Infected by Elections

  

The “candidate” Jeffrey Larris, my friend, Mindy Duitz Larris, their daughter, Siena Duitz Larris.

Every night, as I sleep, I can count on being entertained/terrorized by whatever has run across my consciousness that previous day or days. Last night’s dream starred none other than my good friend, Jeffrey Larris, who was poised in the dream to run for some office. For those of you who know Jeffrey, politics would probably be the last occupation for which he’d be selected or elected. We love him dearly, but he is a candid person. Enough said.

No doubt, this wacky dream which has me living in a converted school building, has been inspired by the recent announcement that my real-life son-in-law, Mike, is running for City Council. Back to the converted school building. Part of it remains a school with classrooms intact. The other half is apartments, one of which is where I am living with my small child – no resemblance to any of my children. Another apartment is where Mindy, my friend and Jeffrey’s wife, live with their small child, no resemblance to their real child, Siena.

When I learn that Jeffrey is about to announce his candidacy, I begin to try to track him down to let him know that his candidacy has been leaked by the press. (By the way, Jeffrey will be happy to learn that in the dream, he is 47 years old, just a bit older than my son-in-law – you see how the brain just folds ingredients together and comes up with the strangest cake).

I find him running through the streets and the building, trying to escape – something. I’m not sure that he can hear me calling him. I go to Mindy’s apartment and she is upset and wondering where Jeffrey is. She asks if I will look in on her child while she goes to look for him. At some point, she intimates that “things are wrong,” but that she can’t tell me more. “Sorry for the firewall,” she says.

At some point in my strange pursuit of Jeffrey (and Mindy), I am running around unclothed. That’s often the case in my dreams. Lord, what does that mean? I find Mindy and we pledge to help each other.

I begin to meet Jeffrey’s campaign workers. I offer my help. I ask Jeffrey when he plans to do his first press release – pen in hand, I offer to write it for him. He tells me that he has someone to take care of that. He is constantly pursued by his workers and press and I am frustrated at not being able to be more helpful.

The dream ends. I think I have to stop sleeping with my chargers, phone and computer next to my bed.

 1/3/21

New Year’s Day, 2021

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. And who knows how long that will be? I say that with no knowledge of any reason that I can’t expect to live at least as long as my parents, but whoever knows these days what tomorrow may bring.

The sunrise in Pennsylvania was, as usual, spectacular, giving a person hope for this New Year. It has to be better. Lenny and I were awake to greet the New Year, though I had fallen asleep earlier. I rallied, though, and watched as Times Square was a strange concoction of “Planet Fitness People” and others “lucky” enough to be able to be there on such an auspicious New Year’s Eve - auspicious because this year was one of the worst years in recent human history for most people.

My family was lucky – and I say this with no small amount of trepidation that I might perchance throw down a gauntlet to the fates. Please! No more surprises for a while. We’ve had our share, not the least of which were daily reminders that we could fall in the face of the COVID19 scourge. Wearing masks, washing hands, using hand sanitizer has become a daily routine. Being fearful of venturing into any of what used to be familiar haunts – stores, friends’ homes, offices – has become the rule of life. I visit my dear children, Allie and her husband, Mike, and my new grandchild, Clare Sophie, with the keen knowledge that the mask on my face as I enter the hallway that leads to their safe haven apartment could be riddled with the virus from other folks living there. And, what used to be a weekly visit to my other daughter, Lee, her husband Mike and my beloved granddaughters, Lucy and Molly, is an unusual trek which is preceded by testing and all the precautions that make it anything but casual. It’s been exhausting for us all. But we are the lucky ones.

I think of all the many times in history that have tested human endurance. Lenny and I talked about this last night. This has been my generation’s biggest test. The virus was preceded by the election of a man who will go down in history as one of our country’s biggest mistakes. Elected in what was certainly no landslide of confidence in 2016, he became a daily reminder of the havoc and, yes - even death - inept and corrupt leadership can wreak on society. I am still teetering on the brink of disbelief that he will no longer occupy the office on Pennsylvania Avenue. I have confidence in President-Elect Joe Biden. And yes, I am grateful that he has taken on this enormous task at his age. Being almost 72 myself, I fully appreciate the daily summoning of energy and stamina it will require of him. If I were a praying type, I’d be saying daily prayers for his health and that of his wife, Jill. At the very least, I will certainly be sending him and his administration positive vibes.

So, we forge on. We head into 2021 with smiles and hope. My smiles and hope are for my loved ones and the vast circle of amazing people I have in my life. All the crazies. I love them. They make me happy – my children and grandchildren, my cousins, and my friends whom I won’t list here because I will invariably omit someone and sometime in the future someone’s feelings will be hurt. This pretty large group of human beings create the foundation of my life. Lenny is and has been right next to me now for 22 years. I smile as I write that. Our relationship has endured serious tests. But he has never wavered. He’s not a rock. I’ve seen him cry at TV commercials, but he is my best friend and I love him dearly. (I have to insert here that we acquired a dog in 2018 – Trixie – and, as I write, she lies next to me. She is my constant reminder about how important it is to simply love another living being and want to care for them and keep them well.)

I am not someone who likes or even “approves of” New Year’s resolutions. I think they’re a recipe for failure. But here’s as close as I will come to making one. In this year of 2021, I will do my best to grow – in every way (except girth, please!). I want, and here come daunting words, “accomplish,” “achieve,” and “honor –“whether it be in my love for my family, my work or in whatever I do or however I choose to spend my time – hugging my children and grandchildren, working, cooking, walking, eating, playing – let me be mindful of the importance of each and every moment of life and fill it with the best that I have to offer.

 

Reflections: A Tribute to a College Professor and a College Application Letter

pmaliandi@gmail.com

 Reflections: A Tribute to a College Professor and a College Application Letter

Professor Emeritus Leo Nickole ’49 at an event celebrating the 40th anniversary of the Spring Musical at Alumni Weekend, 1993. Photo/Emerson College Archives

There’s a lot of reflection going on during these days of Covid. I can only speak for myself, but with all this time and distance, I find myself better able to digest quietly much of what comes my way. Two things really touched me in different ways this week.

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The first was a tribute to my daughter’s college professor, Leo Nickole. He was a legend at Emerson College in Boston, where Lee studied as an undergraduate. I remember being very impressed as a youngster myself by the theatre department professors at Brooklyn College. They were the artistic gods of their calling then, so I understood the wellspring of emotion that came forth in a zoom tribute with 50+ ( I think) performers singing “Our Time” from “Merrily We Roll Along.” 

This was the last production I saw Lee in at Emerson before she graduated, and the song itself is an anthem to hope for the future. You can imagine how emotional it was to see my daughter, now a second-grade teacher with two daughters of her own, singing her heart out -a heart that held many memories of that time in her life. As I recall (and that is a loaded concept), it was a good time for her. She was living in Boston (the first time she had happily left home. Earlier attempts at sleepaway camp were disastrous) and had lots of friends and a serious boyfriend who, at the time, became part of the family. That was my rosy recollection of my daughter’s time away at Emerson.

The reflection that ensued for me was that I really didn’t know all that much about my daughter’s time at Emerson, save for the few visits we made to Boston to see her in a show. There were more than a few, but they are episodes in my memories - the productions and the roles she played as a young actor. I was so proud. I was living my dream through her and I freely admit it. 

But my reflection revealed to me how little I really know about how my daughter was during those four halcyon years of her life. I am not proud to admit that I wrote few letters to her. There was no text or email in those days, which makes life these days for parents of college-age students so much easier.

She came home for holidays, of course, and other occasions, with boyfriend in tow, and I remember (and remember what I said about my rose-colored memory) that she always seemed happy. But what did I know? I was in an emotional maelstrom, fighting for my life, and I was only too glad that she was far away. The maelstrom was my second husband who had deteriorated mentally (bipolar was the diagnosis) and I was doing my best to keep my head and the little head of my second daughter (only 5 or 6 at the time) above water. 

I lost so much during those years – my own wellbeing took a hit from which I barely recovered. My little daughter still bears the scars and struggles on in the face of the fact that she has no father (to speak of) and is now expecting her first child. But, in the context of this reflection, I lost my first child. When she came back to me after graduation, and she always comes back in her glorious resilient way, she was a fully formed woman. And, I expect, what was fully formed were her opinions of me and the deep sadness she must have felt somewhere inside knowing that I was inaccessible to her during those years – trying to hold my own in a second marriage that was one of the worst decisions of my life, and trying to raise a second child in the maelstrom.

The second thing I found most touching this week was an essay that my current love found in an anthropological dig in his archive of collections. It was written by his daughter, who is now 26, wrote when she was applying to attend Temple University. I found it both fascinating and impressive incorporating both the strategy of “tugging at the heartstrings,” which she described as “self-aggrandizement,” while telling a story that was horrifying from the standpoint of the child who experienced it. She told of a time when her 7-year old self was left alone in her house. She didn’t remember why and doesn’t address that unusual fact in the essay. She simply says, “Who knows why?” or, “I can’t remember.”

At some point, the alarm went off in the house and she was completely terrified and ran to hide in the bathroom. Then, instead of leading the reader through a narrative about how this experience traumatized her for life, she credits and thanks her parents for having provided enough tests in her childhood to make her the “mature, self-assured, self-determined” individual that she has become. 

Reading her essay, I felt her pain, knowing that her independence grew out of her ability to build the defenses she needed in life to withstand the many obstacles that life can bring – the divorce of her parents, adolescence going between two households including dealing with new step siblings in her life who weren’t always accepting. 

This is a tough young lady. At a recent party for the birthday of her father, she made a very touching speech (which, of course, she had written) that was filled with gratitude for the love and support that he had given her over the years. She also thanked him for accepting her sexual exploration, a revelation that was both poignantly honest and brave. But this is Rebecca.

What is the substance of my reflection during these moments when we all yearn for our children and wish that we could be living in a “family village” with all loved ones around us? I think we often make it very difficult for our children to love and respect us. They must work hard to overcome the obstacles that we often selfishly and mindlessly throw their ways. I could list the endless decisions I’ve made that have affected my kids and I see it all around me in others. Then, I also see those who fearfully live their lives to protect their children at every turn from life’s demons. It can’t be done.

Alice and Frank

I met Alice in 1978 when I was hired as the Advertising and Promotion Director at WOR Radio. I was so young, so excited to have the job, so ready to be a young professional. Alice was the Public Affairs Director. It was “dislike at first sight.” Not sure why, but we just didn’t hit it off. She was all sophistication . . . all Manhattan . . . Alice would hail limos, not cabs. Alice had personal shoppers. Alice had a mink she called Henry.  This was Alice. She just couldn’t help it.

It may come as no surprise that the city mouse and the Brooklyn girl started to find that they could be allies. We’d walk the corridors of the radio station arm in arm and people would know that trouble was coming. And we got in a lot of trouble in those days. When Alice announced she was leaving the radio station to take a job in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, it absolutely broke my heart. But, I threw a party at a dance club and charged it to my expense account. 

Over the years, Alice lived through all my marital woes, the birth of my girls, my career transitions – and she had a few of her own. She left Florida and came back to New York. Finally, she left broadcasting and entered a whole new career in the New York Courts system. She quickly rose to the top of her area and became the favorite of most of the judges in New York State.

But something was missing. Alice wanted more. When she announced that she was moving to New Jersey, I was not the only one of her friends who was stunned. How could it be? But Alice explained it so that it made sense. Her commuting for two hours each way from her new home in North Brunswick NJ made sense. She had her furry friends – Sasha and Ashley – and continued her busy single involved life with the Links, her church, and other organizations. There was never a moment when Alice wasn’t in charge of something or flying off to some reunion or convention.

I had already gone through two husbands when Alice called me to let me know that she had gotten married – not that she was planning to get married, but she had just gone and done it. I must admit that I was very sad that she didn’t invite me, that I wasn’t there to see her take a step I never thought she’d take. I don’t know why she didn’t invite me. But as I tried to process that decision on her part, my decision was not to be angry at her.

It wasn’t too long before we met her Francis, as she called him, “my Francis.” It was on the floral arrangement at the funeral home yesterday when we saw the incredible man who was her husband, whom we’d come to know as Frank, in his final repose. When I first heard about their marriage, I remember thinking how ironic the whole thing was – Alice, now a married lady – and Italian!

Alice chose this man for his incredible kindness, gentleness, sweetness – and he chose her right back. His entire extended Italian family chose my friend Alice, an African-American woman raised in Harlem, to be part of their family. Frank had been widowed and had four children and grandchildren. He even had a dog, Jenny,  that Alice came to adore, this woman who only had cats.

At today’s funeral, I got reacquainted with the many people whom I’d met before in Alice circle – all her sorority sisters (the Links), neighbors, her family, Frank’s family. “Their” great grandchildren (they call her GIGI) sat on her lap at the cemetery. At the repast after the burial, seated with two of her wonderful Links sisters, Maxine and Marge, and two of her dear old friends, Vera and John Smith, I remarked that I thought that my friend Alice had done more for integration than most. The picture of her family, all gathered in support of her and in celebration of “her Francis,” is, in her own words, a “United Nations of families” – black, white, Hispanic, Italian and every other imaginable ethnicity.

Vera and I speculated about how Alice might move forward. She was married to Frank for seventeen years. But, I can tell you that my friend Alice will live another life and continue to spread love and get love wherever she goes. 

She just can’t help it. 

Country Thoughts: Vulnerability and Ferocity

Whenever I visit our home in Pennsylvania, I have a feeling of being closer to nature, closer to the earth. That may have something to do with the fact that our windows face nothing but forest, trees, deer, and chipmunks. We don't hear the incessant cacophony of leaf blowers and lawn movers. Perhaps my age is showing, but the peace and quiet is comforting and the solitude is nurturing.

In recent months, I have been surrounded by news and reality about people in my life experiencing health issues (myself included) and the ultimate transition we all face - death.  I don't think I'm anywhere near dying, but it has given me pause to think about how we all face life's last ultimatum.

Having experienced my beloved parents' transitions during the past two years, I had a first hand view into how well they were, or were not prepared for this passage.  Most recently, I also was fortunate enough to observe a colleague who had been valiantly dealing with the ravages of cancer for ten years, whose courageous demeanor and bearing during the last month of her life was a model for all of us. All this observation provided some information about how I think we can all prepare for this eventuality.

All of us are born into this world with built-in obsolescence.  That is, from the day we are "driven out of the lot," our minds and bodies begin to take on the appearance of every genetic marker and every environmental factor that our lives inherit and encounter. So, we are naturally vulnerable. Vulnerability.

How we choose to deal our our natural vulnerability is how we face our lives.
When I was younger, I never gave it a thought. I simply moved from situation to situation, illness to illness, diagnosis to diagnosis, taking the medication and doing my best to follow doctor's orders, including all emotional and mental episodes. Back then, I didn't see the cumulative picture of my vulnerability bucket, so to speak, not thinking much about it, just moving on.  But I was very lucky.

I was the fortunate recipient of a genetic predisposition to be fierce.  I wouldn't have characterized myself that way until recently, but looking back I can see that my knee-jerk reactions (that were often not carefully considered) were most of the time fierce retorts to my innate vulnerability.

The memory of my mother and father has helped me to arrive at this juncture where I can see that without a determination or a predisposition to be fierce in the face of life's ultimatum, we would all be victim's of our innate vulnerability. My father, without having the awareness to name it, was the fiercest person I have ever known.  In the face of many major illnesses, he got himself up and honored his life, loved his loved ones and continued to be a creative and positive force for all of us.

My poor mother, on the other hand, was the victim of vulnerability long before she really had to stand up for herself at death's door.  Her tough childhood along with a sheltered (of her own making) marriage, did not prepare her for the ultimate test - my father, her protector, died first. It wasn't supposed to happen that way.

What does this all mean to me?  Or to anyone who sees any meaning in my theory?  We are all vulnerable. But we have a choice about how we deal with that vulnerability.  My choice is to face everyday with the resolve to be fierce, to love my loved ones with every bit of strength I can muster and to honor myself and my work.  That said, I know that in the throes of illness or pain (mental or physical), it is often difficult. But understanding is always a great focus from which I can always summon strength.  For that I am very grateful. And I am very sad for those who cannot see the peace that it brings.

Spring Dream

I love dreams because they reach into the deepest recesses of our psyches and retrieve data that is then combined with reality to create stories either that mean absolutely nothing, or are sign posts to places we need to explore further. In this dream I am in an apartment like the ones I've inhabited in Brooklyn and Montclair -in upper floors of older homes.  Everything is old and cozy. 

My daughter has decided to leave (no sign of her husband in this dream).  Is she going long-term? for the evening?  Don't remember.  But I am left to care for little Molly, my granddaughter. 

But most of the dream centers on my friend Diana, who has also decided that she is moving, without her husband Evan, who is also in the dream, and being very helpful about her move.  They decide to go to Manhattan to shop for items for her new place. 

When they come back, they have purchased a very spiffy and shiny armoire and other items, which Evan is busy putting together.  By the way, this Evan is not like the Evan I've seen and met.  The Evan in my dream has long hair in a pony-tail and his hair is streaked with some kind of plastic highlight that he picks off throughout the dream.

At some point, I decide that I need to prepare some food.  I pull together salad of fruit and other items.  I think it is just enough and then Lenny tells me that we need to invite more people because we have so much food. 

Diana also helps me to sort the fruit and salad.  I have somehow put them altogether an unappetizing jumble.  She asks me if I have bigger bowls, and, of course I do and I supply them. There is a small fruit in the mix that looks like a small pineapple but when opened reveals lots of little colored berries.  Molly loves this and I show her how to open the pineapple. 

I don't remember much more except the feeling that I was redecorating the place a little at a time throughout and feeling like it was an improvement over the shabby, dreary place it was. 

Go figure. Yesterday, I had salad for lunch and salad for dinner and a small portion of cheese as a treat later in the evening.  The rest of it?  Diana has figured in my life as someone whom I love and admire and whose relationship with her husband I admire.  Caring for my little granddaughter is something that is very natural to me as it is in the dream.  But where's my other granddaughter, Lucy?  And, hilariously, Lenny makes a brief appearance to advise me on the food, which is a constant in our relationship.  He's always advising me about one thing or another, but especially about food. 

Must have something to do with the spring cleaning blog I just wrote.  

 

New Years Day 2015: Musings

Waking up this morning, New Year's Day, my mind started to wrap itself around the concept of 2015.  It really seems, like no other New Year, the beginning of the rest of my life. 

I no longer have parents on earth.  One after another, they left and my life goes on without them, though I miss them sorely, especially my dear smiling happy father. 

I have a challenging new career in real estate, which I still find curious, frightening and exciting. 

I turn to my beautiful children, grandchildren, extended family, my partner, Lenny, and dear friends now and going forward for foundation, for comfort, for support, for fun.  Having no siblings, I have always said that I made my family of friends.  I have, therefore, many sisters and brothers, but we are not blood relatives.  No matter.  They have meant as much to me and have loved me perhaps better than siblings could. 

But I'm thinking about the future and what it will hold.  I'm not morbidly musing on how long I may live, though learning this morning about the death of a friend from college poises me to know that this will start to happen more and more as I get older and older. 

No . . . I'm musing about how things will change, evolve, progress.  After having a lovely celebratory meal in a lovely restaurant last night, I wonder what the future of good food and fine dining will be.  I began to think that someday we may all take a pill once a day that will provide us with all the nourishment our bodies require.  Think about all the food accouterments that will become antiques, unneeded - pots, pans, dishes, cutlery, stoves, refrigerators, dining rooms furniture.  The list is endless.  No need for a kitchen at all.  No need for a dining room at all. 

Houses will shrink.  And as entertainment devices become smaller and smaller and mobile, no need for living space to accommodate screens and comfy chairs.  No more barcaloungers. 

Our homes simply will be spaces to accommodate our sleeping needs.  And who knows how that could change. 

Oh!  And no need for garages or driveways - only small landing pads to accommodate the landing and take-off of our personal transportation devices. 

Old fashioned types or those who remember the "good old days" when families actually sat down to a meal together, or shared family time, will be considered bohemian - or worse - criminals.  There will be farms that will be set up to house these rebels and keep them separated from society.  As in the film "Fahrenheit 451" where people became living books in a society that banned and burned them, these foodie bohemians will roam the fields of the fooditentiaries talking about menus, recipes, ingredients, and china patterns.

So, in 2015, my mind is moving to what the world might evolve to be.  But seriously, my prayer is that the world evolves to be at all.  Food is an easy fantasy subject for me, and so my fantasies don't move in the direction of things that are cataclysmic or terrifying.  Daily life provides enough of that. 

I'd take the food supplements over terrorism, deaths from handguns, and the bitter hatred that seems to grip our country.  I'll take the nourishment of knowing that my grandchildren and their children and grandchildren will have a world as lovely as the one I've known, to enjoy in their future.

The lovely view from our Pennsylvania retreat

 

Thanksgiving 2014 - Loss and Gratitude

"Write."  "Write about it," said my friend.

This was a most unusual Thanksgiving.  My children were not present.  My grandchildren were not present. 

A months and some days after my mom passed on, I decided to spend this family holiday with her family/my family, something I had always wanted to do WITH her.  But, for many reasons, it never came to pass.  These were the cousins and Aunt whom I'd spent summer vacations with.  My mom, dad and I would trek up to New England and visit and enjoy the family she had left behind when she left with her Italian sailor after the war, to set up household in his native Brooklyn. 

So I caught up with my dear dear Aunt Jean (the wife of my mom's older brother), who will be 94 in March 2015 - and

Me and Aunt Jean

she will make it.  She was as full of life and love as she ever was.  Sadly, it reminded me of how my mom didn't take advantage of this wonderful spirit, who loved her and expressed it over and over again yesterday.  Did I say that Aunt Jean is having some issues with memory and repeats herself?  A lot.

It was a bittersweet occasion.  Trying to be very much in the mode of living in the moment, I enjoyed every second of my dear cousins - George, Cynthia, Paula, Carl - and their children - Neil, Mallory, Joel.  And, of course, my mother's own dear cousin Phyllis and her husband Charlie were there too.

There wasn't a lot of discussion about my mom's passing, except my Aunt asked me a few times when she died, and then followed the answer with expressions about how much she loved my mom and dad.  Somehow, I didn't tire of hearing about it.  It was genuine and coming from her heart.

One of my missions during this trip was to find a good place to deposit my mom's ashes.  Half of them have already gone to the Veterans Cemetery in Southern New Jersey to join and be next to my dad's.  His headstone is engraved with his ever constant reminder to "Keep Smiling."  And hers will bear her ever constant reminder to live "one day at a time."  They'll be there together.

But I wanted her to be also interned with her family in New England - the family that meant so much to her, the family that also burdened her for life with the sad scars of her childhood.  And so, with my two dear cousins, George and Cynthia, and with Lenny, we deposited her ashes at the grave site of her family, which will also be the grave site of my dear Aunt Jean. 

We visited all my cousins family homes throughout the town of Attleboro, Massachusetts, which were also the places I had visited and stayed as a child.   Such good memories.  And we visited my Aunt's last home (before she moved on to the extraordinary assisted living facility where where she currently lives), which will soon become the home of my cousin Mallory, George and Cynthia's beautiful and talented daughter.  This young lady was blessed with great gifts.  She is both a talent artist and performer.  And her life has been challenged since she was a little girl by what could be insurmountable physical issues.  But, sit and listen to Mallory talk about her life and learn a life lesson from someone so young.  She is an inspiration.

All in all, this was a very filling and satisfying Thanksgiving.  And, I'm not even talking about the extraordinary repast that was set forth by my wonderful cousins.

I returned my mother to the place of her birth - the place where she experienced joy and sorrow.  The place where she met my father and was spirited away to another life, away from everything she ever knew (reminds me of a song from "Fiddler on the Roof").  And she always fantasized about returning, even though the tales of her childhood suggest that she was best served by the escape engineered by the Italian prince who was my father.

More than anything, I want to develop this connection with these wonderful folks, with whom I share DNA and extraordinary history.  We share music, memories and yes, the pain of family history that is not always positive.  But we are positive.  Beautifully so.

I want to share and grow old with them.  I want to share my children and grandchildren with their children and grandchildren and I want to share my life with their life.  It's a great gift.  The greatest gift. 

To Sleep Perchance to Dream

It has almost been one year since my dear dad moved up.  I still have a little problem thinking of him as gone, dead, deceased, no more.  The daily reality of my life has been an exercise in keeping myself steady, healthy, engaged and positive.  I have things to do.  I have my mother to care for.  I have my partner and children and grandchildren to care about. 

But when the night comes and I close my eyes to go to sleep, all bets are off.  My dream world is a world where I'm visited by everyone and anyone who has ever entered my life - from old employers, to former husbands to good friends to children to the most casual of acquaintances.  Most people have dreams, so when I first experienced such graphic and sometimes frightening dreams, I attributed it to medication - always an easy answer to anything.

As time has passed, though, I am more and more fascinated by what my mind shows me each night.  There is one recurring theme.  I am usually being marginalized in some way or criticized in some way.  Does this mean that at the core of my being, I am still not pleased with who I am?  Do I still feel that I deserve to be ignored or punished - for what?

 That's why last night's dream was so different.  In the dream, I was hosting a birthday party (though at times it seemed like a wedding party) for my younger daughter.  All her friends were there.  The house in which we were living was bigger than my house.  In the midst of the chaos of young girls reveling, my friend D. came by with a gift for me.  By the way, my friend D. is a genuinely giving and loving person, so it seemed real that she would bring me a gift.

I was surprised and delighted to receive a gift.  The gift was in many parts.  There were silk flowers, ribbons, small vases - a crafter's dream.  I expressed my delight at the gift but couldn't focus on it because of the cacaphony.  She seemed upset, which is so unlike D.  She seemed to have been drinking.  I asked her what was wrong and she said that my house always seemed so much nicer than her house. 

Somehow we wound up at her house - next door - where all the parents of the kids at my house wound up, as well.   Her house was, indeed, not up to its usual standard of tidiness.  There was dust everywhere and a fountain in the middle of her living room was stagnant and was polluted with all kinds of garbage and litter.

D. continued to drink and all the adults suggested that it might be a good idea to pray with her.  Switch to reality - anyone who knows me knows that I am not a praying person.  I have been known to meditate and focus my positive energy, but the concept of prayer as I was taught as a child is not one that I can easily practice.  So, in the dream, I do suggest prayer to D. and she accepts the idea as a possible antidote to her depression.  We all sit in a circle in the stagnant pool of water, holding hands and praying.  That image, in and of itself, is rich with interpretation.  But being in the middle of the circle, I cannot even begin to understand.  Am I D.?  Am I me? 

The dreams ends with me, D. and her husband walking to the beach.  He is much thinner than I have known him to be and he has long hair and a pony tail.  We are talking about a former acquaintance and I share that I thought he had drug problems. 

If you think that this dream is a dire warning from my psyche that I should be seeking help - or, if you think that I should be changing diet immediately to exclude wasabe peas immediately before bedtime, I am accepting all ideas and suggestions. 

This dream is only one of a nightly excursion to places I never asked to go.  But perhaps I am asking.  As Shakespeare wrote, ""We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep."

To Sleep Perchance to Scream

Everyone dreams. What do they mean?  Are you sleeping when you're dreaming, or in that half lit room between waking and sleeping? 

There are many ideas around dreaming.  For example, I've read that you cannot die in your own dreams; that you are all the people in your dreams; that dreams are a view into your psyche.  Dreams are the
 

If any of these are true, my dreams over the past year are a view into a very complicated and disturbed world where friends, relatives, former husbands, former employers and almost anyone who has come into my life will make an appearance.  And usually, these appearances are fraught with emotional and behavioral extremes that might have motivated Freud to write a new chapter.

The Window

Years ago, when I was dealing with a family member with mental illness, I remember a medical professional telling me that the "window of opportunity" for being able to reach him was closing rapidly.  It was a metaphor that would stay with me.

Last year my father died and my 89 year-old mother came to live with me.  She was in shock -  confused and grieving (my father's diagnosis and death took place in one short month) .  She was, herself, not in the greatest physical health.  At that time, I thought there might be a way for us to heal what had been a troubled relationship.  I understood all the dimensions of the situation - her enormous needs, my needs, and her cantankerous and negative personality.  Yet, I had hope.  I was her only child and she was my only mother.  One can always hope.

 So the window, I thought, was open a bit and some positive energy might flow through.

Mom and Me just days after Dad died

During the ensuing months, there were light moments, happy moments, and time shared with family.  Then one of the worst winters in my memory set in, and we found ourselves confined and no way for mom to get out.  In hindsight, it was probably the emotional slope she was seeking to slide down. 

By spring, when it was time for us to get out and enjoy the world again, she had slid down the slope more than halfway.  There was no more lunch at T.G.I. Fridays.  There was no  more coming to the dinner table and sharing meals with us.  Her comprehension of where she was and who I was and who anyone was (except Lily, the nurse who is with her everyday) had become erratic.  Sometimes she would call my name, sometimes my dad's and sometimes those of her deceased siblings.

I understand that a shock of monumental proportions, like the death of a partner you'd shared your life with for almost 68 years, can hasten dementia and its associated physical manifestations.

So, the window has almost closed.

Now, almost one year after the death of my father, she is bedridden and doesn't want any visitors.  She refuses all assistance to move, and only accepts assistance to eat.   She can only focus briefly on anyone or anything and signals her disengagement by closing her eyes.  You are dismissed.

I know that she only wants to have her life back the way it was.  She asked Lily to take her home, to which Lily replied, "You are home."  But this has never been her home, in spite of all our efforts to make it comfortable and homey.  Her home was with my father, and when she closes her eyes, she sees him and home.

This makes more frustrated than sad.  I do mourn the loss of any thread of a relationship we might have developed.  Spending a few days with my partner's 90 year-old mother made me understand only too clearly how needy I am for that relationship.  But I'm frustrated that a life ends this way and there seems to be nothing one can do about it, but wait.

We have windows, though, in all our relationships - with our spouses, our children, and our friends.  If we want them to be open with all the good and positive energy flowing back and forth, we must
do due diligence to make sure they're always in good working order.  If I take away anything positive from this experience, it will be that I'll be checking my windows everyday. 

Essentials

My honey gave me an atomizer for Christmas which infuses the air with soothing aromas.  I have a collection of essential oils which were given to me by a dear friend when I had surgery last spring and I love the essences of lavender, eucalyptus, and wintergreen I breathe in and out as I relax or sleep.

It got me thinking about essence.  I realize that unconsciously I have always been a person who intuitively relates to another person's essence - that part of a person that some might call soul.  But essence is more than that.  It's the "control center" of being, where all our feelings are housed.  All good and bad impulses originate in our personal "control centers," originate from our essence.  Our essence defines us.  Depending on the balance of qualities in our essence, we are perceived by others to be good, bad, friendly, sad, giving or any other quality that a human being can manifest.

My essence sensibility was called upon this year when my father died and my younger daughter decided to put a distance between us - obviously two very different and separate events, but with similar effect.  One is lost to me forever and the other is lost to me, I hope, until she completes an emotional journey. 

These two people have been essential parts of my "control center."

My father was at the core of my being.  To the degree that I am adventurous, creative, happy, loving, giving - my father is the model who helped me to develop those qualities.  His personality embodied them.

When I think of him now, when I relate to his essence, it is a near meditative state of remembrance and love, and it puts one big smile on my face.  Since his death I have been taking care of my mourning mother and his essence is always around us lightening the mood, infusing me and, I believe to some degree, my mother, with his insistent joy and determination to live well.

I am so grateful to be able to have him near me all the time in this way and I practice feeling him and seeing him.

Though my daughter's "control center" is probably doing everything to block any impulses coming from me, I am enjoying her, in her absence, in the same way that I am enjoying my father.  I can see her.  I can hear her laugh.  I can understand and feel her pain and my arms are around her everyday in this way.  It's very comforting to me since I cannot have it any other way at the moment.

A very good example of how this works relates to my very dear and adorable granddaughters.  I don't live around the corner from them and can't see them as much as I'd like to.  Though I could always call them or "Skype,"  it's ultimately an unfulfilling communication with small children.  "Hi Nonna."  "How are you?"  "Fine . . . "  So I feel their magical essences around me all the time - their zany, creative and loving presences in my life.  For example, I will enjoy every minute with them of the trip they are taking this weekend to Boston.  I will even feel the periodic fatigue, exhaustion and exasperation of my daughter and son-in-law as they tour a big city with two little girls in
tow.  Exhausting elation.

Perhaps there is a religion that practices this type of meditation.  If not, then perhaps I have hit upon something.  Whatever it is, whenever I can't be near someone I love, I meditate on who they are and the energy they have projected into the world, and I feel that I have them with me. 

Breaking Bread with Veterans

Last night I had the honor to be among about thirty veterans who are in a treatment facility in New Jersey for post traumatic stress disorder.

A friend and neighbor of mine has been visiting this group for a few years.  Every couple of months, she organizes dinner and entertainment which she delivers, sets up and serves.  Then, she and then participates in the event.  I have been contributing food for some time, but last night was the first time I was able to join in.

The dinner fare was humble - hot dogs (kosher and non-kosher), potato salad, green salad, cole slaw, beans, and all the hot dog fixings anyone could want.  The entertainment was lively - a piano player who delivered some rousing renditions of boogie, Motown and rock classics.  

As we assembled the food, some of the vets visited us in the kitchen, offering their help, but mostly seeking the company and conversation.  I was overwhelmed by their openness and gratitude.  Those who sought our company were very open and forthcoming about their experience and what life became for them upon their return from service.

During the entertainment, I sat between two vets, one who had served more than seven tours in Afghanistan and Iraq.  The other was my age and a Vietnam vet.  His name was Wally.  He and I were instant friends being only a year apart in age.  I couldn't help but reflect on his life's journey compared to mine.  These guys still move in the military way.  They salute each other, but it's with humor and the camaraderie that can only come from being that close to death. 

The other, Diego, was my daughter's age, and said that he'd be getting back to his poetry to help him reassemble the shattered puzzle that his life had become after seven service tours.  He gave me a wristband that he had worn overseas which I will treasure forever.

At one point in the evening, Mike, another Vietnam vet, invited me to dance.  Mike uses a cane, but was nonetheless spirited and so happy to be up on his feet and enjoying the music.  I asked him when he'd been in Vietnam.  "1969," he said.  "You were probably a hippy," he added.  I responded that I did protest the war.  He replied that he did too upon his return from Vietnam.

Young Albert (23 years old) broke my heart.  He talked about his love of his dog, whom he'd rescued from a kill shelter.  "Both of us have PTSD," he said. "So he understands me."

In spite of their experiences, or because of them, these veterans start their lives again.  Most were men, but there was one woman there who described her two tours, and said that she returned so shattered that she was unable to be a mother to her son.  But when they return, they start from a premise that most of us could never fathom - to have killed and to have part of your spirit killed along the way.

I reflect on my own father, who passed away last year.  He returned from World War II having served in the Pacific.  He returned with some photos, his uniform, a medal, but very few stories about his service.  As he got older, I would seek out the recollections and he would share in his way.  He was always an upbeat guy and so his spin on the experiences was usually humorous.  He was lucky.  He didn't seem traumatized and he managed to return to his world and resume his life in a productive and positive way. 

But that's not the way many, may I say most, of these vets return. 

I will go back to visit again.  Perhaps I will see some of the vets and some new ones.  They rotate in and out.  You can't leave without feeling like you should have done more.  You could have done more.  So, I say to all you folks who only have a cursory experience with veterans - just give one hour or day of your life to these folks who have given so much.  And who will continue to give because there is simply no other way for them to live.

It's the least we can do.

Hi Dad

Last night I had a dream.  I believe that we comfort ourselves in dreams and learn from them.  Also, I'd like to believe that dreams are ways in which we are touched from other dimensions of experience, so last night I believe that I heard from my dad. 

In the dream I was traveling on a bus to one of my childhood homes in Bergen Beach, Brooklyn.  However, I was not traveling inside the bus, but hanging on the side poised on a ridge.  The bus driver asked if my parents would be upset if they knew how I was riding and I said, "yes."  When I got to the bus stop, which I recognized from memories of taking the bus to that location many times in my youth, I instructed the bus driver to let me off.  As I started to walk away from the bus, he called to me and said I'd left my brief case and bag behind.  So, this was a grownup me.

I continued to walk the streets (Avenue U in Brooklyn) to where we lived.  When I reached our street, nothing looked the same.  Everything had been reconstructed and looked bigger and stranger.  When I got to my house, the whole facade was open and under construction.  My dad was standing in what would have been the living room and said, "how do you like it?  Isn't it cool?"  At the end of the driveway, blocking access to the driveway, were three concrete structures.  Each one house a concrete object:  in the first was a sports car, in the second were a giant pair of sneakers and I can't remember what was in the third.  Dad explained that eventually, these structures would house the "real things."  My father always dreamed of having a mercedes sports convertible and lived most of his adult life in sneakers.  I'm assuming the third structure was for him..

After I entered the house, my dad was no longer there, but a younger version of my mother was, and she seemed frantic because the house was such a mess.  She was dealing with someone (a neighbor?  a worker?) and she was explaining that the house didn't usually look so messy. 

Then it seemed that she was supposed to babysit someone and I said that it would be impossible under the chaotic circumstances, but she said that it would be OK and the parent should just bring the child over. 

That's all I recall of the dream. 

Seeing my dad again was great.  I miss him so much.  Seeing a younger version of my mom was also great.  I think it's obvious that their house was transitioning to the structures in the driveway which looked like giant sepulchres. 

Bye Dad

Blogging is good.  I look back on some of these entries and I learn so much about the process I've been through and about my parents.  Now, my dear sweet loving talented dad is gone.  And my mom is with me.  And I will honor his love and memory with the best love and care that I can give her.  It's what I can do.

We gave him the best care we could . . . and when his poor wracked body could stand no more, we gave him the best send-off that we could, with so much love.  He was SO loved.

So I share here the words I shared at the memorial service yesterday.  I was so very moved by all the loving family, friends and colleagues who showed up to say goodbye to my dad and to honor him.  He deserved every word of praise and every salute that he received.  My son-in-law, Mike, will take the flag that was presented to my mother (what a touching moment) and make sure it is properly stored and loved.

Today my mom shed some tears (first time if you can believe it) and it bolstered my resolve to make sure that my dad's intention to care for her will be my intention.  He speaks now through me and I have no doubt about what he would want.

Life is demanding and difficult, but we are human beings, and the love we take is equal to the love we make. 

Dad's Eulogy

I actually wrote this some months back, when my father wasn’t ill, or so we thought.   I was inspired to write about him and put it away because I knew that when the time came I wouldn’t be able to get any coherent words on paper. 

As anyone who knew my father will confirm, he was quite a character.  A wonderful – larger than life, loving, passionate character. 

Thomas Edison had nothing on my dad.

Few people realize that Joseph Maliandi had 17 patents listed with the U.S. Library of Congress, developed when he had his own photographic manufacturing business.

 He was inventive. 

And that spirit of invention extended to his oral autobiography — he could have taken a few patents out on the highly original and wonderfully creative stories he loved to tell us about his life. Like . . . that he played minor league baseball, and was first on the field when the umpire shouted "Play ball!" Oh!  And that he worked as an extra in Hollywood westerns, after having learned to ride horses in the days when he was stationed on the West Coast in the Navy. While records exist to prove he indeed served in the Navy, the rest is a bit harder to pin down. But no matter -- the way the light danced in his eyes when he spoke told us that these tales were real to him and part of who he was.  A great storyteller.  Someone who saw himself as larger than his life, and so he truly was.

 His nickname - Buddy - was no random label. No one who ever met my father ever walked away saying anything less than “What a great guy!” You immediately wanted to be his friend. He immediately became your Buddy.

He started out in life wanting to be a song and dance man. It was noted in his autograph book when he graduated from middle school. His dreams were nurtured by his idols, Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra. And in turn, when I was growing up, my dreams were nurtured by my father's songs.

No matter the occasion or situation, my father had a song for it. It was his way of expressing how he felt. When my daughter Lee got married, my then 78-year-old father got up on stage with the orchestra and rendered a very touching version of “Try A Little Tenderness,” which he had lovingly rehearsed at home for weeks before. No one who was at that wedding will ever forget that moment. It was the greatest gift he could have given to his granddaughter — the pure, melodious expression of his love.

Then there was a moment just a few years ago when he got up on stage at the senior center where he lived, as part of a musical revue of classic Tin Pan Alley songwriters like Johnny Mercer, and sang a version of “Accentuate the Positive” that no one will every forget.  Because that was my dad. 

Especially in his later years he was relentlessly positive in the face of some pretty tough stuff. He was a survivor of two kinds of cancer and a triple bypass. But my dad hardly ever let anyone know that he might be sad or in pain. 

He was frustrated.  He retired from his business of inventing and manufacturing photographic equipment just around the time that the digital era was chasing all his business paradigms out the door.  But, even after retirement, he tried and tried to learn to use a computer and drove us all a little crazy with his own “inventive” ways with technology.  Enough said.

My dad was a lifesaver. He would help anyone, anytime. He literally saved my life when I was a kid when I was drowning at Rockaway Beach. Not a flamboyantly muscular man, he summoned everyone ounce of strength to propel himself through undertow and impossibly strong surf to reach out and grab me and my friend who had been dragged out beyond the point at which we could stand. I always called it the “leap of love.”

I've always said that he spoiled me for any other men because he became, for me, the model of what a man should be, and few measured up to his example. 

My dad was a lover. Recently, in the course of expressing frustration with their situation and my mother’s stubborn determination to live independently, without assistance,  I asked him to be tougher with her and not to give in to her demands. And he told me, “Honey, I love her. She’s the love of my life. I can’t be any other way.”  

And truly, he couldn’t be any other way -- as he was with me. He was always there with extra everything – hugs, love and now and then some spare cash saved from what he called his “allowance.” “Don’t tell your mother,” he would say, in a conspiracy of love between us.

The sight of his great grandchildren, Lucy and Molly, would bring him figuratively and literally to his knees.  It was always such a joy to see him down on the floor playing with the girls – Scrabble or whatever they wanted to play – or pushing Molly’s bike along the sidewalk.  He would summon every ounce of strength that he still had, and it never seemed like an effort.

I often found myself wondering how he got to be such a generous and happy fellow. And I took a lesson from this. My father was an only child – the only SON – of two doting Italian parents, Nick and Pauline.  He was the apple of their eye.  My Nana called him JOJO. How tough it must have been to send him off, at age 19, to World War II.  But her love – their love – was unconditional.  And my father learned that love from them.  Whatever he had, he gave to my mother, to me and to the rest of our family.

And now, I'd like to think he's singing his heart out somewhere, perhaps comparing musical notes with Frank and Gene, Bing and Judy. Maybe he's enjoying a ride on Pegasus, twirling a rope just like he did in those Hollywood westerns. Or he's in the on-deck circle, taking some practice swings in the Interstellar League. And the umpire motions to him. "Buddy," he says, "play ball!"

Forgetting Mom

Watching Wimbledon today and being very invested emotionally in the relationship between Andy Murray, who would become the first Brit in 27 years to win Wimbledon, and his mother - in the stands - dutifully  worrying, and "there" for her son.  I'd followed the story.  A nasty divorce and the mother who brought him up, "taught him everything," according to the commentators.

So, when his big win came against the #1 tennis player in the world, Novak Djokovic, I watched as Andy ingested all the praise, the applause, and then watched as he made his way up to the "family box," where his coach, girlfriend, friends - and his mother - were applauding.  I watched as he made his way across the first row of his closest fans, giving hugs to all.  Then I watched as he turned his back on the box and proceeded to head down to the court for the ceremony.  It was only that his mother "squealed," as he put it, that turned him around to acknowledge her presence, to give her a hug for the many years of sacrifice and caring that brought him to this moment.

So why was I disappointed in Andy?  What in the world, as a mom,  did I expect from this young man who'd just accomplished something that is historic, something that will give his mom (and dad, though we don't hear much about him) a lifetime of pride.  What do we expect, as Moms, from our kids?  Is it eternal reverence and appreciation?  And do we deserve it? Does the basic choice of becoming a mother and putting in the hours of care, concern, support and love - does it entitle us to that big "thanks mom" at the end of the day?  at the end of the play?  at the end of the tournament?

When I was a young actress, I never walked off the stage thinking about either of my parents.  If I was congratulated for a good performance then, and even now, I thank myself.  But I guess I wonder how much of myself is a tribute to them?  I'm sure there are a lot of kids out there who are clearly on both sides of this discussion - those who love, respect and feel that they "owe" something to their parents, and those who feel that they have accomplished it all on their own.

I am somewhere in the middle.  But if I'd been Andy Murray's mom at that historic moment in history which belonged to him . . . I think I would've still been a little hurt that he forgot me. 

NOW!

Anyone over the age of forty has seen dramatic changes in the workplace.  Typewriters went away.  Fax machines will soon become a thing of the past.  Don't get me wrong - I don't know how we lived with correctype and carbon paper and all the other now archaic tools that we used on a daily basis.

It's all changed, but is the instant "just add water" workplace better? 

At the risk of sounding like a geezer, I believe that something has been lost in the process - the great benefit of reflection to the creative process.

Example -  some years ago, as Advertising and Promotion Director for WOR Radio, I met periodically with our advertising agency to brainstorm campaigns and ads.  We'd meet around a conference table with physical comps spread before us.  We'd discuss them and suggest changes.  The account exec would take notes (with a pen on paper) and we'd decide to reconvene in a week after their creative team could reflect on our reactions and suggestions and make the changes.  After a week, we'd meet again and the changes would be reviewed, accepted or not, and we'd proceed.  They'd go back to their shop, prepare the finals for submission and placement in the various publications (print) or other applications.

Sometimes the whole process would shockingly take a month.  But at the end of that process, we were satisfied that we had all pooled our creativity and best thinking into these important representations of the business.

These days, this process can take place in one hour or less.  Is the product better?  In some cases, it's probably just as good.  But, in some cases, the essence of the product is distorted by the lack of reflection on the distinct nature of the ad or the understanding of the audience.  Also, comparative analysis of competition in our instant world does not always contribute positively to the product's unique sales proposition and gets muddled in efforts to "out position" the competition.

Having just gone through medical mania myself, I know only too well how our instant world has benefited diagnostics, treatment and even communication with the patient.  We don't wait for weeks for analysis.  Biopsies are instantly completed in the operating room so that procedures can move forward.  This is obviously a great benefit unless someone with greater understanding that I can show me that there's a down side.   And there are probably countless other examples in other fields where technology has shortened processes in beneficial ways.

Where I see the greatest disadvantage is mostly in the creative disciplines where reflection and meditation on an idea, a decision, an image can only make the ultimate product better.   The need to react and decide instantly can produce "knee jerk" solutions, ones that do not capture all the creative possibilities.  So, we see a lot of product mediocrity.  My good friend Mike, a gifted professional photographer, will rant about how instant photography and the availability of software has inspired every person with a phone to create and publish mostly awful photography believing that's all it takes.  It's great that we can capture every moment of our lives instantly, but this technology and instant availability has diminished the understanding and appreciation of the beauty and art of a fine photograph.

Think about how long Michelangelo hung from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. 

I love you

Visited the folks today.  As I've said before, these visits are endlessly enlightening.  My 88 year-old dad and I are trying to convince my 87 year-old mom to put their house on the market and move closer to me (they're an hour and a half away), preferably to an assisted living facility where they can get more help.

My mother has been characteristically uncooperative about all this, when, of course, she is the person who needs the care, attention, and move to this type of facility the most.

Today I decided that I would try a different approach with her.  Le me explain.  My mother has a reputation for being ornery, cantakerous and downright narcissistic and mean.  My father has been giving in to this behavior for years for what reason none of us seems to really understand.  He will say, "after 65 years together, I love her so much and I don't want her to be upset."  Who can argue with that?  I mean, two marriages later, I never even made it past 14 years.

Back to Betty (my mom).  Betty is difficult.  And my poor Mom is losing her grip on her world with every passing day.  So on this visit, I decided that I would only approach her with love.  Each time she disagreed or said she didn't want to move, or didn't want to cooperate in any way, I simply held her hands and looked her in the eyes and said, "Mommy, I love you so much and I'm just trying to help."  Even when she tried to move away, avert her eyes, or ignore me, I persisted with my assertion that I and all the rest of the family are just trying to help because we love her so much.

While I had her attention, I asked for her trust.  Trust is not a concept that my mother understands.  She never learned to trust anyone.  From day one, her environment was simply untrustworthy - unprepared parents, too many siblings, the depression and then her marriage to my father.  Instead of the storybook escape from her family and its limitations that she conjured in her imagination, she landed in what she interpreted as the hostile environment of an Italian family in Brooklyn that had absolutely no language for communicating with a little white anglo saxon protestant girl from Rhode Island.  And she had no emotional language to communicate with them.  I don't remember my parents being really happy, and as I got older, they seemed unhappier.  But I digress.

So today, as the window of opportunity to really communicate with my mother is closing quickly, I reached out my hands and tried to touch her.  I believe that my mommy is in there, behind that well defended and bitter woman.  I've seen her softer side when the two little great granddaughters are around.

After we went out for dinner at a slightly more upscale restaurant than they usually frequent, and which she seemed to really enjoy, I was taking my leave to come home.  As I helped her out of the car, she grabbed my arm as if to ask me to wait for a moment.  "I'm sorry,"  she said.  "I don't mean to seem ungrateful.  It meant so much to me to hear you say that you love me.  I love you too.  It's just that it's hard for me to give up my independence.  I don't mean to be a pain in the ass."

I was so touched that I barely could breathe.  I'm struggling with my own aging process and can't even imagine what it will be like for me when I'm in her 87 year-old shoes.  I just took her hand and gave her a hug and said, "Don't worry about it Mom.  I'm sure I'll be just as much of a pain in the ass when I get there."  She smiled and I wasn't really sure that she heard what I said, but the essence of the exchange was more positive than anything I've had with my mom in years. 

Revelation . . . really?

Visited the folks today.  It's always an adventure, a stop on my journey of self-discovery.  I feel like Ulysses at this point in my sixty third year trying to navigate parental waters.

Some months ago, and it might even be a year ago, my cat Thomas died.  As cats go, he was okay.  We adopted him when he was already a year old because he seemed to be beckoning to us.  My girls actually wanted a kitten, but the older and wiser daughter decided that we should review the older cats at the pound.  Of course, we were goners.  He was big and fat and handsome.

But . . . from the gitgo, he was not the kind of cat we were used to.  He was not friendly (and that's an understatement), though he became slightly more social as he aged.  He was known to be unexpectedly mercurial, terrifying children and sending my partner to the hospital with an infected bite.

So, it was very interesting to hear my mother, who is no lover of animals, proclaim that she misses Thomas.  And, she further denounced Ernie, the adorable beagle in my household, as a pest.

The revelation.  When my mother visited, Thomas would emerge from his hiding place, as cats will.  He would then give her a sniff or two and wander away, as cats will.  On the other hand, Ernie the beagle would insist on sitting next to her, behind her, trailing her for crumbs, under her feet.  Ernie is a needy child.  Thomas was independent and sometimes minimally attentive.

My mom has never been able to deal with any neediness.  To some degree, she has passed this somewhat difficult characteristic along to me and I am in a state of constant self-examination about my responsiveness to those who need and love me.

Who knew?  If I'd seen this awhile back, I'd have just named her a cat person and understood it all.

Girls

I am a girl.  I am a daughter and a mother of girls.  I am also the grandmother of girls. I think I've been around girls enough to understand them.  On the other hand -

Watching  HBO's new series, "Girls," last night made me wonder if there's anything I can understand about the young ladies depicted in this highly acclaimed new series.  Are my advancing years also advancing me away from understanding what young women are facing in today's world? 

On a very basic level, I recognize these girls.  They are like my 24 year-old daughter's friends in many ways - the employment anxiety, the male-female anxiety, the social awkwardness.  But what I find difficult is the great soup of our society into which they must become an ingredient and, hopefully, a successful ingredient. 

Let's start with the social soup.  It looks like any convention about male-female relationships has deteriorated to the point that there is no convention.  You're either getting it or you're not, and the long term strategy or thinking around the coupling is not there or is distinctly troubled.  For example, Hannah's tryst just seems like sexual calisthenics she's enduring for what purpose?  pass the time?  They could just as easily be playing a board (bored) game.  Both these young people mistake what they're doing for a kind of intimacy, but the sad fact is that it is a cold and awkward exchange. 

One young woman is pregnant and there's no discussion about the father and he doesn't even figure into the dialogue.  She is so troubled and confused about this pregnancy that she misses her abortion appointment, leaving her three friends there to "celebrate" her abortion, waiting as she has another tryst only to discover that she has gotten her period and is therefore, not pregnant after all.

The only character I recognize is the young woman who is unhappily in a long term relationship with the wrong guy and beats him up about it regularly.  I saw this behavior in myself and see it in others who just don't have the maturity or experience to recognize the key flash points of good/bad relationships.

So, the show has me perplexed.  Is this the way it is now for young women?  Has it always been this way and the show's raw depiction has touched some reserve within me that doesn't want to see what a troubled environment my own daughter has to navigate?  I guess I can think of so many characters throughout history that probably have been endlessly dependent on parents, sexually active with all the attendant side effects (pregnancy, disease etc.), confused about life path, rudderless, seeking . . . seeking . . . seeking.  I know it's not just this generation of young people.

But, today's world where everything seems easier and harder is damned confusing to me, so how must it seem to young people at the beginning of their adult lives?  One of the characters on the show, a gynecologist examining Hannah for STDs, summed it up nicely for me after listening to Hannah's litany of fears about the possible results of her trysts - "You couldn't pay me enough to be 24 again."