Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 14

Then and now – do we REALLY have it better?

One morning both my E mails on my phone and my E mails on my computer wouldn’t update.

I couldn’t find our theatre tickets – lost in my phone or did I actually misplace the physical tickets in one of my three desks in my house?

My nails were a mess and in need of a manicure.

And the lawn guy had mowed down one of my freshly popped-up bulbs in the garden.

Geez.

Clearly I wasn’t coping with the little daily annoyances of life in the year 2023.

Poor me.

I decided to calm down by reading my new book  97 Orchard – An Edible History of Five Immigrant Families in One New York Tenement by Jane Ziegelman.

I learned that due to the sharp rise in immigration, tenements began appearing in New York City around the 1820’s. Since there was an absence of indoor plumbing, tenement housewives “were like human freight elevators, hauling groceries, coal, firewood and children up and down endless flights of stairs.”

Housewives carried heavy, sloshing tubs of water needed for bathing, cooking and house cleaning. The tubs soaked both the stairs and the women carrying them – not pleasant in bone-chilling February.

Due to lack of space and short on resources and money, the women of the house cooked as simply and efficiently as they could. That could mean going out and shopping a few times a day – haggling over prices and quantities. And amidst the plethora of push carts, cramped tenements, and dirty teeming streets, these displaced housewives preserved their culinary traditions while also improvising and adapting to the conditions at hand.

And then there is the subject of gefilte fish – you know, the kind immersed in jelly and vacuum-packed in a glass container? That simply didn’t exist back then. Instead, immigrant housewives routinely slit the backbone of the fish, scraped off the flesh, chopped it finely into a paste, put it back in the fish, and sewed it shut. And then cooked it. Being a delicacy in Jewish households for the Sabbath, the dish “was a perfect measure of the Jewish housewife’s culinary skill.”

Omg! I would have failed miserably. My main skill is charcuterie boards – involving little more than choosing delicacies from the vast array of foods at one of the major grocery chains near my house and then artfully displaying them on my wooden board.

Immigrants were most impressed with two foods in particular: bananas and sandwiches. “Many tried to gnaw through the skin” on the banana and as far as the American sandwich, immigrants were busy “marveling over the sweetness of American white bread.” Most of us with any degree of sophistication know enough to peel a banana and wouldn’t serve white bread as a delicacy under any circumstances. Perhaps it’s time to re-think Wonder Bread. 

The ubiquitous push carts were both a reminder of the old country and an antidote to hunger for the immigrant. Push carts contained a wide assortment of familiar foods at the lowest possible prices and in the quantities the tenement housewife desired – a single egg – a cup of pot cheese. This was a practical matter: there was nowhere to store provisions or to keep food from spoiling – so shopping meal by meal was the most practical action.

I have a refrigerator and freezer in my kitchen and an extra one in the garage – and yet, I’m always complaining that I have to walk an extra thirty steps into the garage to check to see if I am running low on mozzarella cheese and Coffee Mate. 

Geez. One of my biggest frustrations? No room on my kitchen counter for my Instapot. Poor me.  Every time I want to use it I have to schlep to my butler pantry seven steps away and bend down to get it. Imagine that! 

And my paper goods? In an outside storage area because I ran out of room in my pantry due to an overabundance of appliances I never use and have long forgotten how to operate. 

Apartment doors were hardly closed. Stairways were playgrounds. Rooftops were communal bedrooms. Front stoops were open living rooms. 

What a far cry from today with our Ring doorbells to keep out intruders, our fenced years, our sprinkler systems, our alarmed equipped homes and sealed up windows.

We now can go days without talking to a live person. Uber Eats fulfills our need for food. Remote work is routine. We live in sweats and t shirts that rarely need much care.

We get highly irritated with our long list of passwords, never- ending tech directions and not talking to a live person when we need to solve a problem with our credit cards.

We are isolated. 

We live far from family. 

We rely on the Internet for advice.

The immigrants lived jumbled together where privacy was craved and quiet non-existent. 

We’ve got the privacy and the quiet, but we are certainly missing community, connection and camaraderie.

Ah the good old days! 

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor  

Dear Andrea

Dear Andrea,                                 

On April 15, 2023, it will be forty-eight years since I’ve seen you. That last fateful morning, you went bowling with our weekly league; I went into surgery. Ironically, I survived the surgery – you didn’t survive the day.

No one knows exactly what happened. Was your radio too loud? Were your reflexes too slow? It was obvious from the TV news coverage which showed your smashed-up car that you never had much of a chance against the train.

You were a young wife. And you were a young mother. And you had your whole life ahead of you. Or so we thought.

Forty-eight years…your husband remarried, divorced, remarried and now passed away – lying beside you in the cemetery. Your babies are grown…one is an attornty and one a city councilman. And they now have children of their own. You would have been such a delightful grandma. 

Time has dimmed your memory and eased the pain, but I never sail nonchalantly over railroad crossings nor hear your name without a surge of longing as I recall your generous heart and your fun-loving spirit and the crazy adventures we had together with our four little boys seat-belted in the big back seat of your car.

Forty-eight years…I watched your parents dance together in perfect rhythm at your youngest son’s wedding many years after you left us. And, though your brother’s wife told me your mom had Alzheimer’s, I didn’t believe her. When she saw my face after all those years and I mentioned your name, her smile went all the way up to her eyes. 

Time has dimmed your memory and eased the pain, but I never see good friends lunching and laughing without a twinge. And I always think of all the years of living you’ve missed when I mark your birthday by buying myself a single, long-stemmed red rose.

And although, to me, dear Andrea, you’ll always be twenty-seven –  vivacious, naive and irrepressible – with your big beautiful blue eyes and your unruly head of chestnut colored hair – it may surprise you to know your best friend is now close to 76 – and a little wiser and a tad more subdued.

I’ve learned many things in the years since I’ve lost you, Andrea, but the two things that seem to always hover close are:
         Don’t tangle with trains.
         And best friends are forever.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

I never thought it could happen, but it did.

Studies show that as people age they get happier.


How can this be?

We have more health-related issues: 
     High blood pressure
     Faulty hips and knees begging for replacement
     Frozen shoulders 
     Arthritic fingers
     Acid reflux
     Lower back pain 

We spend more time in doctor offices. We get colonoscopies regularly. Stress tests. Blood drawn. And we routinely find ourselves at rehab centers readjusting our parts that are wearing out.

And we worry that Pickle-ball – that ubiquitous sport boomers are embracing in droves – will result in our permanent physical demise, though we play it anyway.

We have more walkers, crutches and raised commodes in our garages than strollers and bicycles – unless they are our grandkids.

On top of that, friends are becoming ill at an alarming rate and we are more apt to have our social lives increasingly revolve around visits to convalescing friends in assisted living centers. And funerals? Too plentiful to mention.

And, yet, I must admit, at age 75, I’m happier than I have been in a long time.

Part of it is because as I’m entering the winter of my years, I’m more conscious of not letting the minor irritants of life get to me.

And when it comes to family relations, I have finally arrived at the stage I’ve been working toward for the last two decades: calmness and a non-judgmental attitude (most of the time).

I’m going with the flow.
I’m not being overly sensitive. 
And I’m not looking for things to be overly sensitive about.
I’m not dwelling on those things that have aggravated me in the past and ruminating incessantly about those same issues in the present.

As a result, I am less needy around my kids – more relaxed and easy-going – which leads to them extending to me more opportunities to be with them.

In the magazine, Scientific American, I learn that as people grow older, they tend to experience what psychologists call the age-related positivity effect—an increasing focus on positive events and happy feelings.

I am at the forefront of the boomer generation and as we give up our sports cars, boats, and family homes where we raised our children, we are squarely confronted with life’s fragility. As Bill Clinton once remarked, “We have more yesterdays behind us than tomorrows ahead of us.”

Yet, psychologists have found that when individuals of any age are reminded of life’s fragility, their priorities shift toward emotional goals such as feeling happy and seeking meaningful activities.

Seniors with still healthy minds accentuate the positive. Studies have discovered that when seniors are shown pictures depicting negative situations (funerals, plane crashes, angry faces), they look away faster than younger people do. On the other hand, seniors fix their gaze longer on images of good stuff: little babies, smiling kids, cute kittens, perky dogs and happy faces. And just like their attention, the memory of older people is skewed toward the positive.

Studies find that the happiness seen in older people reflects a change over time, rather than a consistently sunny personality from the get-go. This suggests that we tend to  remember things as being more positive than they actually have  been! 

A few years back, I was having a conversation with one of my sons about how his father and I not only had an amiable divorce, but a very enjoyable relationship post-divorce while our children were young.

My son looked at me strangely and remarked that he didn’t quite remember it as rosy as I did.

On most mornings, I don’t have anywhere I HAVE to be. I can wake up leisurely, do my stretching routine and meet the day on my own terms – doing what I want to do. 

The fact that I glory in new experiences and fill my days with innovative and challenging projects is my choice. I’m welcoming my increased curiosity and my passion to broaden my horizons without a debilitating fear of failure. 



Age-related changes in the brain may contribute to the positivity effect in old age. Or it could just be that an awareness of our own mortality leads us to concentrate more and more on regulating emotions to maximize good feelings in the time that we have left. 

Whatever the reason for my new-found sense of ease and optimism, I never thought it could happen, but it did.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom, 

Iris Ruth Pastor 

How The Deland Arts & Crafts Fair Ultimately Played Out

It was a day of newness – beginning with driving a cargo van 125 miles to my destination, which was The Annual Deland Outdoor Art Festival, where I had secured a booth to sell my creations for the very first time.

I knew going into this virgin endeavor that I’d never recoup my costs:
Canopy
Wagon
Shabby chic mirror 
Area rug
Labels
Bags 
Signs
1950’s style candy to give away 
Booth rental
Hotel
Cargo van rental
Gas 
Food
Etc.
Etc.
Etc.

But I was hoping it wasn’t a total financial disaster.

And I was nervous about mundane things like changing lanes and backing up in the U-Haul cargo van I had rented the morning before the fair. But the thrill of being so high up after routinely driving my Mini around my neighborhood was truly thrilling. And before we took off, my good buddy Naomi – who accompanied me on my adventure – assured me she’d help me navigate.

This was THE weekend I had been both looking forward to and having acute anxiety attacks about.

What can I say?

We arrive safely in Deland.
We have help setting up the booth and canopy, as promised.
We are thrilled with the location. The nice lady in charge of the placement – the one I barraged with questions almost daily – gave me a strategically placed booth out of the kindness of her heart.

The upside?
It was the first booth at the entrance.
The downside? 
The entire back quarter of the booth was not usable because it sloped precipitously downward.
And people entering the fair were focused on the path ahead, NOT the first couple of booths.

(Later that afternoon, when we tactfully pointed out the deficiencies of the booth space, she generously allowed us to utilize the grassy pad area on the side of our booth to compensate for the lost inner booth space.)

At 2 pm on a sweltering Friday afternoon, we start unloading the cargo van and setting up the booth’s interior. 

Just as darkness descends, my friend Naomi and I finally finish placing the last jean jackets on the racks and filling the tables with my knitted creations and the walls with my Fannie dolls.

What can I say?

From the get-go Saturday morning, the heat was intense and the crowds kinda sparse. Those who paused at all by my booth remarked about the vitality and freshness of my booth and then strolled on by.

And the comments that day of time were kinda discouraging: 
Love your purses, but I only carry the most non-descript purses so no one will grab them 
Oh how cute – I have to learn how to do this.

Two scoops of caramel praline homemade ice cream for lunch at 1 pm and the intermittent breeze that floated over my sweat-soaked body revived my flagging spirits. I turned on my charm, utilized my selling skills and sales began trickling in.

As the day wore on, I began making friends with the vendors too.

There was born again and immensely friendly Bill in the booth right across from mine who in a long winded discourse assured me he was a very tolerant person of other peoples’ religious views. He then went on to assure me that because I was Jewish, I needed to be saved or I’d be going south of the soil we were standing on. 

Then there was Bobbie – a retired Home Depot store manager – who spent an hour helping me hang my jean jackets in a more eye-catching way – resulting in an increase in sales immediately.

And then there was the kid from Miami selling t-shirts who gave me a detailed tutorial on what upcoming art fairs would be the best fit for my wares within easy commuting distance to Tampa.

The people who did stop were overwhelmingly friendly and everyone got a laugh from my Fannie doll sporting the following message on her skirt: Girl, unless he wears a diaper, you can’t change him.

But no one bought one.

Another highlight: Familiar Faces. 
A friend from elementary school stopped by with her older sister and we laughed about the time I got marshmallows in her hair and her older sister threatened to beat me up in the girls’ washroom. (She never carried out her threat.)

And then another friend from high school stopped by and my handyman from Tampa too. (Utilized his skills too.)

Five o’clock couldn’t come soon enough. When it finally did, Naomi and I gratefully headed for the hotel to check in, shower off the sweat and grime, and soak up the air conditioning after enduring the unrelenting 91-degree heat. 

We went to Tony’s New York Pizza – both the food and the waitress were delightful. Immediately, I began to feel more positive about the whole crafts/booth experience. 

My good mood lasted until Sunday morning when I got the hotel bill for our two-night stay and realized I was lucky if my sales covered the cost of just that invoice.

Sunday sales were lighter.
And disappointing. 
And though I had help loading up the van and dismantling the booth as dusk descended, it still took us three hours of constant bending and lifting to complete the task. 

I was close to tears – physically depleted.

To make matters worse, we had trouble finding our way home – resulting in us adding 75 minutes to our trip. 

Things didn’t improve until we stopped at Burger King for dinner since my friend had a coupon. Barreling down the highway minutes later, I turned my attention to driving and eating my Big Whopper with cheese, French Fries and a jumbo non-Diet Coke – all of which suddenly revived my flagging spirits and my faulty perceptions.

Five days later, my buoyant mood still prevails.
Why?
I met terrifically kind people
I got out of my comfort zone 
My friend who accompanied me gave me helpful hints galore 
And I realized that all that I invested in can be used again 

When I got home, my sales actually totaled more than I thought and were in line with what Naomi had found out from other vendors close by my booth.

I’m grateful: 
I had the time to pursue my adventure 
I had caring friends and family to cheer me on 
I had the means to put a booth together 

What can I say?
Yes,
I’m exhausted.
Yes,
I wish my sales had been better.
But I had a vision 
and I made it happen.

Hoping you will try new things too – and if you need a cargo van driver, I’m your girl!

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor 

The Secret to Trying Something New

By the time you read this, hopefully, I will have driven a cargo van filled with my craft show supplies safely to Deland Florida – 125 miles from my home.
 
By the time you read this, hopefully, the person who was supposed to help erect my canopy when I arrive at the park will have done so.
 
By the time you read this, hopefully, I will be busily engaged in preparing my booth for business – setting up my tables, arranging displays and posting my signs.
 
And, hopefully, tomorrow and Sunday, I will actually sell some of my jean jackets and my one-of-a-kind knitted creations and Mother’s Day gift baskets.
 
Hopefully.
 
What’s the secret to starting something new?
     Starting Early
 
     Working like hell
 
     Banishing the butterflies in your belly – When mine start to flutter, I engage in more work.
 
     Organizing, Organizing, Organizing………………………
 
     Asking for help – That is what neighborhood handymen are for – thank you, Bo! 
 
     Making lists – For example, I made a list of everything I needed to take with me to Deland and another list detailing in what order to load the cargo van. BTW, keep a notepad by your bed for jotting down middle-of-the-night musings, worries and ideas.
 
     Engaging in a dry run – I set-up my booth in the garage just like it would be at the crafts fair and then tweaked the displays and inventory.

 
     Preparing – I made sure I had on hand scissors, tape, screw driver, step stool, hammer, S-hooks and bungee cords for whatever unforeseen emergency arises. (Plus Advil)
 
     Researching – I read all the pamphlets and books I could find on how to successfully participate in a crafts fair, how to successfully price your items, and what to do if no one is stopping by your booth. (Crying in sheer frustration is not an option.) 

 
     Learning new things – Venmo, Zelle, the Square, and Pay Pal – it’s a about making it customer convenient.
 
     Reaching out to others – I asked questions of veteran crafts fair exhibitors and listened carefully, not selectively, to what they suggested and said.
 
     Doing what you do best and getting others to do what they do best – Thank you Barbara Shine for the graphics!
 
     Making friends with your vendors – Fast Signs, U Haul, and South Tampa Printing are the friendliest places ever.
 
     Talking about it and writing about it – Gives you accountability.
 
     Getting out of your comfort one – Renting a cargo van is at the top of that list – especially since I regularly drive a Mini!

 
     Not being afraid to fail.
 
     Hoping for a little luck.
 
     Praying for success.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor
 

I Don’t Know Why This Gets To Me, But It Does

Fannie Landman didn’t live a long life.
 
She was born in Cincinnati, Ohio on August 9, 1912 and died on October 6, 1919 at age 7 years, 1 month and 2.8 days – from complications of Scarlett Fever and Septicemia, according to her Certificate of Death.
 
Her family, immigrants from Austria, were too poor to have her properly buried, so her remains were interred in a “pauper’s grave.”
 
Her mom and dad rarely spoke of their deceased daughter to their surviving children – I surmise out of guilt of not being able to afford a cemetery plot and stone, not out of any lack of deep affection and love.
 
In spite of repeated attempts over the decades to locate her burial site by determined family members and their descendants, Fannie’s final resting place was never discovered. Internet searches in later years revealed no trace either.
 
Fannie Landman was my husband’s aunt, his mother’s sister – who died before my mother-in-law was born. 
 
All that remains of Fannie is one picture, a death certificate and a tiny gold ring with an even tinier green stone.  
 


My mother-in-law, a few years before she died, bestowed me with a very meaningful keepsake – Fannie’s ring. When she gave it to me, she simply said, “Iris, I know you, of everyone in the family, will appreciate Fannie’s ring.” She was right.
 
I was clearly moved beyond measure by the loss of this little girl and by the fact there was no marker where we could come and place a stone. In the last couple of months, finally determining that her burial site was simply not traceable, my husband decided that he would start the process of putting a marker of Fannie’s life and death at the foot of his grandparents’ grave so that Fannie would have a presence – so that future generations of the family would know that this little girl existed.
 
It wasn’t enough for me.
 
I had harbored the fantasy of naming a daughter “Fannie” thus perpetuating her memory. Being blessed with five sons, I didn’t get that opportunity.
 
Years passed. The nest emptied. Health issues challenged us. We moved to a different state. Our kids got married and gave us grandchildren. Keeping Fannie’s memory alive still burned in my core – dormant but flickering.
 
Getting my first shot at presenting my funky knitted creations at a crafts fair in Deland, Florida unleashed my imagination. I spent hours fine-tuning the wares I would be selling. And one night, I bolted upright in bed, startled awake by a flashing banner infused with neon lights streaking across my brain:     Miss Fannie’s Formula for Fine LivingAha! My chance to imbue Fannie Landman’s short life span with a palpable presence:
     I would knit a series of dolls – each named Fannie.
     I would attach a small sign onto each one imparting some words of wisdom
     And each creation would be able to be hung-up on a wall.


 
I hope Fannie knows that another little girl – also born in Cincinnati, also born in the month of August, but many years later – still mourns her death, still sheds tears over the shortness of her life and is doing her best to hold her memory close.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor

How to Get Out of a Jokerless Funk

I was looking through my “Joke Folder” in my computer. Maybe it’s just me, but it seems like years ago, when e mail was more of a novelty than an everyday nuisance, people utilized this tech tool to send jokes.
 
Nowadays I receive tons of E-mails bearing “enticing” subject lines:
       HelloFresh – new recipes are springing up
       Poshmark Info – save big on your wardrobe TODAY
       Nutribullet – see the new nutribullet Baby Steam + Blend
       Netflix – Iris, we just added a movie you might like…
       
All are enticing me to make, buy, try, and see.
None are enticing me to laugh. 
 
I’m in a jokerless funk. No witticisms. Clever ditties. Catchy comics DO arrive in my inbox, but unfortunately, they are riddled with the absurdity of today’s of political climate. Those are rampant. Hopefully, they are providing a safe outlet for bottled-up rage and aggressive hostility –a healthy escape from real time toxicity. But for me – all those partisan jests and wise-cracks are simply increasing my “consternation fatigue.” 
 
Research proves laughter can provide many physiological and beneficial impacts on our bodies, our ability to fight off disease and to reduce stress through the increased production of the hormone cortisol. 
 
People like to laugh and people like to hear other people laugh. Making someone laugh is empowering, sparks connection and enhances camaraderie. Who knows? It may even decrease our use of drinkable therapy and pill popping by diminishing some of our surface depression and promoting resilience.
 
Victor Borge once said, “Laughter is the shortest distance between two people.” I believe that when people share a laugh, connection and rapport are enhanced and the social, economic and cultural gaps are decreased. Barriers are broken down. People relax. New ideas and energy pour forth. The group solidifies.  
 
Years ago, to commemorate her 69th birthday, actress/vocalist Julie Andrews made a special appearance at Manhattan’s Radio City Music Hall for the benefit of AARP.
 
One of the musical numbers she performed was based on “My Favorite Things” from the legendary movie “Sound Of  Music.”
 
Here are the lyrics she recited:
“Maalox and nose drops and needles for knitting, 
Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,
Bundles of magazines tied up in string,
These are a few of my favorite things.
 
Cadillacs and cataracts, hearing aids and glasses,
Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,
Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,
These are a few of my favorite things.
 
When the pipes leak,
When the bones creak,
When the knees go bad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don’t feel so bad.
 
Hot tea and crumpets, and corn pads for bunions,
No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,
Bathrobes and heat pads and hot meals they bring,
These are a few of my favorite things.
 
Back pains, confused brains, and no fear of sinnin’,
Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinnin’,
And we won’t mention our short shrunken frames,
When we remember our favorite things.
 
When the joints ache,
When the hips break,
When the eyes grow dim,
Then I remember the great life I’ve had,
And then I don’t feel so bad.”
 
Ms. Andrews received a standing ovation from the crowd that lasted over four minutes and repeated encores.
 
Keep Preserving Your bloom and PLEASE send me some jokes,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor
 
PS: Julie Andrews is now 87 years old. I’m guessing humor works.

Down To The Wire

My weekly newsletter comes out every Friday at 3 pm. I started writing it when my youngest son Louie was about three years old and he is now pushing thirty-nine. So I guess I’ve written a couple of thousand. My columns used to run about 900 words, but over the decades – along with our decreased attention spans – my word count has adapted – shrinking to a more succinct 600 words.
 
Usually, my brain regenerates over the weekend and, by Sunday night, I have an idea for the upcoming week’s column.
 
This week that didn’t happen.
 
Usually, on Monday, I sit down and enthusiastically crank out a few key points I’m mulling over for the upcoming newsletter.
 
That didn’t happen either.
 
On Tuesday, I became entirely enmeshed in figuring out the pricing of my pouches and purses for my upcoming (and totally terrifying, as I have repeatedly mentioned before in this column) dive into the world of crafts fairs. And Tuesday night, I literally descended into “Shear Madness” watching the play by the same name at our local performing arts center. It was delightful. (184 words)
 
I awoke Wednesday morning – no words had yet sprinkled onto my computer screen. No biggie. I went out to lunch with my buddies and twiddled around with the ten-by-ten-foot layout I had chalked on my garage floor to see how my crafts booth would look. (I’d classify it as a work in progress and that is being overly generous.)
 
By Wednesday night, I was buzzed with controllable anxiety over the contents of this week’s newsletter, or lack of one. I had a few ideas:
     Does the self-care world and all its myriad of choices excite you or exhaust you?
     Do I really now have to tip the guy at the counter who gives me a pre-packaged box of miniature cupcakes? (I didn’t tip and my 16-year-old granddaughter was appalled)
     Is it really a good idea at age 75 – with arthritic knees riddled with bursitis – to take up Pickleball?
 
I wake up Thursday morning sweating. My anxiety is now inching toward out of control.
     What if have nothing to say?
     What if I have nothing to say ever again??????
     How can I ever replace the euphoria I feel when I finish my column each week and press the Save key?  (391 words)
 
It’s Thursday night. The house is quiet. I brew myself a very strong and large cup of coffee, pop a handful of Doritos into my mouth (I don’t even like them), and ignore the e-mail that just popped into my inbox from my social media person. I already know what it says: WHAT THE HELL? WHERE’S THE COPY?
 
I’m hoping the caffeine will blast away my lethargy, and my growing sense of panic and provide me with ingenious insights.
 
That doesn’t happen either.
 
It’s now 10:13 pm. All I can think of is everything in my life that I have habitually pushed aside, relegated to another time, or neglected all together:
     Doing my taxes is at the top of the list
     A close second is, of course, losing five pounds
     And then, there’s learning Canasta
     And mastering all those hidden little camera features on my I Phone. (I paid for an online course, but never finished it. Actually, I gave up after the first lecture.)
     Organizing my toiletries (that will never happen – much easier to just buy new than actually wade through the boxes of half-filled moisturizers, flaky eye shadows, sticky mascara, and dried-up lipsticks. (588 words.)
 
Aha! Finally, an idea for a column pops into my head – but now I’m just too tired to pursue it.  Just recently I passed a rainy Thursday afternoon browsing about at the famous Strand Bookstore in New York City. Noticing a large rectangular table featuring “Banned Books,” I scurried over. The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein was prominently displayed. I stared in utter amazement. How could The Giving Tree possibly be considered offensive?
 
Since I’m now too tired to write a coherent column about my new idea and my deadline is looming, I will leave it to Siri to provide you with the answer:
https://bannedbooks.library.cmu.edu/shel-silverstein-the-giving-tree/
 
It’s 11:04 pm. (689 words).
I’m going to bed.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor

I’m Afraid, But I’m Doing It Anyway

Have you ever gone to a craft’s fair and watched the crowds huddle at one booth but barely enter another? I always feel sorry for the craftsperson/artist who sits there – solitary – trying not to appear desperate for customers – perched on a stool staring mindlessly at her cell phone.

I’m afraid that in just four weeks that will be me. The thought keeps me up at night. The thought wakes me up in the middle of the night. That terrifying thought barrages me upon waking every morning.

In just four weeks from today, I will be I Deland, Florida (wherever that is) setting up my first booth at my first crafts fair.

What am I selling?

I am selling vintage jean jackets adorned with sequined appliques.

I am selling one-of-a kind, hand-knit purses and pouches that I have been designing and knitting compulsively every night for about the last three years.

And, if I finish them in time, I am also going to be selling hand-knit hanging dolls with unusual quotes entwined in their dresses.

Why am I doing this anyway?

Because I am crazy.

Because I am a masochist.

Because I court the fear factor and feel it’s vastly more exciting than starting the day without flossing but vastly safer than trying sky diving for the very first time.

What have I learned thus far? A lot:

     How to use Square on my I Pad and I Phone to ring up a sale using a credit card

     How to best furnish a 10’ by 10’ booth to look appealing, but not overloaded with merchandise

     How to erect the booth canopy and weigh it down – haven’t quite mastered the art of canopy erection. (This morning it took my husband, me and our handyman over three hours to assemble the canopy in our back yard in order for me to practice layouts. Not a fortuitous beginning.)

     How to transport merchandise from the car to the booth (by collapsible wagon)

     How to dress (definitely wear what you are selling)

     How to handle your inventory – with loving caresses as that subliminally messages the potential customer that your wares are of value

     How to display your items (Heaven forbid, lay them in rows on a table. Nope. In tiers, not more than six of any kind)

     What to do with yourself while waiting for people to approach your booth (Since I am selling my knitted items, experts say I should knit – heaven forbid I use my phone and convey boredom)

     What to say when someone approaches my booth (“Hello, I’m Iris,” make eye contact and then use your intuition to decide whether to spew forth more platitudes about your booth or just back-off and allow the customer to browse in peace)

     What items to place next to each other (different priced items are a good idea)

     How to stand out from other booths with a large banner in front (still working on this – my first idea was Funky Creations From A Bad Ass Boomer – which was shot down definitively by the contact person at the crafts fair for not being “a family friendly” slogan – I reluctantly toned it down to Funky Creations For The Wild Woman In You.)

I’m still trying puzzling over a few things:

     My target audience

     Pricing of each item

     Effective Signage

     How my purses, pouches, and jean jackets will improve and enhance my customer’s lives

     And how far I have to dip my toes into social media to maximize my sales at the two-day crafts fair

I’ve got 28 more days to figure it out, but who is counting?

Me!!!!!

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

Losing my mom – 5 years later

Five years ago today, my sister and brother and I lost our mom to a very short battle with pancreatic cancer.

She wanted to die on her birthday and she did.
She wanted to be surrounded by family as she drew her last breath. And she was.
She wanted to die in peace, without physical pain, and she pulled that off too.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I think she’s still here – that she will be calling me to have lunch – an action, I hate to say, that at times I found highly annoying. I always seemed to be in a time crunch – with five kids at home and struggling to be a bona fide writer – who had neither the time nor patience for leisurely lunch dates? Now that all my kids have long ago flown the nest and my writing projects are more manageable, I’d heartily welcome her company over grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, but she is gone. 

She could be my strongest, most strident critic at the same time as my must loyal and devoted cheerleader. When a group of 7th grade girls viciously turned against me and formed an exclusive club (RAILS – Revolution Against Iris Levine), my mom probed me for details as to what I could have done to provoke them, soothed my wounds and listened to me endlessly cry and rant BUT insisted I go to school every morning as usual while holding my head high and assuring me that all this too would pass. And it did. And those same girls soon became my bosom buddies – just as she had predicted.

From my brother Steve:
Thinking back, she sometimes drove me crazy with her neurotic behavior, but we all suffer from some of that – heredity is what it is. And I’m sure I drove her pretty crazy too with my unrelenting shenanigans – such as non-stop runs to the emergency room and the not-very-positive behavioral comments on my report cards. 

Here are a few cherished memories:
      I really loved playing little league baseball. After each game, my mom would always take me out – in my very special uniform – for a piece of coconut pie.
     She always remembered my birthday with very special presents – one year it was a brand new catcher’s mitt that I used in my Little League All Star Game.
     And I still watch the commercial she starred in at age 87 leading the charge to raise $170 million to renovate the Cincinnati Museum Center. 

From my sister, Lori:
I feel like my mom is everywhere. For some long-forgotten reason, after she died, we had her mail delivered to me. I’m still deluged with a plethora of charity solicitations from the many organizations and causes she faithfully supported.

Just like her, I drink my cup of coffee and read the paper first thing in the morning. Just like today, it’s 9:30 am and I’m still in my pajamas. Just like she would be.

I’ll never again get flowers from her on every birthday. 

I’ll never hear her voice asking me, “How are the girls?”

I’ll never get the opportunity to roll my eyes and think, “Oh God, here we go again,” when she would start her monologue about the injustices of being an only child.

We all know about the cycle of life and that she was taken from us in the right order in the ninth decade of life.
We all know the passage of time lessens the acute pain of loss.
We all know no one is indispensable – not even our mom – as the sun continues to rise and the sun continues to set in her absence.

And we all know life goes on and she’s no longer here, but the echoes of her words are still swirling around us:
 I don’t know how you people live like this. (We are somewhat messy; she was extremely neat.)
I knew that. (In response to some new revelation we shared with her about marriage or parenthood.)
Everything in moderation.
The feelings you are feeling have been felt before.
Don’t do anything today that you will feel guilty about tomorrow. (Still not quite getting this one right.)

We all miss you, Mom. And I think we always will.

Love,
Iris, Steve and Lori