Troublemaker

APRIL 17, 2020

“You’re such a troublemaker” a new dance friend says to me as I rotate through class, my turn to dance with him again.  I cannot contain my joy at being seen.  Yes, I am a troublemaker! That’s my inner child coming out to play. He starts a joke, and I as rotate to the next person, I can see his inner child as well.  Each time I rotate to dance with him there is a partial joke shared, and he warns me that I had better not get him in trouble.  That’s an invitation I can barely resist.  I try to think of ways to stir the pot without causing a ruckus. I decide to keep it to jokes for a while, I want to make friends not enemies.

Dance was fun, but my inner child was unleashed, how lucky to meet another inner child that matches mine so well, even if the man didn’t realize what was happening.  I did! I knew he was very smart, he totally got my jokes, but he did seem very uptight.  My playful mood escalated.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune, a room full of people who were allowing their inner children to play!  Next, I rotated to a partner who tells me he’s legally blind. I laugh. He says, no I’m serious. He’s one of the better dancers there, so I ask him to tell me how to be a better follow.  He says “always keep your hands available.  I need to know where you are”.  I tell him I don’t know what that means and right away he gives me a concrete example.  Remember when you did that free turn, you had your hands down at your side, instead of in “table top” and available for me.  I couldn’t find your hand to lead the next move.

Okay, I kind of understood and said, “so, I should keep my hands in my pockets or behind my back” and he said “exactly”.  We both laughed.  I liked this guy as well.  Nice and funny and such a good dancer.  And with or without 20/20 he was a caring partner. Hidden hands or not, I always feel safe. 

The dance teachers also cracked a lot of jokes, the mood of the class is light and playful. It’s a gathering of inner children.  In this playfulness people were learning different syncopations.  I mostly struggled.  I could easily feel the rhythm, I just couldn’t figure out how to move my feet. 

The beginning of the lesson would be doable; a starter step, a throw out, a right-side pass, a sugar-push.  But then a syncopation would be taught.  A back-hitch, a rock n’ go, a reverse whip.  I was lost. It was hard to keep my inner critic quiet.  Hard to stay self-encouraged to just do my best.  I loved to dance, but this was pure pressure and I worked hard to quiet the voice in my head.

They split the class to teach each part.  Phil, our teacher, would call, “Leaders up” and it would take me a minute to remember that in dance I’m a “Follower”.  The Followers would move to an adjacent area, and the more experienced would try to teach the newbies. 

Finally, it was “Followers Up” and Phil and his partner Mindia would demonstrate the syncopation, pointing out places to relax arms, how to change weight and they showed us how it looked when put to the music. 

Next, they called everyone back to class; music was started and we were supposed to practice the newly learned syncopation.  Every minute or two we changed partners, so we were all able to dance with many different partners in hopes of learning this new styling move. 

As the end of the hour class approached, my inner child got tired and cranky.  Finally, class was over and social dancing about to begin.  Social dancers began pouring in, the bar was filling up and the DJ booth started the music.  I was not ready to stay and social dance.  Maybe once I had mastered the beginners class and my confidence grew but certainly not anytime soon. 

I changed back to my street shoes, washed up and got out my hand-held mace for the short walk to my car. My inner child was asleep for the night, and grown-up Flori was back in charge.

###

Moon River

JUNE 9, 2020

Songwriters: Johnny Mercer / Henry Mancini
Moon River (Sung by Audrey Hepburn) lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

🎵 Moon river, my parents sang, wider than a mile
I can see them now,
Judy at the piano
And Morty, poised from behind,
belting the words while looking over her shoulder
and reading off the sheet music,
a cigarette in his right hand.

🎵 I’m crossing you in style, some day
My mom’s graceful fingers gliding over the keys,
She put her whole body into playing.
Foot tapping, head moving, mouth smiling, eyes gleaming
Watching us watch her.
As usual, she was not reading the sheet music but playing by ear.

Classically trained, she played at the level of a concert pianist.
And she did learn to fluently read music, but she still played by ear.
It was a gift she both cherished and shared.

My dad, on the other hand, was not trained in any musical style.
He loved Frank Sinatra and sang along Sinatra style.
Morty’s smile and charm made up for what his voice lacked.
Judy, improvising her own touches,
and changing the key so my dad could easily sing along-
Off key

He sings out, smoke and notes
🎵 Oh, dream maker,

My mom sings-
🎵 you heart breaker

The two of them, smiling and singing together;
🎵 Wherever you’re goin’, I’m goin’ your way

There were many moments like this in my childhood.
Just the four of us, gathered around the piano.
We could ask my mom to play any song.
If she hadn’t heard it, we could sing it and she would pick it up and play along.
Judy the Beauty had an extraordinary gift at the piano.

Play ob la dee obl a dah I would ask. And ask.
Immediately we could recognize the snappy chords,
and the opening to the song-
🎵 Desmond has a barrow in the marketplace
Molly is the singer in a band
Desmond says to Molly, girl, I like your face
And Molly says this as she takes him by the hand

Dueling generations; my dad wanted showtunes.
I wanted The Beatles.
Morty usually prevailed.
Judy liked to please him.

Every day at 4:00PM my mom would freshen up.
“Girls, your father will be home soon.
Clean up all these toys, and let’s set the table”
With fresh lipstick, and perfume,
my mom was ready to greet my dad.
Dinner and my dad, both carefully orchestrated to appear every night at 5:30.

I still live a mixed message when it comes to men.
Fuck you if you think you’re smarter or better than me in any way having to do with being born a man. On the other hand, when I cook dinner and set a beautiful table, you will be served first. Old school. And you can bet I’ll have on nice clothes, fresh lipstick and perfume.

🎵Two drifters, off to see the world
My parents both sang this line, eyes locked and smiling.
It was obviously meaningful and private.
Maybe a reference to moving to California and their future dreams…

🎵 There’s such a lot of world to see,
Sang my mom, in a key far too low for her.

🎵 We’re after the same rainbow’s end, waitin’ & ‘round the bend. My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me. They sang the end together, loud, laughing and totally enjoying the moment. I can remember feeling a little left out. Looking back, I’m grateful they found a way to incorporate these private and intimate moments right in the center of our family. It made for a nice relationship and a lasting marriage.

There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of my parents in some way or another. And it’s true, love never dies.

###

Worst Storm of My Life

OCTOBER 12, 2020

4:00 AM October 12, 1994
The phone on my nightstand is RINGING
My father calls to rain bad news
Your mother is Not Breathing
I just called an ambulance; your sister is on her way 

A Grief Storm begins
but I don’t recognize the signs
I am also Not Breathing

We bury my 57-year-old mother
I become the Calm Before the Storm
Eerily quiet, focused
I am still Not Breathing

It is my turn to speak (!)
I try to suck in a clean breath of air
From a climate too dense with humidity

Walking towards the podium
My ears are pounding surf and I am deaf
I cannot take in the sound of the death of my mother

Stepping out from behind the “family only” curtain
I feel over-exposed to the Elements of Earth
The Chapel is packed, standing room only
It’s my turn to speak
And I’m blinded by a thick fog
I can’t hear; I can’t see
I am still Not Breathing

But it’s my one opportunity to speak
At my Mother’s Funeral (?)
Fuck it.
I square my shoulders and walk to the podium.

Finally breathing…I Am my Mother’s Daughter
Who she was, is who I am
And Love never dies

###

Eclipsed by Cancer

NOVEMBER 7, 2020

For nearly a decade I kept my metastatic breast cancer status eclipsed from all but my inner circle.  I was lucky, after the first year I was diagnosed and rolling different chemotherapies, I switched oncologists. And then I was lucky, my cancer responded to all targeted therapies. Which gave me very low to no side effects.

I had just gone through a terrible divorce. My ex who was an exemplary husband and father snapped in half. Doubt that I’ll ever really know what happened, and I no longer care to know what happened.

But from the moment it happened, and he walked out of not just my life but our home and walked away from his kids, I knew things would never be quite the same. We were all knocked far out of our orbit.

One of the last things he said to me when I caught him cheating and living a secret life, was that he could no longer do this dog and pony show.

It was shocking to me, we all looked up to him so much. I think for many years the vision he saw of himself was a vision reflected from the light and love of my eyes and the eyes of our kids.  But even the most powerful sun cannot keep away one’s own personal darkness. And ultimately his feelings of being a worthless piece of shit prevailed. And now I agree with him. Turns out he is a worthless piece of shit. I’d add traitor and liar And sex addict and embezzler to the list as well.  Yes, broken and damaged. His repetition compulsion got the best of him.

He threw our world out of orbit and in many ways, I entered a darkness like none I’ve ever known.  I know any repair he’s done, has made him into a completely different person than he was when we were a family.  

Between his desperate marriage to the lying sex addict whore and his complete lack of contributing financially to raising our kids, educating them, and there’s the fact that my son was so damaged that he also broke for a short time, and my daughter still has zero contact with him, I’d say my kids were hurt the most as is often typical in a divorce.

They don’t get to date a new daddy. They are stuck with the shards of that break up. And they weren’t even little kids. They were 14 and 16. But that is literally another story.

My story of living in that darkness continued into the first summer. I managed to send both of my kids to their normal summer camp program, sleep away camp for both different sleep away camps for both Which left me alone, in deafening darkness surrounded by a house of lies. I was hurting worse than I had ever hurt before and in a different and profound way. A man I thought was my family was not my family. He was not only not trustworthy he was dangerous.

The more I paced through my house of darkness, the more I felt thrown out of my orbit, overshadowed by grief and fear. But still surrounded by 1500 ft.² of tchotchkes. 

Sadly I couldn’t take looking at all of the collectibles that represented an 18 year marriage. Pacing around I started throwing and breaking stuff into my trash. It was the most satisfying feeling in the most satisfying noise combined. I mean I was so broken, our marriage was so broken that it seemed pointless to leave all of these tchotchkes intact. I never wanted to see them again. Who would want them? Him? I couldn’t imagine ever laying eyes on these items that were bought in a time of love, under false pretense, to mark different occasions. The sparkling glasses of birthdays. Beautiful hand-blown vases. A lot of cool art pieces. Things that a couple collects because they are building a life of memories together.

Well, despite his degree in architecture, the foundation he was laying was shaky at best. Passive-aggressive charade of a man who felt worthless at his core. After I finished breaking all the things that represented “us “. I felt a little better. By the following weekend I was back in darkness. And fear. Who would ever love me again. If a man I loved so much, and gave him such beautiful children, and a beautiful home, could treat me like gods garbage, could lie to my face, could tell me he was depressed and wanted to go to therapy and then when I went with him to therapy he just lied week after week wasting so much time and wasting so much money. Who would ever want me if my own husband didn’t want me?

I stopped eating and spent a few days mostly laying in my closet floor in total darkness. A total eclipse of light and love. On Sunday I decided I would shower and go to whole foods and put food in the house. And then I would figure out ways to end my pain. My kids would still be away another week so I had some time.

 At Whole Foods a very handsome man came up to me and asked if I remembered him. He used my maiden name from my school days. I did not recognize him but when he said his name I did remember him from junior high school. He immediately blurted out that he had the biggest crush on me. 

Here we were standing face-to-face at whole foods and I had no makeup on and I looked like shit. And he was telling me that he was going through a divorce and I said to him so am I. Then he asked if I’d like to get together and I said yes I would.  I could see his jet-black eyes were filled with sparkling stars, and the dancing sparkles in his eyes were starting to reflect some light towards me.

So, when I got home I decided I wouldn’t kill myself. I would maybe go to dinner with this handsome man with eye sparkles. Plus, I really wanted another chance for him to see me with some makeup on my hair done and a decent outfit. My vanity prevailed.

I dated this man for six years, I credit him for saving my life. For reminding me what being a woman is about. For reminding me that sexuality has nothing to do with body parts. And for teaching me that short guys can have some of the most beautiful bodies on the face of the earth. He cheered me on when I was first diagnosed stage 4 terminal cancer, back in 2007.

The timing between us wasn’t great, my kids were going off to college, but his kids were just in grammar school. He was star soccer dad, I already put in my hours on the soccer field.

The beautiful energy between us started to change towards resentment. To be honest, the biggest problem was that he was a financially unstable. It didn’t leave us anywhere to go in a serious way. I could not afford to support another partner financially. He was trapped in his divorce settlement and in his own insurmountable feelings of guilt. He really had nowhere to go with his emotions and our relationship started to disintegrate.

We split up and soon after I met another man who took my breath away.  Here was a second man who didn’t care about my cut and pasted body whatsoever. When I say he didn’t care, I was beautiful to him. So, it reinforced sexuality again for me. And allowed me to be fully seen in the light. With self-confidence. I did however continue to underplay having metastatic breast cancer. It had been under control, I went in every three weeks for an infusion, into cancer-land, and then walked out again and pushed it out of my mind.

This compartmentalization of having breast cancer really allowed me to be the best and brightest me I could be. The second relationship didn’t last very long, but I have no regrets. It was a thrilling three year of love and laughter. Fun times of travel and having incredible experiences like watching the Mars rover launch and going to Obama‘s second inauguration party and living a very exciting life.

I wasn’t wise in choosing him, I literally fell head over heels. But at 58, he had been engaged and then dis-engaged from at least four serious commitments to women in his life.  He was a public figure who was loved by almost all, but never able to find “the one” to love enough to commit. By his own admission he came the closest with me - by then it didn’t really matter.  He was too terrified and too unstable.  Our relationship ended abruptly and for me it triggered tremendous grief and the pain of un-loving someone.

I concentrated on me for a change. Got my certification in social emotional arts. Learned how it felt to be a single woman with no kids living at home and now undergoing metastatic breast cancer treatment on my own. Or sometimes with friends. Or most often my beautiful daughter. I learned how to dance, I became part of the dance community and it saved me. That was in 2013. I walked my daughter down the aisle, just she and I alone. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. I saw so many milestones I never ever expected to live to see.

I begin my own exploration into art expression, into some writing, and still heavily into social dancing.

In 2017 I invited 75 of my best friends and family to my home. To celebrate my 60th birthday, and to celebrate a decade living with metastatic breast cancer. On treatment every three weeks. It was like a coming out party, so many people had no idea. It was also a night for me to show my art and to sell it, and I donated proceeds to benefit metaViver.org

I was no longer living in the shadow, instead I was finally living out in the full sun. Proudly.

Surrounded by the people I love the most, my family and my friends. And I was loving them the best way I know how; by bringing them all together, and by sharing food, drinks, art and life!

Ode To My Thermometer

OCTOBER 18, 2020

October 18, 2020

Oh, childhood thermometer
I loved you so
In your weird old black plastic faux pen-case,
Where the top didn’t really tightly screw
and the base had a little hole in the tip
(to let out the air?)

 You were a loyal temperature-taker for as long as I can remember.

I smuggled you out of my mother’s house, when we cleaned out her hold-all cup, the one that sat on the telephone table next to her chair. You were jammed in there, among old ink pens and crossword pencils. Pencils so old their yellow bodies were textured with bite marks of thought, their erasers solid concrete.

Thankfully I didn’t need to use you too often. But that Friday night at 1:45 in the morning, boy was I sick. Awoke freezing and shaking. Still I managed to fish you out of my nightstand drawer. And shake you down; that was not easy. I had to really snap my wrist to get your mercury line below normal.

Even at 1:45 AM, freezing and sick, I managed to snap you down. The little arrow marking 98.6 normal. I shook you down and I placed you under my tongue.  Three minutes later I took you out and read over 101-- nearly 102!  Kind of a high fucking fever if you ask me. I groaned and forced myself out of bed, to get Tylenol and the heating pad.

In the morning, 6:00AM I shook you down again. And I put you under my tongue again. And I still had fever 101+. More Tylenol. Texted my doctor.  In the afternoon I added in some Advil, and finally started feeling better. I was worried that I had Covid. But with no other symptoms, it seemed I was just having a reaction to the flu shot I had Friday at 6 PM.  I drank Gatorade, to make sure I still had my taste buds. Very reassuring to have my sense of taste and smell. Gatorade was still putrid. Cloying. No sore throat. Probably not Covid.

It was now Saturday early evening, around 5 PM. Funky old thermometer, you were still laying on top of my nightstand, in your skinny black case. When I decided to tidy up my nightstand, somehow you went rolling slowly off the back.  I didn’t even think you would break; you were in your case, and you merely rolled off. There were many cords and plugs behind the nightstand that I figured you would be sitting on top of the tangle.

But when I looked I saw you had exploded! Sprung free of your case. I couldn’t believe my eyes! And I couldn’t believe that my childhood thermometer was gone! Just like that! Even before my temperature was normal. This was a disaster.  I got out my phone to look up how to clean up mercury.

Everything online recommended extreme measures; call poison control, wear hazmat gear, warned against the vacuum, warned against sweeping with a broom and instead suggested a painstakingly slow method of using a squeegee. The idea was to create as little motion as possible while slowly and gently coaxing the little balls of mercury into one larger ball.

I needed a second opinion. So, I jumped online and posted in my nerdiest Facebook group, and also on Twitter. Help, how do I clean up mercury from my thermometer?

I really wasn’t up to this task, I felt very overwhelmed both at losing my beautiful old glass thermometer, and not feeling particularly well, and definitely not wanting to be on the floor cleaning up a hazardous mercury spill.  Why does such crazy shit always happen to me? I don’t feel good. I don’t want to clean up a mercury and glass spill. I am anxious about the process.

I’m wearing the big guns N95 mask and extra tough gloves and now the Internet is saying I should have windows open and not have dogs or children in the room. I send little Mini out of my bedroom. I get out my super LED flashlight and shine it slowly across the floor and then I see it; a large spray of mercury balls glittering across my area rug.

Like tiny lice nits, these little mercury balls are everywhere. I wanted to cry. Or maybe I was already crying. I decide I have to take the rug out. Carefully folding it in upon itself to contain the mercury, I slide it towards my exterior bedroom door.  The door is jammed of course, because I never routinely open it. And good thing there wasn’t a fire, only a mercury explosion. Because the door was really stuck. So, I struggle to get the door unstuck, and once opened I carefully and slowly drag the rug out. Leaving it in the backyard. Figuring I’ll deal with it in the morning.

Next, I get down on the floor, with the headlight on shooting the bright beam across the floor, and I see micro balls of mercury. They are everywhere. I clean up what I can, using two pieces of cardboard to gently coax the mercury into a single large ball. I’m wearing gloves, the N95, have trash bags and ziplock baggies. I have a paper plate with a wet paper towel on it.  I pick up most of the glass. I have several different zip bags, everything goes into the bags as I change gloves and get another N95 mask. I take everything and put it outside. And tomorrow I will put it in the trash.

I’m back in denial and I’m pacing around my bedroom and I’m trying to talk myself down. It’s not that big of a deal, I tell myself.  Just a teeny amount of mercury, I cleaned most of it up. It’s not going to get airborne and into my lungs. The windows are still wide open. But then I get anxious and I don’t want to deal with it. So, I leave the bedroom and slam the door. I sleep on the couch until nearly two in the morning. This time I wake up but I am not sick, I just want my bed. And in my denial and my quest for a cozy night’s rest, I go back into my bed. In the morning and in the light of day, I can see quite clearly there are many more micro balls of mercury sprayed under my bed, and all the way across the room, in front of the media cabinet. It’s a micro mercury murder scene.

I decide I need to throw the other area rug out, this one too big for me to handle alone. I call my son-in-law who lives close by. My daughter and son-in-law come over in the afternoon. I read them what the internet says. She waits outside with the dogs.

I give him the flashlight after I feel he’s properly fitted with a mask and gloves.  When he aims the light across the floor, he can see the million mercury balls, and understands why I’m so upset. He helps me get the door open and the large rug out and then we start the mercury cleanup process again.

We move the chair, then the bed and using small pieces of cardboard dipped in shaving cream we dab these little balls and finish cleaning up. It’s painstakingly slow but the Internet warns against sending the mercury airborne. So, we work slowly dabbing and cleaning. I know my son in law thinks I’m nuts. But I’m scared of inhaling mercury. Worried for the dogs and being very ridiculous.  But I can’t help myself. And I’m grateful he helps me.  And grateful that he’s kind about these situations, which occur more than I’d like to admit. 

All the while I’m dabbing mercury with shaving cream, I’m also feeling nostalgic for my thermometer. It was kind of my buddy anytime I was sick, an artifact of my childhood. I can remember my mom shaking it down, putting it under my tongue and sitting on my bed waiting. A worried look on her face.

I can remember when I learned that if I took it out of my mouth when she wasn’t looking and rubbed it really fast on the sheets I could make a fever appear for the days I didn’t want to go to school. I also learned that during the art of making a fake-fever you don’t want to make too high of a fever because then you would have to go to the doctor AND your mother would stay home from work as well. That was terrible and I might as well go to school. So, I learn exactly how many rubs on the sheet for a nice low-grade fake-fever. Nothing over 100.

As my son in law and I finish the last dabs of shaving cream ‘n mercury, I say a silent goodbye to my trusty old glass thermometer. I thank it for hanging out with me for over 50 years.

And I wish that someone could just shake me down to normal. 

Burnside Ave.

SEPTEMBER 13, 2020

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My grandparents lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of an old building that is still standing in the Miracle Mile area of Los Angeles. 

The elevator held 3 people at most; it always smelled somewhere between old people, death and formaldehyde. I used to try to hold my breath for the long ride up as it was very slow and old-fashioned.  

There was a noisy metal accordion gate that my Poppy Harry had to slide open in order to access the actual elevator door.  The elevator door was too heavy for my Grandma Sadie to pull open; it was made of thick metal and had a small jail cell window, complete with thick wire glass.  It was way too high for me to see out, I was around 7 years old and not quite tall enough. Sometimes my Poppy would pick me up so I could look out.  I suppose the window was to see out and avoid opening the door into waiting neighbors.   

Crammed into this smelly elevator, I stood between my short round cozy grandmother, her large purse, and my tall and slim grandfather, who was carrying all my sleepover stuff plus whatever else they had to bring up from the car.     

Poppy Harry was quite physical for his whole life and sometimes I’d take the stairs up or down with him.  But never if my Grandma was with us.  I’m sure that’s because she was not very physical, had a heart condition and already stood on her feet cooking and baking for their small business downtown.  They owned a luncheonette counter in an office building somewhere in downtown L.A. They loved their customers, most of whom were the building maintenance personnel.  And their customers loved them; an older Jewish couple from Newark, NJ who served fresh home-cooked meals for a fair price.  All the food for the counter was cooked by my Grandma in their tiny apartment.

And that apartment was very tiny. One bedroom, one bathroom, with a claw bathtub, no shower. One sink with separate faucets for hot and cold water.

They had no air-conditioning, no view, and their two double hung windows overlooked the back alley. It was clean and tidy and when I say clean I mean Jewish Grandma clean. Sanitized. Cloroxed. Cometed. Windexed and Pledged.

I’d say you could eat off the floor except there was NEVER a time anyone ate ANYTHING off the floor in the history of my family.  If food hit the ground, it was discarded.  And then the floor was cleaned, and your hands were washed.   

My grandmother who loved to cook and bake somehow made do in that tiny kitchen. Once I helped her make Rugalach (a favorite Jewish tradition cream cheese dough, rolled and filled cookie). We prepared three different fillings; raisin-walnut, chocolate chip and strawberry jam. She was an extraordinary baker and rarely wrote her recipes down.

Even as a child I could see how labor-intensive it was to bake. Cracking walnuts by hand. Then hammering the nuts in a baggie with her heavy rolling pin, so they would be the right size to mix with the raisins. The ten million steps for the dough. In and out of the refrigerator. Cutting it into triangles and carefully and lovingly filing each triangle with a dollop of something sweet.  The magic crystal sugar on top.  And the smell of sweet baking while waiting for the different cookie sheets as they went in and out of the oven.  I enjoyed that time with my Grandma so much, I can still remember the expression on her face as we baked. It was a tiny haven, her kitchen of love.   

I felt very grown up to be allowed to spend a night with Grandma Sadie and Poppy Harry. My grandmother was a night owl, staying up past 3 in the morning. When I slept over, I would sleep in her bed in the bedroom with my Poppy and she would sleep on the couch. He went to bed very early, around 8:00PM, so I’d get to stay up later with my Grandma.

In the morning we would go to Van de Kamp’s coffee shop and bakery and have breakfast there. I loved the big windmill outside, and the pastries inside. Orbach’s was right down the street, so we might stop in for some browsing. Back then, it was a long exciting walk, something I rarely did with my parents.  After breakfast and a walk, we’d go back upstairs and I’d play cards with my Poppy. 

Poppy Harry taught me how to play cards, Gin Rummy not Go Fish! He was a card shark. He could tell you what card you were holding and what cards were in the deck anytime we played. And he would get so aggravated if I discarded a card that he needed to win! He didn’t understand why I couldn’t remember all the cards in his hand, in my hand and in the deck. I was probably seven years old when this early gambling took place. Eventually he taught me rummy 500.  I loved playing cards with him, and despite my young age, I’d sometimes win fair and square. Even though he had the deck memorized, I still had luck!

After cards, he’d sit back in his recliner chair to read the Sunday paper.  It was the set up for a coin hunt.  As soon as he would get up from the recliner, my grandmother would say, “hurry--go and see what fell out of his pockets” and I would run to the chair and search the crack and there would be pennies and nickels and dimes that had “fallen out” of his pockets. I would gather up all those coins and my grandmother would ask me how much I got.  And if she didn’t think it was enough, she’d yell at my grandfather in Yiddish to give me more money. 

All in all, I might have collected a dollar or two.  And sometimes my grandma made a secret with me about keeping the money and don’t tell Poppy how much I found. But everybody was in on the secret. Still it was very exciting to have a pocket full of coins when I left my sleep-over at their house.

Another classic story was the time Poppy Harry accidentally cooked some money.  My grandmother hid money all over their apartment.  Including a couple hundred dollars in a paper bag, in their oven.  I’m not sure why she hid money all over the apartment, on rare occasion the super needed access to fix something, they were required to let her know.  But I think she worried that they would come in when she was gone.  Anyhow, being the only cook in the family, I guess she felt safe with her money hiding in her oven. Of course, until that one day my grandfather came up first and turned on the oven.  

Suddenly she smells smoke and realized her money was burning, she began screaming!  “Harry what did you do?” They quickly turned off the oven and pulled out the charred bag of bills.   Of course, my grandfather was aggravated - neither of them had money to burn. For Christ-sakes he would mutter and for cryin’ out loud! He didn’t know there was money in the oven! Oy, my grandmother yelled at him, taking her anger out on him, not muttering but yelling. And usually cursing and most often in Yiddish. 

And he grimaced every time she yelled. I hated it when that yelling went on between them. They were both pretty quiet most of the time. But burning money, well, he’s lucky she didn’t kill him. The story had a happy ending.

Since they had a good relationship with their bank, and were honest people, the bank was able to reimburse them for whatever amount my grandmother told them burned along with the bits and pieces of the charred dollar bills. Thankfully that was the last time she hid money in the oven.

My grandparents were extremely hard workers. One day my grandfather collapsed in the apartment and my grandmother called an ambulance. He was rushed to Cedars of Lebanon, back when the hospital was still up on sunset. He had a bleeding ulcer and he had emergency surgery to stop the bleeding. Along with a blood transfusion. After that, he seemed to rebound and I imagine the tremendous stomach pain he quietly endured had resolved. Shortly after that my parents insisted that they retire. 

When my grandmother was diagnosed with “stomach cancer” there was very little shared with me at the time. She didn’t last very long and my father decided not to tell her she had cancer.  I was already in my early 20s and went to sit with her at the hospital following a surgery. She was very sick. When I arrived she was sitting on a chair by the nurses station, because she was very agitated from the anesthesia after surgery. The nurses found that she was calmer if she could just sit in a chair near their station. She recognized me and was glad for my company.  But she made a small continuous sound of pain. My heart broke to see her suffering.  We made our way back to her room and I sat with her until my Poppy arrived.  That was at the new Cedars-Sinai on Beverly Blvd.

When they sent her home, I was not privy to the discussions with the doctors. My father, their only child, was in charge. I wish I had asked more questions. I remember disagreeing with my dad about not telling her, but he was adamant that she not be told she had terminal cancer. Probably pancreatic, if I had to guess. I would call her every single evening, but she was in so much pain and suffering. She didn’t last long thankfully and after she died, my parents moved my grandfather into a senior living center that was close to their house.  

When I went to help my dad close up my grandparent’s apartment, I checked every pocket of every house-dress, every nook, corner, cranny, every purse, and every drawer - THERE WAS MONEY EVERYWHERE!  Not millions but a few thousand cash. It was a good amount of mad money!

My grandparents grew up in New Jersey. And during the depression, my grandfather who had a milk and bread delivery route, was also running numbers.  He was a “bookie” plus the family was running poker games.  They needed to survive and they managed to make money to feed themselves and their family. 

My tall thin quiet poppy, was a total badass in his youth. Including getting caught with his book, which was thought to be a set up, so he had to do jail time! These fascinating facts were not readily shared and quite honestly hard to imagine. Poppy Harry was just so quiet. So not only was he arrested and served some jail time. Poppy Harry’s brother in law, Sam Van Poznak, spoke to the judge and managed to get him out of jail. 

My Poppy lived a very long time, well into his 90s, his heart was so strong and he was so physically fit. For as long as I could remember, he took super long walks. And he would hold onto both sides of our stair railing and swing back-and-forth. This was a trick he performed for anyone passing by.  He taught me how to whistle thorough my fingers; first using two fingers from both hands and then how to use one hand, forming a circle with my thumb and middle finger.  I can hail a cab New York style thanks to him.  He was quiet but generous.  Quiet but funny.  He loved the fights and when cable first started I would order the games so he could watch. 

He’d sit directly in front of the tv and swing his arms as if he was punching.  Yet I never saw him swing at another person.  Eventually he needed more than a senior living home, and my parents moved him to a group home run by a lovely Filipino family, out in the valley.  He had his own room and he seemed pretty happy.  They ran the home as if everyone was part of a family, celebrating birthdays and holidays. My grandfather did well there until his peaceful death well into his late 90’s.

Two Odes are Better Than One

Ode to Showing up
Ode to comedy; he who laughs, lasts.
Ode to regret; wasted time spent in reverse.
Ode to showing up; even with everyone gone I appreciate the thought that counts.
Ode to loneliness; for always keeping me company.
Ode to depression; makes a real dent.
Ode to feelings; mine love to go out.
Ode to friendship; another vessel has sailed.
Ode to loss; when there’s nothing else to lose.

An Ode To Effort
E is for Effort, an Ode 

An Ode to the Effort of making a Shiva call; the act of visiting the home of a Jewish grieving family after the funeral.  Turns out it was a good way to meet your future spouse, according to my parents.

Speaking of parents, here’s to mine, Judy and Morty, whose same time each year Efforts at Copulation gave me my start in life and three years 3 days later, gave my sister hers.

I’d be remiss without a shout out to Dr. Man’s Name whose efforts in my birth were not nearly as great as those of my mother, although to hear him tell it you’d think differently.

Here’s to my loving grandmothers Molly and Sadie, whose Efforts in the BEST BUBBE Competition nearly resulted in a rabbinical arrest at the first Simcha at Synagogue.

My ode to California, such stellar effort in luring my parents to your beautiful state and saving me from being raised as a Jersey girl.

Here’s to Mrs. Johnson, my kindergarten teacher with the roll of blond bangs, whose efforts to apologize to me in my own home are appreciated even to this day.  Mrs. Johnson, I hope you learned your lesson back in 1962.  You cannot trick a 5-year-old into taking home the wrong tempera painting by rolling it up and securing it with a thick rubber band.  When they say an artist is born, not made, I think I demonstrated that passion by running home from school and telling on you.  My mommy knew right away I hadn’t painted that ugly clown blob; she knew I was still in my Choo-Choo Trains Period. 

An ode to Shirley Firestone, a fabulous abstract artist for her brave efforts to teach abstract oil painting to a bunch of 5th graders every Saturday morning.  Using a palette KNIFE.  And toxic oil paints. Rags. Which culminated in my first group art show, at the local bank. My mom had to purchase a frame for my masterpiece, which cost more than the class and certainly more than the masterpiece was worth. But I learned an important lesson; oil paints never dry and if you don’t sign your work, it’s hard to remember which side is up.