the other day, step by step, one foot in front of the other, just on the tail end of the precious slice of morning coolness we get almost every day in Florida - even in summer.
It's an ugly piece of road, no doubt, with no sidewalk to speak of. Little residential left, those few stalwarts living with front windows covered with old sheets or cardboard to block out the now somewhat faster-moving life in front of them. Many old houses turned into service businesses - nothing that would require foot traffic, some transformed more successfully and with more care than others. They sit in clusters of two or three - perhaps old family compounds, with some surrounded by larger tracts of land that used to be, I suppose, bucolic yards, filled with sunshine and perhaps laughter and lemonade on a hot afternoon.
Typically, when I am driving it, it's during a version of rush hour, on what is now deemed a failed road for modern standards and demographic counts, lines of cars in opposite directions (only one lane each way) either semi-crawling along or whizzing past depending on the rhythm of the stoplights or drivers needing to turn left across traffic. But at this time, it was amazingly quiet - just a few vehicles passing infrequently, giving me a glimpse of what the life on that road may have been like when all those houses were filled with families. In some of the yards you can still see faint outlines of where gardens used to be, old outbuildings now dilapidated, and hints of the original driveways, that weren't much more than shell covered sand, or well worn grass.
There's not even a footpath to speak of, and certainly no sidewalk. That's how few pedestrians hit this section of road, but happily to my feet, no refuse nor animal droppings to worry about either. I realized quickly that I didn't have to keep my eyes on the ground for too long, and was able to absorb the scenery - which is how I prefer to stroll anyway. The tallest of the grass on some of, what I would suppose would be easements, not much higher than my ankles, and sparse enough that I didn't have to worry.
I came across one property, probably all told about a third of an acre, in particular. This one still residential. It was a small, square, and very symmetrical house, with a front door and two straddling side windows. Old style windows, wooden frames with single pane glass, single-hung sash - the kind I'm sure that still has thin rope in the frame. A small front porch with three steps to the walk with a small portico to keep the rain out while you find your keys. The whole house probably is two rooms wide, maybe all of 20 steps (my stride is a solid yard) from side to side. Each side had two windows as well, very functional, very quaint. The house was so well-kept, perfectly painted and appointed, not a ridge of dirt in a shutter or gutterline. It's lawn well-groomed, even to its very edges where it met the road. The house sat relatively close to the road, but not square to it, slightly off-kilter, which is probably what caught my eye in the first place. But what kept my attention were the front windows.
They were opaquely painted. I imagined what it was like to make that decision, to paint one's windows shut. It's one thing to put up curtains, or a prop up room dividers, or even throw that cardboard against the pane. These are all temporary solutions. To paint them provides a permanence. A bold statement of closing out a world changed, or maybe, closing in a world that hasn't.
When that house was built this road was barely even a road to speak of. It was a quiet country path, no pavement, no county signage or streetlights. Laundry likely hung in the yard soaking up the ol' Florida sunshine. You might not even see anyone for days as this was the rural escape from big city. Back then this area was called New Hope, and the loudest sound was from the poultry colony chickens from less than a mile away, and if you didn't work there, you worked in the various orange groves that covered the landscape. Air-conditioning was keeping your windows open, so people spoke softly and from time to time some music probably drifted along the breeze from inside.
To give you a little context for the growth of the area, in 1922 the region had 100 documented residents. By 1960 that had increased, at a reasonably moderate rate to just over 1,500. These paths had little need for change for a long time. In the next 20 years, the area would see the the population explode to over 100,000. Change came hard and fast here, in less than a cosmic blink. No longer is the area called New Hope, the chickens and most of the oranges are gone, retail, service stations, and restaurants having supplanted them long ago and the air is filled with sounds of planes, trains, and automobiles.
But sometimes, in that sweet moment of late morning, if the air is somewhat still, you may hear a whisper of backwhen, the silence broken only by an errant chirp or a scuffle of brush. It's usually brief, and I was lucky enough to have been at the right place at the right time to catch it.
I wonder if through those darkened, tightly sealed windows the light of day will ever be seen again. I keep walking, and finally arrive at a new stretch of sidewalk, accompanied by all the trappings of new growth - curb cuts and fences, fire hydrants, and asphalt driveways. The ground underneath my feet is no longer green or yellow or brown, just man-made gray. It's no longer soft and slightly uneven, but strenuously hard. I look back once more and realize I will likely never walk that path again, and also that I'm glad I did.
It's an ugly piece of road, no doubt, with no sidewalk to speak of. Little residential left, those few stalwarts living with front windows covered with old sheets or cardboard to block out the now somewhat faster-moving life in front of them. Many old houses turned into service businesses - nothing that would require foot traffic, some transformed more successfully and with more care than others. They sit in clusters of two or three - perhaps old family compounds, with some surrounded by larger tracts of land that used to be, I suppose, bucolic yards, filled with sunshine and perhaps laughter and lemonade on a hot afternoon.
Typically, when I am driving it, it's during a version of rush hour, on what is now deemed a failed road for modern standards and demographic counts, lines of cars in opposite directions (only one lane each way) either semi-crawling along or whizzing past depending on the rhythm of the stoplights or drivers needing to turn left across traffic. But at this time, it was amazingly quiet - just a few vehicles passing infrequently, giving me a glimpse of what the life on that road may have been like when all those houses were filled with families. In some of the yards you can still see faint outlines of where gardens used to be, old outbuildings now dilapidated, and hints of the original driveways, that weren't much more than shell covered sand, or well worn grass.
There's not even a footpath to speak of, and certainly no sidewalk. That's how few pedestrians hit this section of road, but happily to my feet, no refuse nor animal droppings to worry about either. I realized quickly that I didn't have to keep my eyes on the ground for too long, and was able to absorb the scenery - which is how I prefer to stroll anyway. The tallest of the grass on some of, what I would suppose would be easements, not much higher than my ankles, and sparse enough that I didn't have to worry.
I came across one property, probably all told about a third of an acre, in particular. This one still residential. It was a small, square, and very symmetrical house, with a front door and two straddling side windows. Old style windows, wooden frames with single pane glass, single-hung sash - the kind I'm sure that still has thin rope in the frame. A small front porch with three steps to the walk with a small portico to keep the rain out while you find your keys. The whole house probably is two rooms wide, maybe all of 20 steps (my stride is a solid yard) from side to side. Each side had two windows as well, very functional, very quaint. The house was so well-kept, perfectly painted and appointed, not a ridge of dirt in a shutter or gutterline. It's lawn well-groomed, even to its very edges where it met the road. The house sat relatively close to the road, but not square to it, slightly off-kilter, which is probably what caught my eye in the first place. But what kept my attention were the front windows.
They were opaquely painted. I imagined what it was like to make that decision, to paint one's windows shut. It's one thing to put up curtains, or a prop up room dividers, or even throw that cardboard against the pane. These are all temporary solutions. To paint them provides a permanence. A bold statement of closing out a world changed, or maybe, closing in a world that hasn't.
When that house was built this road was barely even a road to speak of. It was a quiet country path, no pavement, no county signage or streetlights. Laundry likely hung in the yard soaking up the ol' Florida sunshine. You might not even see anyone for days as this was the rural escape from big city. Back then this area was called New Hope, and the loudest sound was from the poultry colony chickens from less than a mile away, and if you didn't work there, you worked in the various orange groves that covered the landscape. Air-conditioning was keeping your windows open, so people spoke softly and from time to time some music probably drifted along the breeze from inside.
To give you a little context for the growth of the area, in 1922 the region had 100 documented residents. By 1960 that had increased, at a reasonably moderate rate to just over 1,500. These paths had little need for change for a long time. In the next 20 years, the area would see the the population explode to over 100,000. Change came hard and fast here, in less than a cosmic blink. No longer is the area called New Hope, the chickens and most of the oranges are gone, retail, service stations, and restaurants having supplanted them long ago and the air is filled with sounds of planes, trains, and automobiles.
But sometimes, in that sweet moment of late morning, if the air is somewhat still, you may hear a whisper of backwhen, the silence broken only by an errant chirp or a scuffle of brush. It's usually brief, and I was lucky enough to have been at the right place at the right time to catch it.
I wonder if through those darkened, tightly sealed windows the light of day will ever be seen again. I keep walking, and finally arrive at a new stretch of sidewalk, accompanied by all the trappings of new growth - curb cuts and fences, fire hydrants, and asphalt driveways. The ground underneath my feet is no longer green or yellow or brown, just man-made gray. It's no longer soft and slightly uneven, but strenuously hard. I look back once more and realize I will likely never walk that path again, and also that I'm glad I did.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Orange Embers
Orange groves are burning in southeastern Hillsborough County...at least that's what a local said, as the airborne ashes danced on the dying wind. The acrid stench burned my nostrils, so strong I couldn't smell the cigarette dangling from his mouth. His wife, or girlfriend, nodded in agreement, her eyes squinting from the dust.
I could see the smoke in the distance at first - wasn't sure if it was weather that I was headed into, as so often here you approach rain and depart from it, slipping easily in and out of the weather like a dolphin at sunset. But as I got closer the smell wafted through the a/c vents. Not an unusual odor for around here - burns happen all the time, some controlled by the county, others by farmers, sometimes not so rural properties forgetting that suburbia has cropped up around them, and then there's the developers. This one was stronger than usual though, heavier, denser. Perhaps the humidity had something to do with it, and the lack of a good wind. It just hung there, a dun fog draped all over the west side of the highway, arching over to the east in a strange formation. Turn your head due east and the sky was crystal clear, the sun making its exit on another day.
The local shook his head and bid me good night. Damn development, he muttered under his breath. I nodded in agreement, partially feigning my allegiance - since what brought me here is precisely what he was cursing, however, there's always a tipping point, I suppose, and I prefer to think I came in on the good side - the part that brought in jobs, some modest wealth, infrastructure improvements, and diversity. I am not part of that damn development, I choose to think, the kind that strains the system, that gets built for building sake, that no longer take into account quality of life and simply insert quantity of livers. I probably am, but these two don't need to know that. I smile and wish him well.
I brush off some of the white ash from my windshield, dust off my shoulder, and hop in my car, as I watch some fireworks fly into the sky, silently. I worry for a moment that maybe that's what caused the big burn, it's happened before, and will happen again. I turn the car north, and see the clear air ahead, the newly paved and expanded highway, the bright reflectors and freshly painted stripes, and drive away from the burn, leaving the smoke and the smell behind me, and head to the manicured landscaping of my suburban bubble. When I pull in to my driveway, I turn my head and get an echo of the scent - it's still in my hair. With the distance, it's not a bad smell anymore, more like the end of a campfire; a nostalgic scent as the embers slowly fade away.
I could see the smoke in the distance at first - wasn't sure if it was weather that I was headed into, as so often here you approach rain and depart from it, slipping easily in and out of the weather like a dolphin at sunset. But as I got closer the smell wafted through the a/c vents. Not an unusual odor for around here - burns happen all the time, some controlled by the county, others by farmers, sometimes not so rural properties forgetting that suburbia has cropped up around them, and then there's the developers. This one was stronger than usual though, heavier, denser. Perhaps the humidity had something to do with it, and the lack of a good wind. It just hung there, a dun fog draped all over the west side of the highway, arching over to the east in a strange formation. Turn your head due east and the sky was crystal clear, the sun making its exit on another day.
The local shook his head and bid me good night. Damn development, he muttered under his breath. I nodded in agreement, partially feigning my allegiance - since what brought me here is precisely what he was cursing, however, there's always a tipping point, I suppose, and I prefer to think I came in on the good side - the part that brought in jobs, some modest wealth, infrastructure improvements, and diversity. I am not part of that damn development, I choose to think, the kind that strains the system, that gets built for building sake, that no longer take into account quality of life and simply insert quantity of livers. I probably am, but these two don't need to know that. I smile and wish him well.
I brush off some of the white ash from my windshield, dust off my shoulder, and hop in my car, as I watch some fireworks fly into the sky, silently. I worry for a moment that maybe that's what caused the big burn, it's happened before, and will happen again. I turn the car north, and see the clear air ahead, the newly paved and expanded highway, the bright reflectors and freshly painted stripes, and drive away from the burn, leaving the smoke and the smell behind me, and head to the manicured landscaping of my suburban bubble. When I pull in to my driveway, I turn my head and get an echo of the scent - it's still in my hair. With the distance, it's not a bad smell anymore, more like the end of a campfire; a nostalgic scent as the embers slowly fade away.
Monday, April 07, 2014
A Blog Mitzvah
So I started another blog...it's called...A Blog Mitzvah. And it's our journey toward my son becoming bar mitzvah this December. I need another blog like I need another hole in the head (and let me tell you the universe and my body are in cahoots to make sure I don't get ANY more of those, as they are working together to close up all the extraneous ones I deliberately put in myself - but I digress). I'm hoping it will help me be more disciplined since it's a focused topic and it's a somewhat constrained time frame. But looking at the date of the last post - almost a month ago, I'm not doing so hot. But there's still time! So if you want to read that one instead...please do. Though I really do have a lot to say about some of my recent experiences...but by the time I sit down to the computer my brain is just done for the day. We'll see...we'll see...
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Overhearings...
Before you begin...these statements and conversations were made by young girls, ranging in age from 5 to about 12 over the course of 3 hours at an event where they learning about cultures of different countries. Names, naturally, are changed for privacy purposes.
Elsa: "Ryan said that he really liked Ashley. But then Ashley said that she liked Michael Jackson (yes, THAT Michael Jackson, - Ed.), so I told Ryan that and now he HATES Michael Jackson."
Vanessa: "Did you know that Michael Jackson died on a toilet?"
Renee: "Did you know that in India you can't get a hamburger? It's because cows are scared."
Evelyn: "What are they scared of?"
Renee: "Being made into hamburgers, I guess."
Danielle: "Can you believe you can't get hamburgers in India?"
Natasha: "That would be TORTURE!"
Miss Lonni: "So girls, is Puerto Rico one of the 50 states?"
Leslie: "Yup."
Miss Lonni: "Are you sure?"
Leslie: "Yup."
Miss Lonni: "Hmm...let's try again, is Puerto Rico one of the 50 states?"
Leslie: "mmmm...would you like a food sample?"
Sandra: "If you are from the Netherlands what are you?"
Tatiana: "Netherlandish."
Karen: "Did you know they eat guinea pigs in Peru?"
Sydney: "Don't tell Miss Buttercup that."
Karen: "Who is Miss Buttercup?"
Sydney: "My friend's guinea pig. She's a very nervous guinea pig."
Miss Marie: "So what is something Greece is famous for?"
Girls: Blank stares.
Miss Marie: "Maybe something that's been going on lately?"
Girls: Blank stares.
Miss Marie: "For the last two weeks...kinda special...lots of people competing?"
Girls: "American Idol?"
Jennifer: "Did you know that India is one of the most populated countries in the world? How many people do you think they have?"
Laura: "Like...18,000?"
Elsa: "Ryan said that he really liked Ashley. But then Ashley said that she liked Michael Jackson (yes, THAT Michael Jackson, - Ed.), so I told Ryan that and now he HATES Michael Jackson."
Vanessa: "Did you know that Michael Jackson died on a toilet?"
Renee: "Did you know that in India you can't get a hamburger? It's because cows are scared."
Evelyn: "What are they scared of?"
Renee: "Being made into hamburgers, I guess."
Danielle: "Can you believe you can't get hamburgers in India?"
Natasha: "That would be TORTURE!"
Miss Lonni: "So girls, is Puerto Rico one of the 50 states?"
Leslie: "Yup."
Miss Lonni: "Are you sure?"
Leslie: "Yup."
Miss Lonni: "Hmm...let's try again, is Puerto Rico one of the 50 states?"
Leslie: "mmmm...would you like a food sample?"
Sandra: "If you are from the Netherlands what are you?"
Tatiana: "Netherlandish."
Karen: "Did you know they eat guinea pigs in Peru?"
Sydney: "Don't tell Miss Buttercup that."
Karen: "Who is Miss Buttercup?"
Sydney: "My friend's guinea pig. She's a very nervous guinea pig."
Miss Marie: "So what is something Greece is famous for?"
Girls: Blank stares.
Miss Marie: "Maybe something that's been going on lately?"
Girls: Blank stares.
Miss Marie: "For the last two weeks...kinda special...lots of people competing?"
Girls: "American Idol?"
Jennifer: "Did you know that India is one of the most populated countries in the world? How many people do you think they have?"
Laura: "Like...18,000?"
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Funny thing those hospitals...
Overheard tonight in the local Emergency Room - from a nurse to a patient, "I checked with your attending, he said it was okay for you to take your Aleve from home. We don't usually let that happen, but this way you can save at least $100 by not taking one of ours."
I smirked at my husband because not 10 minutes earlier I had said,"I should go home and get your meds so they don't charge us $100 a pill." He didn't believe me.
ERs and hospitals and doctors offices of all kinds are funny places when it comes to that money thing. Its crazy. What so many people don't know is, but some do, and many more have suppositions...it's all about the insurance agencies. They have screwed Americans in so many directions people can't even follow it anymore.
I can say this from experience after not having had health insurance for a while. If you are healthy, and only need preventative care...or even if you need some additional procedures, other than catastrophic care, NOT having insurance is surprisingly affordable. When you present yourself as a cash customer, usually in a bizarre, reactionary whisper - as if there is some shame in not having insurance - the prices for anything and everything drop dramatically. Sometimes by more than half.
When I carried insurance (and I'm in that holding pattern with the Affordable Health Care marketplace waiting on my new cards to come through - almost reluctantly) a regular check up cost me, whatever my co-pay was at the time - sometimes it was $50, sometimes as much as $100, in addition to the monthly fees to maintain the insurance.
Without it, I walked in and out for usually somewhere in the ballpark of $65 depending on whether or not I needed any bloodwork done or some other lab test. A standard CBC runs somewhere around $15 - $25 depending on the lab you choose. And done.
Vaccinations? No more than $10 - $15 a shot. Xrays? about $25 - 40 depending on how many are needed.
Meds are where it got tricky - but so many are now available in generic, and some stores even run $4 a pop on the most popular medications - typically those used for folks who are fighting a common illness.
Even when I had to have a larger procedure done - I asked what it would cost before telling them I was a (in a whisper) cash customer. It was a barium contrast test (oral - thank you), that the nurse originally said would be about $1600. When my news came, she said, "oh...then it will be about $600. It was elective, for sure, so there was no guarantee that any insurance would have covered it anyway - but then I would have been on the hook for the insurance price rather than the cash price. Go figure!
Granted - catastrophic care is generally beyond anyone's reach, other than those 1 percenters (a class to which we very much do not belong) - however, I think there's even some play in there. My husband recently had to undergo an emergency heart catheterization and have two stents inserted with four days in the hospital (a VERY for-profit institution, no less). I was sure the final costs would round up close to the $100,000 range - after hearing what many of my friends and family had been through, and based on other times we have experienced hospital stays. I reminded billing multiple times that we were cash paying customers. The entire bill, even with all the separate billing for lab work, the ER physicians, the tests...came to no more than $22,000.
When we were insured we had a bout in the hospital from a car accident that cost us almost half that for just the ER visit alone. Same hospital.
So is it any wonder why it's a problem getting young, healthy people to sign up for insurance? I almost don't blame them. Health insurance companies have made a mockery of the medical profession, inflating costs and holding medical providers hostage to their antics.
We need to direct our angst and shake our fists at them...the insurance companies...and remind them what game they really are in - supposedly taking care of people medically - rather than taking care of those at the top rung of the organziations financially. Or dismantle them completely, making the health care industry competitive with their pricing, just like every other business in America. I'd like to think this ACA thing will work...but knowing how selfish our culture has become, I doubt it. We'll all pick and choose the things we like about it - like no denial of coverage due to pre-existing conditions, or keeping our older children covered - but overall it won't work if everyone doesn't play.
Overhead at the tonight at the local Emergency Room: Patient to nurse, "Thank you so much for your help." Nurse to patient, "That's what I'm here for. That's what we're all here for...to help." Maybe they should tell that to the insurance companies.
I smirked at my husband because not 10 minutes earlier I had said,"I should go home and get your meds so they don't charge us $100 a pill." He didn't believe me.
ERs and hospitals and doctors offices of all kinds are funny places when it comes to that money thing. Its crazy. What so many people don't know is, but some do, and many more have suppositions...it's all about the insurance agencies. They have screwed Americans in so many directions people can't even follow it anymore.
I can say this from experience after not having had health insurance for a while. If you are healthy, and only need preventative care...or even if you need some additional procedures, other than catastrophic care, NOT having insurance is surprisingly affordable. When you present yourself as a cash customer, usually in a bizarre, reactionary whisper - as if there is some shame in not having insurance - the prices for anything and everything drop dramatically. Sometimes by more than half.
When I carried insurance (and I'm in that holding pattern with the Affordable Health Care marketplace waiting on my new cards to come through - almost reluctantly) a regular check up cost me, whatever my co-pay was at the time - sometimes it was $50, sometimes as much as $100, in addition to the monthly fees to maintain the insurance.
Without it, I walked in and out for usually somewhere in the ballpark of $65 depending on whether or not I needed any bloodwork done or some other lab test. A standard CBC runs somewhere around $15 - $25 depending on the lab you choose. And done.
Vaccinations? No more than $10 - $15 a shot. Xrays? about $25 - 40 depending on how many are needed.
Meds are where it got tricky - but so many are now available in generic, and some stores even run $4 a pop on the most popular medications - typically those used for folks who are fighting a common illness.
Even when I had to have a larger procedure done - I asked what it would cost before telling them I was a (in a whisper) cash customer. It was a barium contrast test (oral - thank you), that the nurse originally said would be about $1600. When my news came, she said, "oh...then it will be about $600. It was elective, for sure, so there was no guarantee that any insurance would have covered it anyway - but then I would have been on the hook for the insurance price rather than the cash price. Go figure!
Granted - catastrophic care is generally beyond anyone's reach, other than those 1 percenters (a class to which we very much do not belong) - however, I think there's even some play in there. My husband recently had to undergo an emergency heart catheterization and have two stents inserted with four days in the hospital (a VERY for-profit institution, no less). I was sure the final costs would round up close to the $100,000 range - after hearing what many of my friends and family had been through, and based on other times we have experienced hospital stays. I reminded billing multiple times that we were cash paying customers. The entire bill, even with all the separate billing for lab work, the ER physicians, the tests...came to no more than $22,000.
When we were insured we had a bout in the hospital from a car accident that cost us almost half that for just the ER visit alone. Same hospital.
So is it any wonder why it's a problem getting young, healthy people to sign up for insurance? I almost don't blame them. Health insurance companies have made a mockery of the medical profession, inflating costs and holding medical providers hostage to their antics.
We need to direct our angst and shake our fists at them...the insurance companies...and remind them what game they really are in - supposedly taking care of people medically - rather than taking care of those at the top rung of the organziations financially. Or dismantle them completely, making the health care industry competitive with their pricing, just like every other business in America. I'd like to think this ACA thing will work...but knowing how selfish our culture has become, I doubt it. We'll all pick and choose the things we like about it - like no denial of coverage due to pre-existing conditions, or keeping our older children covered - but overall it won't work if everyone doesn't play.
Overhead at the tonight at the local Emergency Room: Patient to nurse, "Thank you so much for your help." Nurse to patient, "That's what I'm here for. That's what we're all here for...to help." Maybe they should tell that to the insurance companies.
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