Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 19

Have I Learned Anything In The Last 20 Years?

At age 55, here’s a few things I’ve learned about MYSELF:
     There is wisdom in being brief
     Being moody cancels out being charismatic
     Being explosively unkind cancels out being one of those people who prides themselves on making things better
     I’m a better healer of problems of which I am not the cause
 
Here’s one thing I’ve learned about OTHERS in my first 55 years: Males and females come into this world with different genetic pre-dispositions. 
 
Gail Evans, an executive vice-president at CNN, wrote a book entitled Play Like A Man. Win Like A Woman – What Men Know About Success That Women Need To Learn.
 
Early on, Evans discerned an innate difference between males and females. She gave birth to one daughter and two sons – and was committed to raising them all in a non-sexist atmosphere. She breast-fed all three and her observations were startling to me.
 
Evans notes that starting immediately she could spot gender-based disparities among them. 
 
 

 
 
She states that her two boys behaved alike when it came to nursing. “They sucked until their stomachs were full, they burped, filled their diapers and promptly went to sleep… quick, effortless transactions.”
 
Her daughter, Evans goes on to explain, gave a different performance. “She sucked a bit, she closed her eyes, then she’d touch, reach out, feel, suck, rest, try to open her eyes, burble, suck, touch and so on….she was interested in some kind of social relationship with me… The boys just wanted to get their fill.”
 
Hmmm……
 
An effective tool to control my own teenage rebellion was employed by my mother. All she had to say was, “Let your conscience be your guide,” and my straight-laced, guilt-ridden angst was irrevocably hammered into place. I was stymied from skipping school, ignoring my curfew, dying my hair purple and painting my fingernails turquoise blue. I couldn’t bear to think of disappointing my mom – especially when she had placed such unbridled faith in my good judgment.
 
Being the daughterless mother of five sons allowed me to soar to even greater heights in my education on what works with raising boys. Telling my sons “Let your conscience be your guide” had the opposite effect on them – opening the barnyard gate to whatever horses they wanted to ride and whatever debauchery they wanted to engage in. 
 
Hmmm…….  
 
As my boys grew up, I quickly learned to be direct with them. If I had something on my mind, I told them in a no-nonsense manner. Ditto for advice. Suggestions. Parent Perspective. Rules and Expectations. I expected my rules to be followed, my expectations to be met. And I kinda was able to talk to them in a filterless and spontaneous manner – without fear of emotional outbursts and crying jags.
 
Most of my friends who are also mothers of boys have had much more experience in dealing with their sons’ girlfriends, live-ins, intendeds, and wives than I have had at this point in my life. They caution me that when it comes to dealing with the females in my sons’ lives, I don’t have that same freedom of speech I enjoy with my boys. 
 
My friends’ messages to me: Laugh More; Fuss Less; and No Matter How Well-Intentioned, Keep Your Big Mouth Shut. And delay, delay, delay before you react.
  
And just because my face is the face my sons have known longer than any other face in their lives, maybe I should start exercising a little verbal restraint with them too. Lately, after a few not-so-successful forays into spewing forth with my unasked for “wisdom,” I’m beginning to think so.
 
It’s 20 years since I’ve penned the above column.
In the intervening years, in the female realm, I’ve been blessed with: 
three daughters-in-law, 
many nieces, 
and four granddaughters, with another granddaughter on the way. 
 
I’m still very much a student when it comes to dealing with the females in my family. 

What’s your take? Your experience? What are your words of wisdom resulting from lessons learned?
 
I’m welcoming feedback from you so I can “Keep Preserving My Bloom,”

Iris Ruth Pastor

Living Wisely And Living Well

It’s a funny thing about first cousins in later life…
 
Since I had two siblings, lots of friends and an intact family, my first cousins always seemed to play a minor role in my life. 
 
When visiting my Michigan cousins growing up, I noticed that artifacts of our family’s history adorned their walls and table tops – just as ours did in my house. Our shared history was the spines of both our homes and a naturally occurring bridge to our closeness. Here is one of our treasures – my Grandpa Harry’s captain’s hat, bronzed: 
 

 
All four of our parents were also hyper-vigilant about passing on family lore. The prestigious. The mundane. The outrageous. 
 
It was the outrageous I remember, of course. Our Grandpa Harry was a frequent topic of interest. He mesmerized the six year-old me and my younger brother and cousins with his tattoo of a naked lady on his forearm. When he flexed, the lady danced around – as did her body parts!
 
That wasn’t the only unique aspect of Grandpa Harry. He was a bootlegger and, during the Depression, ran a “boarding house” renting rooms by the hour, if you get my drift. 
 
But to his credit, he provided for his family and when his wife – my Grandma Ida – died at a young age and left him with four kiddos to raise in Upstate New York, he kept his family together. He was a renegade deserving of respect and remembrance. 
 
Living under a quirky man’s boot, it’s no wonder two of his sons passed on a sense of reverence for rugged individualism and sheer chutzpah. 
 
Fast forward many years. My grandfather and parents are gone, as is one of my first cousins. As a result, his three sisters and my one remaining aunt and uncle from my dad’s side have become very special to me.
 
I walk into the house of my 95 year-old uncle a few weeks ago and one of the first things he says to me is, “When I was 18, my buddies and I went out right after you were born and bought you your very first dress! Lacey and pink.”
 
How many 74 year-olds get to hear that?
 
And how many 74 year-olds get to witness their 95 year-old uncle outfitted in a pair of jaunty blue jeans?
 

 
And how many 74 year-olds get to sit with their 90 year-old aunt and hear her give a detailed account of how she became interested in Saturday and Sunday antique collecting and estate sales? 
     Money? Nope. 
     Curiosity? Nope. 
     My uncle working every weekend in his father’s butcher shop, leaving her husbandless? Yep.
 
 
 
So my three cousins and I spent three days together in West Bloomfield – a tony suburb of Detroit. A lot of it was spent hanging out in my oldest cousin’s home. I was mesmerized by the wildlife outside her soaring windows and the waters of the still-frigid lake beyond her sloping, wooded backyard.
 

 
We laughed
and ate ice cream 
and drank tequila 
and reminisced.
And we got down on the floor and played jacks.
And played jacks some more.
And ate more 
And plotted out our next meal while eating the present one.
 
And as quickly as could be, my visit with my cousins and my aunt and uncle was over.
The inside jokes that just don’t translate on paper will have to wait til next time.
The sense of shared crazy relatives and their strange idiosyncrasies – never got to it.
Regaling each other with who was the heftiest among us as we were growing up – went unexplored.
Parsing through our moms’ and dads’ parenting styles or lack thereof – saved for another visit 
Savoring this time in life when we are no longer deep in the trenches of carving out our life paths – this we got to.
 
When it was time to depart, saying goodbye was easier than I thought 
 
Why?
 
Because my three first cousins and myself had set aside sacred time – intentionally curated time – to spend with each other.
 
We had given each other the gift of togetherness, of listening, of being in the moment, of exchanging insights and sharing confidences.
 
We hugged goodbye with gratitude deep in our bones – realizing once again how fortunate we are – in this chaotic world – to be with people who knew us before braces and boobs, boyfriends and husbands, broken hearts and mended egos, and kids and careers.
 
Lucky are we to have people who, in spite of our hang-ups, faulty assumptions and often poor judgments, embrace us. Accept us. Root for us. And love us.
 
Just as I was finishing up this column, my cell phone pinged. 
 
From Cousin Debbie:
“Thank you so much for visiting with us. It was a great weekend. I know it made my parents very happy. And of course, us sisters loved it. “
 
My sentiments exactly!
That weekend we all lived wisely and lived well. 
 
As Audrey Hepburn said, “The best thing to hold onto in life is each other.”
 
And we did. 
 

 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom, 
 
Iris Ruth Pastor 
 

Mother’s Day Musings

Sunday is Mother’s Day.
 
What I have found is that monthly (weekly? daily? hour by hour? minute by minute?) I tend to need a little encouragement in the arena of parenting my adult sons.  
 
So here are some musings on motherhood to give solace, provoke your funny bone and remind you, once again, that whatever you are thinking and feeling as a mom, has been thought of and felt before.
 
“A vacation frequently means that the family goes away for a rest, accompanied by mother, who sees that the others get it.” 
Marcelene Cox

“Sometimes when I look at my children, I say to myself. ‘Lillian, you should have stayed a virgin.’”
Lillian Carter, mother of US president Jimmy Carter, at age 82
 
“Dance like only your kid is watching. Cook like no one will scream they hate it. And sneeze like you won’t pee in your pants.” 
Kristin (@shriekhouse)
 
“Motherhood: Powered by love. Fueled by coffee. Sustained by wine.” 
Unknown

“Having kids makes you look stable to the people who thought you were crazy and crazy to the people who thought you were stable.” 
Kelly Oxford

 “Waking your kids up for school the first day after a break is almost as much fun as birthing them was.”Jenny McCarthy
 
There has never been a child so lovely but his mother was glad to get him to sleep.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, American essayist and philosopher
  
A mother is never cocky or proud, because she knows the school principal may call at any minute to report that her child has just driven a motorcycle through the gymnasium
Mary Kay Blakely, American journalist
 
No matter how old a mother is, she watches her middle aged children for signs of improvement.
Florida Scott-Maxwell, American psychologist and actor
  
Whenever I’m with my mother, I feel as though I have to spend the whole time avoiding land mines.
From The Kitchen God’s Wife by Amy Tan
 
My children…have been a constant joy to me (except on the days when they weren’t).
Evelyn Fairbanks, American writer and educator
  
…the end of the day…usually finds me sitting in the old rocker, shawl over my shoulders…knitting and purling to my heart’s content. I’ve spent hours in therapy warding off the fear that I would eventually turn into my mother. Whoever thought that I’d actually turn into my grandmother?
Ellen Byron, playwright
 
 
Arthur: It’s at times like this I wish I’d listened to my mother.
Ford: Why, what did she say?
Arthur: I don’t know, I never listened.
Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
   
“Motherhood is like Albania–you can’t trust the descriptions in the books, you have to go there.” 
Marni Jackson
  
My mother was dead for five years before I knew that I had loved her very much.
Lillian Hellman, American playwright and writer

My mother said to me, “If you become a soldier, you’ll be a general, if you become a monk, you’ll end up as the pope.” Instead, I became a painter and wound up as Picasso.
Pablo Picasso, Spanish artist

If you bungle raising your children, I don’t think whatever else you do well matters very much.
Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, American First Lady and editor

The most important thing she’s learned over the years was that there was no way to be a perfect mother and a million ways to be a good one.
Jill Churchill, American writer
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
And, of course, 
Iris Ruth Pastor
 

Musings & Revelations On Turning 75 Soon – EEK

It dawned on me the other day that I have been writing my weekly column for over half my life. That’s a long time.
 
I’ve shared many experiences with you: 
      Empty nest
      Increasingly jiggly body parts
      Bulimia
      Relevancy in adult kids’ lives
      Books I’ve hated and ones I’ve loved
      Mood/weight/mood/weight…..
      Old boyfriends
      Irrelevancy in my adult kids‘ lives
      Marriage and other aggravations (Tee Hee)
 
Many of you have written back and commented – thus giving me a glimpse of your little silo of life too. And whether I was hitting a nerve. 
Here’s a few comments:
      WOW. This one gave me goosebumps.
      As always, a thoughtful, meaningful and well written piece.
     Thank you for this most eloquent way of writing what many of us are thinking every day.
      Your column continues to be an inspiration.
      What a touching message. I loved this.
      Yes to all of this. Amen. Amen. Amen.
  
I recently read in the WSJ (April 5, 2022) an article by Andrea Petersen where she said, “about one in five women ages 40-59 and nearly one in four women ages 60 and over used anti-depressants in the last 30 days during 2015-2018,” according to the last data from the National Center for Health Statistics. 
 
That’s alarming. 
 
And for those who don’t turn to anti-depressants? Many reach out to friends for support and commiseration. I’m not advocating turning your back on meds, but I am advocating that there is something soothing about the tribal mentality – the mindset that we are all in this game-of-life together.
 
What we are feeling has been felt before and, therefore, we can profit from some sisterly support.
  
And, as Rhiannon Geddens, Grammy winner, recently noted on NPR Here and Now: sad songs from the past focusing on struggles put us in touch with our ancestors and make us feel less alone when trouble comes calling. 
 
I think from the comments I receive and the large subscriber base I have, my weekly Preserving You Bloom column that comes in your e mail box Fridays around 3pm also provides camaraderie, connection and compassion.
 
As an early 75th birthday present to me, please forward this link below to five friends who you feel would benefit from reading my weekly musings and who would identify with my writing. 
 
This link takes you directly to my website, where a sign-up sheet for my newsletter will pop up. 
                                      https://irisruthpastor.com
 Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.”
C.S. Lewis 
 
Let’s include others in our circle. 
Let’s expand our friend base.
Let’s Keep Preserving our Blooms,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor 

Never, Ever Underestimate The Power Of A Pin

My first introduction to a pin was probably the ubiquitous  diaper pin, a necessity in the 1940’s for securing a cloth diaper in place on infants and roaming toddlers. I don’t remember mine, but my little brother’s diaper pins had powder blue plastic tops.

Actually, the diaper pin was accidentally invented in 1849 by Walter Hunt. Apparently owing an acquaintance $15 dollars (which in 1849 was an enormous sum of money), Hunt was being chased down by collectors.
 
Spotting a piece of wire, Hunt began nervously twisting it into various shapes before realizing he had created a shape that could easily be clasped shut. Hunt then saw a quick fix to his immediate dilemma. After patenting his invention, he then sold it W.R. Grace and Company for the relatively enormous sum of $400. His debt was wiped away and he had some money left over. 

Grace and Company went on to make millions from Hunt’s invention.

That was not the first and last time a pin wielded such power. Women in the 1950’s adorned their outfits with brooches and pins routinely – often signifying their financial status in society by the value of the stones and their settings. 
 
As a little girl, raptly observing my maternal grandmother as she would routinely assemble her outfits for a party or luncheon, I was led to believe that no female ensemble was complete without an ornament fastened on a collar, shoulder area or lapel. 
 
My mother didn’t don jewelry to telegraph non-verbal cues. She had another very effective way to let my father know when he was in the dog house or in her good graces. If he had fallen from grace, around 5pm in the afternoon she’d pin a cardboard green half moon onto our front door – signifying she was in a foul mood. All my neighborhood buddies begged me for an explanation of her action, but I never did learn the significance behind the moon and its color. It was a story my parents took to their graves. And, years later, when google appeared, I researched the meaning of a green moon. Google failed to answer my inquiry.  
 
Diapers requiring pins are long gone – as is my grandmother, mom, dad and the cardboard green moon.
 
However, many of my grandmother’s eye-catching pins and brooches rest undisturbed in my jewelry drawer.
In March, I was sad to hear that Madeleine Albright had passed away. The first female Secretary of State was one of my heroines and I was delighted to learn how she used her feminine accoutrements as a tool of political persuasion. Her bold and decisive jewelry choices, reflecting her views and mood, delivered a powerful punch.
  
Albright underscored this point in an interview in the Smithsonian Magazine with Megan Gambino in June 2010: “After we found that the Russians had planted a listening device—a ‘bug’—into a conference room near my office in the State Department, the next time I saw the Russians, I wore this huge bug. They got the message.” 
 
For more on how Albright utilized her jeweled ornaments as icebreakers, subtle messengers and non-verbal openers, access: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/madeleine-albright-on-her-life-in-pins-149191/
 
I have ordered her book, Read My Pins: Stories From a Diplomat’s Jewel Box  and plan on studying her strategies.
  In the meantime, I am actively taking inventory of my stash of pins and brooches and categorizing them: Cameos / feeling nostalgic
Flowers / feeling lighthearted and hopeful
Hearts / feeling flirty
Circle pin / honoring life’s various stages 
I’m still trying to find one to signify “Tread lightly, I’m in a bad mood.” Maybe for my 75th birthday, I’ll ask my husband to go to our local jeweler and design a pin sporting a green half moon. It could prove vastly useful.
  
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor

It’s All About Perspective

We all look at the world differently – through our own little silo
– impacted by past events and our present circumstances.
 
This idea bopped me on the head as I listened to my Calm App one morning as Tamara Levitt related this tale:
 Three blind men come across an elephant. 
Curious to learn just what an elephant is,
 they each put their hand out to touch the animal.
 
One man touches the elephant’s trunk –
 and deduces that the elephant is like a thick snake
 
One man touches the elephant’s ears  –
 and deduces that the elephant is like a fan
 
One man touches the elephant’s thigh –
 and deduces the elephant is like a wall 
Each man then insists his perspective is the correct one, thus leading to heated arguments.
 
The three blind men were projecting their perspective – their limited perspective – on the others, only relying on their own sliver of experience.
 
They were not wrong, but their assumptions were based on just ONE of the elephant’s parts. 
 
How often do we make assumptions about the whole person based on just one part of a person’s being: income, beliefs, wardrobe, career, age, interests, political leanings, how proficient they are at Pickle Ball? 
 
Maybe it’s time for all of us to consider the truth from as many different angles as we can. 
 
This weekend, while celebrating Easter and Passover, we have an opportunity to go even further. We can honor our differences and emphasize our commonalities in order to more clearly see the big picture.
 
Each day in the news cycle, the Ukrainians, stripped of all normalcy, are so vividly  demonstrating to the world that which really matters to them:Living peacefully and safely, 
surrounded by family and friends, 
in a community they love, 
doing work and deeds that have valueThat’s the Big Picture.
 
Today is Good Friday, followed by Easter on Sunday. Today at sundown, is the beginning of Passover. And though we come from different traditions and view our lives through a different lens, our concerns, like the besieged Ukrainians, are universal. 
 
Let’s all remember that. Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor

Making It Through The Day

The war in the Ukraine rages on.
 
The photojournalist Heidi Levine is witness to the horrors in Bucha – a town of around 36,000 people, roughly 16 miles from Kyiv.
 
Her photos report:
     Bodies torn from bikes and then shot 
     Others, with arms tied behind their backs, mercilessly gunned down. 
     Civilians, living under bombardment for weeks, posing no threats, deliberately targeted and then slaughtered 
    The “more fortunate,” surviving by hiding in basements, with no cell phone connections, living in complete isolation and fear.
 
We wring our hands. We watch with horror. We know not what to do.
 
My friend Leslie forwarded to me the video below last Sunday morning. 
 
VIDEO
 
I laughed out loud when the video concluded. 
It’s been a long time since I have laughed out loud. 
 
It’s soooo funny. 
   A little girl is left out of the boys’ game.
   She makes the best of the situation by being helpful, pleasant and nurturing.
   The little boys take her subservience in stride, acknowledging her good deed – without too much enthusiasm – and with a little sprinkle of entitlement. 
   The little girl, with the utmost of discretion, delivers revenge. 
  
This short little video sports all the elements of great drama encapsulated in mere seconds: pathos, cultural bias, revenge, resolution and HUMOR.
 
I posted it immediately on Facebook and Instagram. I was shocked by the lack of response. My Facebook posting of the video got 11 likes and my Instagram posting garnered a mere 6 likes.
 
Why?  Are we so enmeshed in the gruesome news that we can’t enjoy a little humor? We aren’t minimizing the horror of the fighting in Europe because we laugh a little.
 
Once again, I am reminded of the power of HUMOR.
 
Humor has been found to increase camaraderie. When I tell you a joke that I have found funny, and you laugh at it too, that creates a sense of group intimacy – a “we’re in this together” attitude – a joining of feeling.

Humor elevates the spirit. Study after study show that humor creates a sense of well-being. Humor reduces stress, puts things in proper perspective, takes the edge off and helps us concentrate less on our disappointments, frustrations and woes. Humor boosts the immune system and can lower our blood pressure.

Developing our own sense of humor helps us weather instability and change – helps us find balance in very strange environments and situations that life inevitably creates. It will help us evolve and find a comfortable place for ourselves. 

Think of gallows humor. Gallows humor is humor that treats serious, frightening or painful subject matter in a light or satirical way. 

The late Joan Rivers once said, “If you can laugh at it, you can deal with it,” in regard to her husband’s suicide.

Gallows humor grows during times of unrest. “Ghoulish banter serves as a common psychological weapon…that’s what people do in situations of extremis when they feel profoundly unnerved,” Judith Matloff wrote in an article titled “In Praise of Gallows Humor.” 

So many of us look for positive ways to cope with the unknown, the frightening, the threats to our very civilization and existence. 
       We tune into mindfulness – living in the moment.
       We do yoga in the park at sunset.
       We do zoom wine chats.
       We learn to breathe calmly when we feel frazzled 

But how many of us read the comics daily?
Pass on jokes?
Deliberately hunt for humorous anecdotes and videos? 

Let’s start now. 

As Viktor Frankl said in his 1946 memoir about his internment in Auschwitz, humor is one of the “soul’s weapons” to transcend despair. 

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

War, Routine And 5667 Miles

The headlines scream:
     Putin Exploits America’s Fear of Nuclear War
     Russia’s Bombardment Grinds On
     U.S. Sends Soviet Air Defenses to Ukraine 
     United States Will Welcome up to 100,000 Ukrainian Refugees
     Putin is Targeting Civilians and It’s a War Crime

My routine, however, continues uninterrupted:
     8:40 AM:  I wake up. Roll over. Grab my iPhone and listen to Tamara Levitt on my Calm app talk about the importance of gratitude. 

    10 AM: I sit drinking a perfectly brewed cup of coffee from my bright red coffee machine.

    10:22 AM: I set up my computer on my screened porch – pausing to notice more blooms on my geranium plants. 
 
     10:32 AM: I begin pounding out my weekly column. 

     2:10 PM: I run a few mundane errands. Check in with a few friends about lunch plans for next week.
 
     4:00 PM: I turn on MSNBC or CNN to catch the headlines, while I plop a frozen chicken into my Instant Pot. 

     5:20 PM:  I go for an hour-long ride on my tricycle, circling the bay. 

     6:30 PM: Dinner with my husband, discussing whether to add solar powered lights to the front yard shrubs. 

     7:30 PM:  Facetime with my delicious grandchildren.   

     9:00 PM: I snuggle in front of the big screen TV to binge watch The Gilded Age.

     11:30 PM: I take a very hot, very long shower and afterwards I slather on some fabulously smelling lavender body lotion before slipping into my king size bed in my air-conditioned house.

I don’t know DARYA PESHKOVA, but her routine has not gone uninterrupted. 
 
One morning Darya Peshkova hears Russian forces shelling her port city of Mariupol.

A few short days later, her heating, electricity and water go out. 
 
Her food and water supplies dwindle dangerously down. 

Her burning question is not what errands to run or what to make for dinner. Her dilemma: Should she leave the city she has lived in for 37 years or steadfastly cling to the hope that “this too will pass”?

She and her husband decide to flee the city with their two young daughters. 
 
They join a convoy of cars leaving the city on “safe routes” agreed upon by the Russian forces.  Twenty-five miles later, sixteen rogue gunmen surround their caravan, saying they will only let women and children through – no men.

Darya Peshkova and her husband turn off the engine of their automobile. And wait. And deliberate.

Around dusk, the mayor of a nearby village offers them a place to stay. Is this a trick?

It isn’t.
 The whole neighboring village shares whatever they have with the refugee convoy and the next morning the fleeing men find an alternate route to avoid that prior check point.

They begin driving once more. Potholes litter the road, as do rotting corpses, burned-out vehicles and unexploded munitions. 

The day wears on – interrupted by Russian war planes opening fire on Ukrainian targets too close for comfort.

Just before nightfall – right about the time my husband and I would be pleasantly finishing up dinner – Darya Peshkova and her family come to a checkpoint sporting a Ukrainian flag. They have made it to safety.
 
The only difference I notice these days that disrupts my placid, secure routine is the intermittent drone of fighter planes overhead at random times of the day. It’s a reminder that even though Ukraine may be 5667 miles away, MacDill Air Force Base is literally at the end of my street – 3.1 miles from my driveway. The air base is home to 15,000 workers and is the US Central Command and headquarters for the US Special Operations Command. Its presence among the stately homes and old oaks of South Tampa is a vivid reminder that in today’s global world, war is never far from our own backyards. And from our minds, thoughts and hearts.
 
 Keep Preserving Your Bloom, in spite of it all,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor
 
For the full article on Darya Peshkova: https://www.wsj.com/articles/a-ukrainian-family-navigates-a-perilous-route-to-escape-besieged-mariupol-11647683744?mod=Searchresults_pos1&page=1

Things I Didn’t Know About My Mother

Years after my mom passed away, I found her musings about ordinary days in her life. I thought I knew her well – now I’m not quite so sure.
 
At age 88, she made a commercial aimed at securing funds for the Art Deco train station in Cincinnati and it passed resoundingly.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CdPsYM8tl2Q
She was the mom who entered me in a Sophia Loren lookalike contest, hosted by none other than Jerry Springer. I came in second. 
 
She was the grandmother who entered her grandson, Louie, into the Elvis Presley lookalike contest and he won!
 
And she was my co-author on my very first book, Slices, Bites and Other Facts of Life where she absolutely refused to both proofread our copy and prepare for interviews by the media – preferring just to “wing it.”
Both of which drove me crazy.
 

 
Here is some stuff I didn’t know:
 
Tuesday, January 22, 2013 9:54pm
After years of being a devoted daughter, loving war bride, busy housewife, mother, grandmother and great grandmother, here I am in my too immaculate, too quiet apartment – all alone.
My husband of 68 years passed away and left me without warning. We had made a pact when he finally returned from overseas after World War 2 that we would never be separated again. We stuck to that pact through good times and bad. This is not the way it was supposed to be. I wanted to go first, but now I realize how selfish that would have been on my part.
In my generation, the wife took care of the home and the children. The husband was responsible for bringing home the bacon, so to speak. Nothing more. Consequently, my husband couldn’t boil water, no less prepare a meal for himself. He never learned how to work the washer or dryer or heaven forbid – sleep alone – without me beside him. What would have become of him, I wonder?
 
Sunday, January 27, 2013 10:0am
It’s Sunday morning and I overslept. Usually I’m up and about by 7:30. I jumped out of bed too fast and became dizzy, but caught myself before I took a fall. Ah, these golden years! As Bette Davis said, “Old age ain’t for sissies.” 
Why am I feeling guilty about sleeping late? It’s not like I have anyone waiting for me, nor am I on a timetable anymore. I am responsible only for myself and I find that unbearable to comprehend. 
 
 
Friday, February 6, 2015 12:15pm
Like my daughter, Iris, I always feel better when I write. This is about my son-in-law’s mother, Hotche Pastor, on her upcoming 90th birthday:
Never thought the pretty little girl 
that I waved to in the halls of Hughes
would someday ease my “family” blues.
Many years later, she and Herb walked into my life,
when Steven and Iris became man and wife.
Finally, I have a family of my own. 
Never again would I feel alone.
Through sorrow and joy, her and her family were there,
standing beside me with loving care.
Holiday dinners, reunions and bar mitzvahs galore –
all a part of what families are for.
So here’s to your birthday, wishing you many more –
Filled with health, happiness and much love in store.
Your loving “sister,”
Bev
 Hotche, on left, and Bev, on the right. 
March 16, 2016 3:32pm
Came home from the hospital all strung out.
When will I ever be up and about?
Nurses and aids doing their best
to keep up with my every request.
At 89, my knee went out of commission.
I called 9-1-1 – a wise decision.
After 10 painful days of TLC,
here I am fighting the battle of the knee.
Therapy hurts and I’m dizzy as well.
They tell me I’m lucky I never fell.
With all this attention and excellent care,
maybe I won’t need a wheel chair.
I can handle a walker. That might be good
if only the knee will behave as it should.
 
Saturday, April 30, 2016 4:01pm
Another lonely, empty day.
My family is scattered all over the country.
I’ve gone back to painting flowers on small canvases
And giving them to people I know.
It seems to make them happy.
And it makes me happy too.
 
 
Friday, June 16, 2017 2:30pm
Unable to fly, so I gaze at the sky from afar,
thankful I’ve got keys and can still drive my car.
Don’t hear as well as I’d like,
and my legs fold at the thought of a hike.
I remember things I’d sooner forget,
and forget to remember what I came to get.
More time with my kids, this they can’t give,
yet they are the very reason I want to live.
When my time is up, I’ll be ready to go
but while I’m here, I want you to know
I earned every wrinkle and each gray hair.
And at 90, I still really care.
To my precious family and very dear friends,
I have this to say:
Thanks for the ride.
It’s been a trip all the way.
 
Thursday, January 11, 2018 3:35pm
A people watcher at heart am I,
watching everyone hurrying by.
Here I am in this huge mall,
remembering when it was very small.
The shops were few, but quite unique
from modern and clever to old and antique.
It wasn’t as crowded as it is today,
a safer area for the children to play.
 
Nothing is as it used to be.
Well, neither am I. Just look at me.
Sitting here like a lump on a log,
I can hardly walk, no less jog.
 
Our next generation, in plain sight,
energetic and so very bright.
Contented I’ll be when laid to rest
that I leave the future to the very best.
In good hands, from what I see today,
to love and protect our USA.
 
Friday, January 19, 2018 5:42pm
Meanwhile, I try to survive one day at a time.
“Mourn not for what you don’t have, but rejoice in what you do have.” I don’t know where I heard it, but it works for me when I’m having a bad day.
And like my daughter Iris says, “keep coping.”
And I’ll also “Keep Preserving My Bloom” – although it’s pretty damn faded by now.
 
 
My mother passed away as she wished to go:
      On her 91st birthday 
      Surrounded by those she loved 
      and those who loved her, 
      and free of pain.
 
That’s all, folks,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor

Life Lessons From My Mom

The desk is in my family room,I pass it at least 100 times a day. 
And the green plastic folder was in plain sight.
It was labeled “Beverly’s Writings” – thoughts my mother penned  through the years.  

 But, somehow, I never thought to explore its contents
until one rainy, cold Saturday afternoon.
And I am very glad I did.
 
My mother always intensely hated being an only child. Perhaps this is why… LITTLE JOE It was a difficult birth on this cold, wintery night
Prayers were answered when all went right
At last, a dark haired, beautiful baby boy
They named him Joseph, this long-awaited bundle of joy
Oh, how complete their young lives seemed
Happier than they ever dreamed
His life span wasn’t long
Sic days later he was gone
Not a day goes by that I don’t mourn
For my brother, who died before I was born. On meeting my dad…. COUNTING MY BLESSINGS For us, it was love at first sight
That long, long ago, cool summer night
The second World War was raging on starts in the windows for the boys who were gone
Ration stamps, shortages at home, being sent to our servicemen overseas
Telegraph boys – don’t stop at my house, please!
After years of waiting for the war to cease
My Army Air Corp hero returned to a world at peace
It was a struggle adjusting to domestic life
We were so young to be man and wife
I was 17, he was 21, and I count my blessings every day
For the 68 years we shared before he passed away 
When she was 20, my mom gave birth to me and over the years, our nuclear family grew with the birth of my brother and sister.My mother used her writing skills to also pay tribute to those she loved. Tribute to Ethel is about the cleaning lady we shared for years, hailing from the hills of Kentucky, deep in Appalachia, with little education. She was innately brighter than both of us.  
Tribute to Ethel I find myself waiting for Ethel to open the door
As she has done so many times before
Together, coffee in hand, two old friends of forty years
Her words of wisdom, like music to my ears
And the down-home cures that I now know
Will heal anything from head to toe
The delicious buckeye balls and heavenly fudge that Ethel made
The essence of those Christmas delights will not fade
Rest in place, my loving friend, 
And know that my memories of you will never end.My mother spent many holidays by herself growing up because both her parents were florists who worked tremendously long hours. As an adult, she was very inclusive. Every Thanksgiving, she invited not just her family, but anyone else who she knew would be alone. Our Thanksgivings were large, wild, rambunctious affairs.  Savor The Moment Dishes stacked high, but it doesn’t matter
Remnants of food on every platter
Toys scattered here and there
Disarray everywhere
The laughter loud and spits high
How blessed we are, I think with a sigh
The family’s together, recalling the past
My, oh my, time passes so fast
After the clutter and toys are stored away
We will always remember this Thanksgiving Day.
My mom is no longer with us to enjoy the long Thanksgiving weekend, but in her memory, we party hearty.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,Iris Ruth Pastor