Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 23
September 17, 2021
I Think I’m Weird
I think I’m weird.
Every time I get very stressed, I delve into a novel or memoir about The Holocaust.
Reading about that level of degradation, terror and violence always skyrockets my gratitude meter and puts things in proper prospective.
This time my choice was The Light of Days by Judy Batalion. It is the untold story of women resistance fighters in Hitler’s ghettos.
These unsung heroes, who have remained anonymous for far too long, not only cooked, cared for the ghetto orphans and ran schools in the ghettos, but engaged in smuggling, sabotage, resistance and spying.
In anticipation of my husband’s yet another looming back surgery, I voraciously whipped through chapter after chapter of truly horrific happenings from that historical time.
So, when we checked into our hotel a few days before his surgery, I was less inclined to fret over the fact that there weren’t enough hangers, the Internet connection was spotty, the refrigerator not cold enough and one of the drawers almost impossible to open.
The night before the operation, my husband and I sleep fitfully – both of our phones set to 4:30am. We wake every 45 minutes to check the time and to make sure we haven’t slept through our 5:30am hospital check-in time.
As the time grows closer to his surgery, I remind myself of things I find comforting;
The great time we had with our sons and their families over the weekend
The hospital orderly we have kept in contact with – who assures me he will look after both of us
The fact that three of my sons and their families live nearby
And I have my
Computer
iPad
Phone
Knitting
Books
Coffee mate
Supply of masks
And a long list of truly caring people to text/email updates to throughout the day
Still
I’m terrified.
***************************************************************
My fears are unfounded. Six long hours later, a call from our surgeon confirms my worst fears were unfounded:
My husband didn’t bleed to death on the table
He didn’t stroke out
He didn’t become paralyzed
“In fact, there were no surprises at all,“ my doctor reported. “And all went as was expected.“
I settle down and impatiently wait to be able to see him in the step-down unit where he will spend the next few days being closely monitored after being released from the recovery room.
Still agitated, I’m in need of some grounding. I find it in a message from Rabbi Laura Duhan Kaplan. She recently recorded this for the Jewish New Year of Rosh Hashanah.
Rabbi Kaplan focuses on a 1000 year-old prayer called Unetankeh Tokef– which centers around how to show up in challenging times.
What that means, notes Rabbi Kaplan, is to take stock and decide how to move forward.
She cites three ways to do this – and although the words are Jewish – their meaning is universal.
Teshuvah – a return to what needs fixing, looking at our interpersonal relationships and making amends
Tefilla h – prayer/spiritual self-examination
Tzedakah – giving help to those facing the most harm
Climate change, political upheaval, and a waxing pandemic are all looming, constant and relative threats in our world today.
But no one is
Herding us into ghettos
Starving us
Terrorising us through unremitting beatings
Tearing us from our families
Or throwing us into gas chambers
As American actor Jeff Kober says: To become mindfully aware of our surroundings is to bring our thinking back to our present moment of reality and to the possibility of some semblance of serenity.
In spite of it all, I’m pretty serene right now. Hope you are too.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
Every time I get very stressed, I delve into a novel or memoir about The Holocaust.
Reading about that level of degradation, terror and violence always skyrockets my gratitude meter and puts things in proper prospective.
This time my choice was The Light of Days by Judy Batalion. It is the untold story of women resistance fighters in Hitler’s ghettos.
These unsung heroes, who have remained anonymous for far too long, not only cooked, cared for the ghetto orphans and ran schools in the ghettos, but engaged in smuggling, sabotage, resistance and spying.
In anticipation of my husband’s yet another looming back surgery, I voraciously whipped through chapter after chapter of truly horrific happenings from that historical time.
So, when we checked into our hotel a few days before his surgery, I was less inclined to fret over the fact that there weren’t enough hangers, the Internet connection was spotty, the refrigerator not cold enough and one of the drawers almost impossible to open.
The night before the operation, my husband and I sleep fitfully – both of our phones set to 4:30am. We wake every 45 minutes to check the time and to make sure we haven’t slept through our 5:30am hospital check-in time.
As the time grows closer to his surgery, I remind myself of things I find comforting;
The great time we had with our sons and their families over the weekend
The hospital orderly we have kept in contact with – who assures me he will look after both of us
The fact that three of my sons and their families live nearby
And I have my
Computer
iPad
Phone
Knitting
Books
Coffee mate
Supply of masks
And a long list of truly caring people to text/email updates to throughout the day
Still
I’m terrified.
***************************************************************
My fears are unfounded. Six long hours later, a call from our surgeon confirms my worst fears were unfounded:
My husband didn’t bleed to death on the table
He didn’t stroke out
He didn’t become paralyzed
“In fact, there were no surprises at all,“ my doctor reported. “And all went as was expected.“
I settle down and impatiently wait to be able to see him in the step-down unit where he will spend the next few days being closely monitored after being released from the recovery room.
Still agitated, I’m in need of some grounding. I find it in a message from Rabbi Laura Duhan Kaplan. She recently recorded this for the Jewish New Year of Rosh Hashanah.
Rabbi Kaplan focuses on a 1000 year-old prayer called Unetankeh Tokef– which centers around how to show up in challenging times.
What that means, notes Rabbi Kaplan, is to take stock and decide how to move forward.
She cites three ways to do this – and although the words are Jewish – their meaning is universal.
Teshuvah – a return to what needs fixing, looking at our interpersonal relationships and making amends
Tefilla h – prayer/spiritual self-examination
Tzedakah – giving help to those facing the most harm
Climate change, political upheaval, and a waxing pandemic are all looming, constant and relative threats in our world today.
But no one is
Herding us into ghettos
Starving us
Terrorising us through unremitting beatings
Tearing us from our families
Or throwing us into gas chambers
As American actor Jeff Kober says: To become mindfully aware of our surroundings is to bring our thinking back to our present moment of reality and to the possibility of some semblance of serenity.
In spite of it all, I’m pretty serene right now. Hope you are too.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
September 10, 2021
Your Fountain Of Truth About Life After Youth
I made a decision after turning 74 in August that I‘d be
devoting a portion of my blogs during my 74th year to writing about things I am grateful for – things we all often carelessly and casually take for granted.
Here’s one biggie: our ability – as we slide gracefully (or kicking and screaming) into the autumn of our years – to CONTROL OUR OWN REMOTE.
To be the captain of our ship. And the navigator too.
That translates into having the ability, the time, the resources, and the will to embark on new endeavors. To try new things, even when it involves pushing past the fear of failure and coping with the anxiety of the unknown.
So what am I grateful for these days?
The opportunity to work with an immensely talented and gifted woman named Pam Saeks.
Why? Because she is brilliant, fearless and innovative.
And together we are blazing forth upon a new pathway for both of us.
What is it?
A podcast for and about women (men are most welcome to listen too – hopefully it will help them figure out how their wives, daughters, girlfriends and female friends and co-workers think).
The Name
Shooting the Schtick
Your Fountain of Truth About Life After Youth
Pam and I have been busily engaged in coming up with what we think is a unique slant that isn’t available elsewhere.
Think of Shooting the Schtick as sitting around your kitchen table – schmoozing with a best friend or two – talking about things that matter and some that don’t matter that much – all of it thought provoking, entertaining and provocative. And edgy, of course.
To shave or not shave those pesky black chin hairs?
To tuck, cut, or Botox?
Are we too old to wear ripped jeans and flaunt our cleavage?
Why does what I weigh control my mood?
Long distance grandparenting or being the nanny to your grandchildren or coping with not having any grandchildren to begin with!
Daring to write our own obit – why should anyone but us have the last word?
Dealing with wedding tribulations/family tensions
Parenting adult kids (that’s my favorite cause I never seem to be able to get it quite right)
What daughters-in-law would like their mothers-in-law to know and vice versa
Recommendations on books, podcasts and binge-worthy TV shows
We may be lowering our heels, but we are raising the roof and harnessing our power.
We are babes in joyland
We are women gone rogue
We are seasoned bitches
Blooming broads
Whatever you call us, we are in our 60’s, 70’s and 80’s and we are ready to roar.
Please take our survey to make sure your roar is heard too. You matter.
And Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
devoting a portion of my blogs during my 74th year to writing about things I am grateful for – things we all often carelessly and casually take for granted.
Here’s one biggie: our ability – as we slide gracefully (or kicking and screaming) into the autumn of our years – to CONTROL OUR OWN REMOTE.
To be the captain of our ship. And the navigator too.
That translates into having the ability, the time, the resources, and the will to embark on new endeavors. To try new things, even when it involves pushing past the fear of failure and coping with the anxiety of the unknown.
So what am I grateful for these days?
The opportunity to work with an immensely talented and gifted woman named Pam Saeks.
Why? Because she is brilliant, fearless and innovative.
And together we are blazing forth upon a new pathway for both of us.
What is it?
A podcast for and about women (men are most welcome to listen too – hopefully it will help them figure out how their wives, daughters, girlfriends and female friends and co-workers think).
The Name
Shooting the Schtick
Your Fountain of Truth About Life After Youth
Pam and I have been busily engaged in coming up with what we think is a unique slant that isn’t available elsewhere.
Think of Shooting the Schtick as sitting around your kitchen table – schmoozing with a best friend or two – talking about things that matter and some that don’t matter that much – all of it thought provoking, entertaining and provocative. And edgy, of course.
To shave or not shave those pesky black chin hairs?
To tuck, cut, or Botox?
Are we too old to wear ripped jeans and flaunt our cleavage?
Why does what I weigh control my mood?
Long distance grandparenting or being the nanny to your grandchildren or coping with not having any grandchildren to begin with!
Daring to write our own obit – why should anyone but us have the last word?
Dealing with wedding tribulations/family tensions
Parenting adult kids (that’s my favorite cause I never seem to be able to get it quite right)
What daughters-in-law would like their mothers-in-law to know and vice versa
Recommendations on books, podcasts and binge-worthy TV shows
We may be lowering our heels, but we are raising the roof and harnessing our power.
We are babes in joyland
We are women gone rogue
We are seasoned bitches
Blooming broads
Whatever you call us, we are in our 60’s, 70’s and 80’s and we are ready to roar.
Please take our survey to make sure your roar is heard too. You matter.
And Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
September 2, 2021
Selling It All And Trying Something New
The first firm memory I have of Mark Silverstein was slow dancing with him at a Bar Mitzvah party when I was 13. I was uncomfortable for two reasons: he was holding me way too tightly for my dad’s idea of propriety and my yellow brocade party dress was flattening my burgeoning breasts into very unflattering pancakes.
When the dance was over, Mark very suavely (if any 13 year-old can be described as suave) released me from his arms and shot me an intensely dreamy look before departing back to his buddies.
My next recollection of Mark Silverstein was centered around the barrage of buzz he created by traveling 250 miles to attend our 45th high school reunion via his brand new 2010 Triumph Bonneville motorcycle.
A recent Facebook post updated me on Mark’s newest adventure: selling almost everything he owns and moving to Costa Rica. Intrigued, I immediately tracked him down and begged for some time to chat about his change-of-life direction.
Mark tells me he is taking two suitcases and his “Do Cool Sh*t “ t shirt.
Above is a picture of Mark and his daughter Taaron on the trail to Angel’s Landing in Utah – one of the most dangerous hiking trails in the country. His in-your-face motto emblazoned on his t-shirt falls seamlessly in line with his philosophy on life: Die with memories not dreams.
Totally intrigued with what he is doing, I ask him, “WHY?”
“I did a year’s worth of research and went down and visited three times – totaling about 30 days. The country has about 5 million people, is the size of West Virginia and has an excellent program for pensioners, without giving up American citizenship. It also has a good public health care system called Kaja that you qualify for if you are a permanent resident.
“It’s a beautiful country,” Mark continues, “with warm and welcoming people. Costa Ricans actually wave and say hello instead of ‘What are you looking at?’
“And I wanted one last adventure where I could explore nature, do yoga, and learn to surf.”
“Costa Rica is the land of ‘pura vida,’” Mark concludes. “Pura vida means cool or no worries – it’s also used as a greeting both when saying hello and goodbye.”
Costa Ricans say “pura vida” – it is everything that makes their Central American paradise so alluring. Pura vida is the Costa Rican version of the laid-back philosophy of “Hakuna Matata” from The Lion King. It’s how they look at the world.
Mark departed Cleveland on Tueday, August 31. He plans to arrive in Costa Rica today. He’s going to buy a dirt bike and then a 4 x4. Though he intends to build a house, for now he has rented a 2-bedroom home with a pool, 2 kilometers from the Pacific Ocean. Mark plans to start a non-profit to help indigenous tribes like the Boruca sell their art and craftwork. Below is a hand-painted balsa wood mask typically sold to tourists.
And he is also planning for lots of company from the States. I’m betting he’ll get it. As Mark says: “Surfs up and jungle trekking is waiting.”
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
When the dance was over, Mark very suavely (if any 13 year-old can be described as suave) released me from his arms and shot me an intensely dreamy look before departing back to his buddies.
My next recollection of Mark Silverstein was centered around the barrage of buzz he created by traveling 250 miles to attend our 45th high school reunion via his brand new 2010 Triumph Bonneville motorcycle.
A recent Facebook post updated me on Mark’s newest adventure: selling almost everything he owns and moving to Costa Rica. Intrigued, I immediately tracked him down and begged for some time to chat about his change-of-life direction.
Mark tells me he is taking two suitcases and his “Do Cool Sh*t “ t shirt.
Above is a picture of Mark and his daughter Taaron on the trail to Angel’s Landing in Utah – one of the most dangerous hiking trails in the country. His in-your-face motto emblazoned on his t-shirt falls seamlessly in line with his philosophy on life: Die with memories not dreams.
Totally intrigued with what he is doing, I ask him, “WHY?”
“I did a year’s worth of research and went down and visited three times – totaling about 30 days. The country has about 5 million people, is the size of West Virginia and has an excellent program for pensioners, without giving up American citizenship. It also has a good public health care system called Kaja that you qualify for if you are a permanent resident.
“It’s a beautiful country,” Mark continues, “with warm and welcoming people. Costa Ricans actually wave and say hello instead of ‘What are you looking at?’
“And I wanted one last adventure where I could explore nature, do yoga, and learn to surf.”
“Costa Rica is the land of ‘pura vida,’” Mark concludes. “Pura vida means cool or no worries – it’s also used as a greeting both when saying hello and goodbye.”
Costa Ricans say “pura vida” – it is everything that makes their Central American paradise so alluring. Pura vida is the Costa Rican version of the laid-back philosophy of “Hakuna Matata” from The Lion King. It’s how they look at the world.
Mark departed Cleveland on Tueday, August 31. He plans to arrive in Costa Rica today. He’s going to buy a dirt bike and then a 4 x4. Though he intends to build a house, for now he has rented a 2-bedroom home with a pool, 2 kilometers from the Pacific Ocean. Mark plans to start a non-profit to help indigenous tribes like the Boruca sell their art and craftwork. Below is a hand-painted balsa wood mask typically sold to tourists.
And he is also planning for lots of company from the States. I’m betting he’ll get it. As Mark says: “Surfs up and jungle trekking is waiting.”
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
August 27, 2021
What Do People Do In August?
Very sorry
And
Contrite
About no musings
This week…
Instead, a few days
Of off time
Not to be repeated regularly.
Family Wedding
in Chicago!
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
And
Contrite
About no musings
This week…
Instead, a few days
Of off time
Not to be repeated regularly.
Family Wedding
in Chicago!
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
August 20, 2021
How It All Began…
On August 15th of this year, my husband and I celebrated our 45thwedding anniversary.
However, that is not the only anniversary I am celebrating this month.
Thirty-one years ago this month, I started writing my “Incidentally, Iris” column.Here’s how it all transpired:Everyone has a special friend from their past and I was certainly no exception. My friend and I grew up together, walked the same neighborhood streets together, moaned over the same moronic boys together and managed to graduate both high school and college with a modicum of dignity.
We both married young, gave birth to two sons and proceeded to get divorced. Not exactly the American Dream, but certainly not a highly uncommon occurrence.
In the years following, we spoke at least two to three times a week by phone – as we emptied the dishwasher, folded the ever-present piles of laundry, prepared dinner and wiped runny noses.
And one day, she called and said, ”Iris, I found something you could do and I’m sending it to you in the mail.”
Sure enough, a package arrives two days later. It is a newspaper – a parenting newspaper to be exact – published and written by a housewife and mother (just like me) living in Baltimore, Maryland.
My friend was right. I could do this.
Just a few weeks before the first issue of Cincinnati Kids came out, I took my sons to Tampa, Florida for my yearly visit to see my aunt and uncle.
I was cooped up in a two-bedroom house my two sons from my first marriage and my three little boys
From my second marriage
I was in the same city where I had experienced a failed first marriage
My aunt was absent minded
My uncle was ailing
And my second husband was in Cincinnati working
I wrote a first-person account about my two-week ordeal and used it in the premier edition of Cincinnati Kids. I titled my column “Incidentally, Iris” in case I came up with any other things I wanted to comment on in future issues. And I signed off with the phrase “Keep Coping” – which was about the only thing that got me through my visit.
Since that time I’ve written on a large variety of subjects – accidents, guilt, ill health, lousy behavior. Lousy meals. Lousy days. I‘ve written about goals attained and those that fell short. I’ve written about losses avoided and losses sustained. Honor. Awards. Hard won wisdom. I’ve written about my family, my friends, my acquaintances. My failures. And my triumphs.
At first, I believed that my columns were well received because my kids and my husband and my life were so interesting that no one could resist reading about my experiences. As time went on, I learned differently.
Reader’s comments were in relation to their own life and personal concerns. Not mine.
When I wrote about losing my grandmother at such a young age, people who had experienced that same kind of premature loss spoke up.
When I wrote about coming to terms with the poignancy and ambivalence involved in watching my children grow up and flee the nest, parents experiencing that same kind of emotion spoke up.
When I wrote about watching my “average” children excel – and sometimes not excel – in school and sports and test taking, parents who also had “average” children spoke up.
When I wrote about the delight of stealing a few moments of solitude and relaxation from a busy day of responsibilities and deadlines, people who also had time constraints and pressures spoke up.
The feedback always was and continues to be centered around my ability to be in my readers’ kitchens – to mirror their thoughts, fears, goals, happy moments and aspirations.
All this time I thought I was writing a column about me. It took me a long time to realize I was writing a column also about you.
What “Incidentally, Iris” led to…
A lot of doors swung open. Invitations to speak about my experiences as a mother, wife, daughter, sister and friend started streaming in.
Months later, a local AM radio station launched “Sunday Night with Iris” a weekly radio slot where I interviewed story-worthy guests about what they were up to and involved in.
And in 1996, my mom and I published Slices, Bites and Other Facts of Life – a compilation of my columns and her comments – reflecting our insights, hard won knowledge and philosophy.
Websites, Facebook, Instagram, guest blogging, and zoom chats followed, as did another book: The Secret Life of a Weight Obsessed Woman.
I had found my happy place – my tribe – and my path continues to evolve, adapt and morph.
What’s changed over the last 32 years?I have more free time.
I have far more wrinkles.
My columns are shorter
I no longer sign-off with the ending: Keep Coping
And Rita now too is happily re-married.
Hats off to all of you who have been and continue to be part of my journey.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
However, that is not the only anniversary I am celebrating this month.
Thirty-one years ago this month, I started writing my “Incidentally, Iris” column.Here’s how it all transpired:Everyone has a special friend from their past and I was certainly no exception. My friend and I grew up together, walked the same neighborhood streets together, moaned over the same moronic boys together and managed to graduate both high school and college with a modicum of dignity.
We both married young, gave birth to two sons and proceeded to get divorced. Not exactly the American Dream, but certainly not a highly uncommon occurrence.
In the years following, we spoke at least two to three times a week by phone – as we emptied the dishwasher, folded the ever-present piles of laundry, prepared dinner and wiped runny noses.
And one day, she called and said, ”Iris, I found something you could do and I’m sending it to you in the mail.”
Sure enough, a package arrives two days later. It is a newspaper – a parenting newspaper to be exact – published and written by a housewife and mother (just like me) living in Baltimore, Maryland.
My friend was right. I could do this.
Just a few weeks before the first issue of Cincinnati Kids came out, I took my sons to Tampa, Florida for my yearly visit to see my aunt and uncle.
I was cooped up in a two-bedroom house my two sons from my first marriage and my three little boys
From my second marriage
I was in the same city where I had experienced a failed first marriage
My aunt was absent minded
My uncle was ailing
And my second husband was in Cincinnati working
I wrote a first-person account about my two-week ordeal and used it in the premier edition of Cincinnati Kids. I titled my column “Incidentally, Iris” in case I came up with any other things I wanted to comment on in future issues. And I signed off with the phrase “Keep Coping” – which was about the only thing that got me through my visit.
Since that time I’ve written on a large variety of subjects – accidents, guilt, ill health, lousy behavior. Lousy meals. Lousy days. I‘ve written about goals attained and those that fell short. I’ve written about losses avoided and losses sustained. Honor. Awards. Hard won wisdom. I’ve written about my family, my friends, my acquaintances. My failures. And my triumphs.
At first, I believed that my columns were well received because my kids and my husband and my life were so interesting that no one could resist reading about my experiences. As time went on, I learned differently.
Reader’s comments were in relation to their own life and personal concerns. Not mine.
When I wrote about losing my grandmother at such a young age, people who had experienced that same kind of premature loss spoke up.
When I wrote about coming to terms with the poignancy and ambivalence involved in watching my children grow up and flee the nest, parents experiencing that same kind of emotion spoke up.
When I wrote about watching my “average” children excel – and sometimes not excel – in school and sports and test taking, parents who also had “average” children spoke up.
When I wrote about the delight of stealing a few moments of solitude and relaxation from a busy day of responsibilities and deadlines, people who also had time constraints and pressures spoke up.
The feedback always was and continues to be centered around my ability to be in my readers’ kitchens – to mirror their thoughts, fears, goals, happy moments and aspirations.
All this time I thought I was writing a column about me. It took me a long time to realize I was writing a column also about you.
What “Incidentally, Iris” led to…
A lot of doors swung open. Invitations to speak about my experiences as a mother, wife, daughter, sister and friend started streaming in.
Months later, a local AM radio station launched “Sunday Night with Iris” a weekly radio slot where I interviewed story-worthy guests about what they were up to and involved in.
And in 1996, my mom and I published Slices, Bites and Other Facts of Life – a compilation of my columns and her comments – reflecting our insights, hard won knowledge and philosophy.
Websites, Facebook, Instagram, guest blogging, and zoom chats followed, as did another book: The Secret Life of a Weight Obsessed Woman.
I had found my happy place – my tribe – and my path continues to evolve, adapt and morph.
What’s changed over the last 32 years?I have more free time.
I have far more wrinkles.
My columns are shorter
I no longer sign-off with the ending: Keep Coping
And Rita now too is happily re-married.
Hats off to all of you who have been and continue to be part of my journey.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
August 13, 2021
The Key To Greater Happiness
I have made a decision.
I’m devoting a portion of my blogs during my 74th year to writing about things I am grateful for – things we all often carelessly and casually take for granted. Why? Because a plethora of studies show that practicing the art of gratitude leads to greater happiness.
Initially, two things come to mind: Podcasts and Books and our easy access to both.
We live in a world of chaos. Political unrest. The increasingly growing threat of mass Covid re-emergence. Constantly evolving technology. Money pressures. Health issues.
Podcast
The podcast Hidden Brain helps me make sense of my world. And I am especially enamored with a recent Hidden Brain podcast titled “Cultivating Your Purpose” which appeared on 8/2/2021.
Cornell University Professor Anthony Burrow was the guest of the host of Hidden Brain, Shankar Vedantam. Burrow’s area of expertise is purpose: what it means to have a sense of purpose and how it can transform our lives.
Cultivating purpose can help us weather life’s biggest challenges and storms. It’s a mood regulator – helping us remain on an even keel in moments of stress and challenge.
This Hidden Brain segment contains footage from the iconic movie The Graduate focusing on when Benjamin Braddock (played by Dustin Hoffman) languishes in the swimming pool while being forcibly questioned by his father as to what his future plans are. It’s a brilliantly crafted scene – especially now as I am viewing it through a parental lens, not through the perspective of a young adult.
Also touched on in this segment is the critical need to be resilient – a remarkable character trait too, especially when the world spins out of control and it is so easy to feel disconnected and unengaged. Resilience comes in handy when we recognize the need to move forward and get more of what we like and less of what we don’t – and we haven’t quite figured out how to get there. Hidden Brain will help you.
Book
Remember the poem about Humpty Dumpty – who fell off the wall? And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put him back together again?
Well…..what if he did get put back together again? How would he fare? And what effect would that traumatic fall have on his well-being and confidence?
Ruminate no more. Author Dan Santat answers those questions in his book After the Fall – How Humpty Dumpty Got Back Up Again.
Now terrified of heights, Humpty can longer do many of the things he loves most. Will he summon the courage to face his fear? Santat’s lesson: Life begins when you get back up again.
A newfound fear of heights prevents Humpty from enjoying his birdwatching. Though feeling isolated and far distant from his goal of birdwatching once again, Humpty is determined not to give up his favorite hobby so he builds a model plane that soars across the sky. When another accident occurs, Humpty must conquer his nerves or give up on flying.
The Wall Street Journal said it best: “Santat gives full weight to the power of fear, which can daunt anyone who has been injured, before showing Humpty Dumpty’s eventual triumph with an inventive ending that is nothing short of exhilarating.”
Amazon notes that After the Fall is a book for ages 4-8 but don’t be fooled. This is a book for all ages – for everyone who needs a reminder that it takes time to saddle up once again after a defeat and that often we emerge stronger and in a more advantageous state than before.
So, let’s adopt the mindset that the best is yet to be. And enjoy and take advantage of the huge array of podcasts and books that we are so fortunate to have access to.
And Keep Preserving Your Bloom!
Iris Ruth Pastor
I’m devoting a portion of my blogs during my 74th year to writing about things I am grateful for – things we all often carelessly and casually take for granted. Why? Because a plethora of studies show that practicing the art of gratitude leads to greater happiness.
Initially, two things come to mind: Podcasts and Books and our easy access to both.
We live in a world of chaos. Political unrest. The increasingly growing threat of mass Covid re-emergence. Constantly evolving technology. Money pressures. Health issues.
Podcast
The podcast Hidden Brain helps me make sense of my world. And I am especially enamored with a recent Hidden Brain podcast titled “Cultivating Your Purpose” which appeared on 8/2/2021.
Cornell University Professor Anthony Burrow was the guest of the host of Hidden Brain, Shankar Vedantam. Burrow’s area of expertise is purpose: what it means to have a sense of purpose and how it can transform our lives.
Cultivating purpose can help us weather life’s biggest challenges and storms. It’s a mood regulator – helping us remain on an even keel in moments of stress and challenge.
This Hidden Brain segment contains footage from the iconic movie The Graduate focusing on when Benjamin Braddock (played by Dustin Hoffman) languishes in the swimming pool while being forcibly questioned by his father as to what his future plans are. It’s a brilliantly crafted scene – especially now as I am viewing it through a parental lens, not through the perspective of a young adult.
Also touched on in this segment is the critical need to be resilient – a remarkable character trait too, especially when the world spins out of control and it is so easy to feel disconnected and unengaged. Resilience comes in handy when we recognize the need to move forward and get more of what we like and less of what we don’t – and we haven’t quite figured out how to get there. Hidden Brain will help you.
Book
Remember the poem about Humpty Dumpty – who fell off the wall? And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put him back together again?
Well…..what if he did get put back together again? How would he fare? And what effect would that traumatic fall have on his well-being and confidence?
Ruminate no more. Author Dan Santat answers those questions in his book After the Fall – How Humpty Dumpty Got Back Up Again.
Now terrified of heights, Humpty can longer do many of the things he loves most. Will he summon the courage to face his fear? Santat’s lesson: Life begins when you get back up again.
A newfound fear of heights prevents Humpty from enjoying his birdwatching. Though feeling isolated and far distant from his goal of birdwatching once again, Humpty is determined not to give up his favorite hobby so he builds a model plane that soars across the sky. When another accident occurs, Humpty must conquer his nerves or give up on flying.
The Wall Street Journal said it best: “Santat gives full weight to the power of fear, which can daunt anyone who has been injured, before showing Humpty Dumpty’s eventual triumph with an inventive ending that is nothing short of exhilarating.”
Amazon notes that After the Fall is a book for ages 4-8 but don’t be fooled. This is a book for all ages – for everyone who needs a reminder that it takes time to saddle up once again after a defeat and that often we emerge stronger and in a more advantageous state than before.
So, let’s adopt the mindset that the best is yet to be. And enjoy and take advantage of the huge array of podcasts and books that we are so fortunate to have access to.
And Keep Preserving Your Bloom!
Iris Ruth Pastor
August 6, 2021
Can You Go “Home” Again?
Going back to my hometown is a zipless path back to my past:
Seeing friends who go back as far as first grade
Catching up with couples my husband and I sat in the stands with while watching our kids play soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter and baseball in the spring. (We thought it would all go on forever.)
Now when we visit those couples, we sit in comfortable family rooms sharing photos of grandchildren, talking about updates we have made to our homes so we can stay in them longer (called handicap accessible) and notice that though we are readily recognizable to each other, our hair is grayer, our walk not as robust and our short-term memories shot.
It’s not all about visiting the people. My time is also spent driving past the houses I have lived in or have been a significant part of my life. I drive past them often when I’m in town because each home marks a different chapter in my life. And when I feel surrounded by ghosts, it’s more comforting for me to visit the homes they inhabited than the cemeteries where they now lay buried.
I drive past at different times of the day, slowing down to take a picture from my car window or trying unsuccessfully to see beyond the windows into the physical interiors.
I notice casement windows have been replaced with double hung. A front door is now mahogany, not fire engine red. The top of the towering oak tree still dangerously overhangs the garage in the back yard. I notice the landscaping, the condition of the lawn and driveway, the number of cars in the driveway and the sheer size of the homes themselves – always much smaller than remembered.
And I wonder about the people. Who lives in my old room in Bond Hill? If it’s a little girl, is she worried about the boy who lives across the street peering in her oversized window facing his house – like I was?
Are there still beer cans hidden in the bushes of our former home in a suburb of Cincinnati? Do kids sneak onto the family room roof to smoke, as mine did? Did the new owners expand the finished basement – update the kitchen replacing the chipped Formica with granite and the knotty pine kitchen cabinets with more upscale scale cabinetry?
And in my parent’s former home, did the new owners finally break down the wall between the kitchen and dining room as we had begged my parents to do for years to make it more expansive? Is the chain link fence still there – the one that housed our family dog? Is that ugly white tile still on the guest bathroom floor? 
I tried to find out. Respecting COVID concerns and recognizing how suspicious people are nowadays, I was hesitant to knock on the occupants’ doors of the houses that had meant so much to me and request a tour. So, one evening, I got the bright idea to send each of the occupants of the three homes a postcard. (After all, I knew their addressees.) I simply stated I was in town, had lived in their house or my parents had lived in their house and I’d love to come by and see it.
I mailed the stamped postcards over two weeks ago.
I listed my cell phone and e mail address.
I eagerly awaited a response.
None came.
My efforts to connect came to naught
Maybe it’s better that way –
My memories of those special houses won’t be sullied by seeing improvements, updates and rehabs. I won’t see other family’s photos adorning the walls. Strange furniture flanking the fireplaces. Unfamiliar cars in the garages.
Maybe it’s better that way –
In my mind’s eye, my mom is still serving us dinner in the wood paneled breakfast room in Bond Hill.
My kids’ soccer cleats still block the first step of the staircase leading to the second floor bedrooms.
My kids and husband and I are still enjoying Sunday night dinners with my mom and dad in the ranch house they moved into after I graduated from high school, watching our kids shamelessly begging for free samples of the steaks my dad was gleefully grilling for us all.
Maybe memories and past images are better left undisturbed and not updated.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
July 31, 2021
How I Feel About Turning 74
On August 5, I turn 74 years old.
Modifications are in the making:
When it comes to my purses, fashionable has been replaced by practical.
When it comes to my jeans, funky has been replaced by comfortable.
When it comes to my brassieres, sexy has been replaced by sturdy.
My sports heroes – like all-time greatest baseball catcher Johnny Bench – have long since retired. But I have to admit, after meeting him in person last week, he’s still a pretty cool dude.
How do I feel about turning 74? Hmmm. Let’s peruse my body:
My mouth is filled with capped teeth, implants and bridges.
My fingernails are false, my hair heavily conditioned and colored.
My knees, hips and shoulders are still my own, but saggy, achy and stiff.
And my ankle, sprained badly over a year ago, is still swollen and sore.
The number of books I have bought and then abandoned after a few chapters is growing. The latest is The Weight of Ink. Life’s gotten too short to stick with a book that lulls me to sleep, rather than rallies me to action.
Deletions:
I’m no longer wearing my contact lenses daily. Why? Dryness of my eyes – not to mention the other areas of my body suffering the same fate.
I’m no longer wearing over half the shoes in my closet. Why? Heels too high. Balance too wobbly.
I’m no longer buying razors on a regular basis. Why? No need any more to daily, twice weekly, bi weekly or even monthly shave my legs. This is the opposite situation from my need to deal with reoccurring, coarse black hairs increasingly appearing at an alarmingly rapid rate on my chin.
HB2Me (Happy Birthday to Me).
Reality Check: I took the worst picture of my life in the waning days of my 73rd year.
“You don’t really look like that,” my husband quipped after seeing the horror on my face and handing me a tissue to stem the torrent of tears streaming down my face. “Just a bad angle, babe.”
“Yeah. Right,” I muttered. “You’re only saying that cause you happen to look pretty good.”
He didn’t reply.
After posting it, I pressed DELETE and gleefully watched it disappear from my phone photos – hopefully forever.
In addition, I’m suddenly squeamish about driving on the very expressways I’ve driven on fearlessly since age 16. I swear the lanes have gotten narrower, semi-trailer trucks have gotten larger and speed limits are more blatantly ignored. I’m now the little old lady I laughed at years ago – the one stalwartly driving with both hands clenching the steering wheel, besieged by scowling faced drivers impatiently zipping by her, as she stubbornly adheres to the posted speed limit of 55mph.
Wine makes me fat and sleepy. Not sensual and gabby.
And my hubby has grown immensely tired of my constant refrain of yelling “What?” after every thought, opinion or phrase he utters. My hearing was tested and next week I will be donning hearing aids – designed to make my ability to decipher all that jumbled noise (aka conversation) into something crisp, clear and sharp.
My birthday present was an Installation of grab bars in our bathtub and shower (plus my hearing aids) – cancelling out a Chihuly knock-off I’ve been eagerly ogling at a local gallery for the past year.
Now, when we get together with family and friends, our grandkids and our aches, pains, procedures and meds are edging out talk of travel, fashion, new restaurants and politics.
Travel is too far.
Fashion is too skimpy.
New restaurants too noisy.
Politics too crazy.
My beloved generation of compatriot baby boomers have turned into geezers and crones. And how do I feel about that?
All in all, I think we’d agree, “Better over the hill, than under it.”
So, HB2usall (Happy Birthday to us all).
And may we keep blooming,
Iris Ruth Pastor
Modifications are in the making:
When it comes to my purses, fashionable has been replaced by practical.
When it comes to my jeans, funky has been replaced by comfortable.
When it comes to my brassieres, sexy has been replaced by sturdy.
My sports heroes – like all-time greatest baseball catcher Johnny Bench – have long since retired. But I have to admit, after meeting him in person last week, he’s still a pretty cool dude.
How do I feel about turning 74? Hmmm. Let’s peruse my body:
My mouth is filled with capped teeth, implants and bridges.
My fingernails are false, my hair heavily conditioned and colored.
My knees, hips and shoulders are still my own, but saggy, achy and stiff.
And my ankle, sprained badly over a year ago, is still swollen and sore.
The number of books I have bought and then abandoned after a few chapters is growing. The latest is The Weight of Ink. Life’s gotten too short to stick with a book that lulls me to sleep, rather than rallies me to action.
Deletions:
I’m no longer wearing my contact lenses daily. Why? Dryness of my eyes – not to mention the other areas of my body suffering the same fate.
I’m no longer wearing over half the shoes in my closet. Why? Heels too high. Balance too wobbly.
I’m no longer buying razors on a regular basis. Why? No need any more to daily, twice weekly, bi weekly or even monthly shave my legs. This is the opposite situation from my need to deal with reoccurring, coarse black hairs increasingly appearing at an alarmingly rapid rate on my chin.
HB2Me (Happy Birthday to Me).
Reality Check: I took the worst picture of my life in the waning days of my 73rd year.
“You don’t really look like that,” my husband quipped after seeing the horror on my face and handing me a tissue to stem the torrent of tears streaming down my face. “Just a bad angle, babe.”
“Yeah. Right,” I muttered. “You’re only saying that cause you happen to look pretty good.”
He didn’t reply.
After posting it, I pressed DELETE and gleefully watched it disappear from my phone photos – hopefully forever.
In addition, I’m suddenly squeamish about driving on the very expressways I’ve driven on fearlessly since age 16. I swear the lanes have gotten narrower, semi-trailer trucks have gotten larger and speed limits are more blatantly ignored. I’m now the little old lady I laughed at years ago – the one stalwartly driving with both hands clenching the steering wheel, besieged by scowling faced drivers impatiently zipping by her, as she stubbornly adheres to the posted speed limit of 55mph.
Wine makes me fat and sleepy. Not sensual and gabby.
And my hubby has grown immensely tired of my constant refrain of yelling “What?” after every thought, opinion or phrase he utters. My hearing was tested and next week I will be donning hearing aids – designed to make my ability to decipher all that jumbled noise (aka conversation) into something crisp, clear and sharp.
My birthday present was an Installation of grab bars in our bathtub and shower (plus my hearing aids) – cancelling out a Chihuly knock-off I’ve been eagerly ogling at a local gallery for the past year.
Now, when we get together with family and friends, our grandkids and our aches, pains, procedures and meds are edging out talk of travel, fashion, new restaurants and politics.
Travel is too far.
Fashion is too skimpy.
New restaurants too noisy.
Politics too crazy.
My beloved generation of compatriot baby boomers have turned into geezers and crones. And how do I feel about that?
All in all, I think we’d agree, “Better over the hill, than under it.”
So, HB2usall (Happy Birthday to us all).
And may we keep blooming,
Iris Ruth Pastor
July 25, 2021
I Can’t Get No Satisfaction Or Can I?
First, I was hugely annoyed that the scale was projecting once again an upward northern movement – 6 ounces to be exact.
Second, I was somewhat annoyed that the prescription for my high cholesterol meds was once again delayed. (I know, my priorities are slightly skewed!)
Third, I was annoyed that it took five minutes to figure out how to work the clasp on my new necklace – which resulted in me being late for my weekly lunch date with my friends.
Geez. Life is sooo annoying.
Then I got the e mail about Susie.
It came from Woodward High School – Cincinnati, Ohio – Class of 1965 and the subject was: In Memory Update. That always signals that one more of our high school classmates has passed on.
This time it was Susie – a junior high friend who I haven’t seen since our 10th high school reunion.
Shame washed over me. Being in good health, how petty that I allowed myself to be saddled with huge globs of aggravation over the minutiae of my daily routine. Geez.
Not only did my husband and I attend the same high school, but we graduated the same year.
And how very lucky we are to have an active high school website, plus a valued chronicler keeping our huge graduating class informed of both milestones and events. Thank you, Mark Abrams.
Susie’s demise jumpstarted me to do some digging – uncovering some stats on those of us who went to high school in the late 50’s and early to mid 60’s.
We were the first wave of baby boomers, so the Class of “65 was huge – 760 of us. We were a diverse bunch – hailing from the wealthiest suburbs of Cincinnati to the less affluent parts of the city. We were black, white, Jewish, Christian, bright and not so bright. While many of us worked, after school, many of us didn’t – pocketing our allowance to eagerly spend at the new shopping center across the street from our massive school.
The hourly wage in 1965 was $1.25
A new home cost about $21,500.
The cost of a dozen eggs was 53 cents.
The cost of a regular gallon of gas was 31 cents.
And here’s one of the most popular songs of that year – now heard on You Tube, sandwiched between ads – no longer blasting from a fat tube from which the records would drop down and play one at a time.
https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwjWiI2kh-3xAhXlKVkFHcc3Ca8Q3ywwAnoECAUQAg&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DnrIPxlFzDi0&usg=AOvVaw33fijInlWYlWL6l-bSJgxE
Back then, I feel pretty sure that even with having just one phone, a mower you had to push, a black and white TV with only 3 stations, Lipton’s Onion Soup as our only dip option, not much privacy, no Internet, no swiping, no cell phones or no virtual reality that we muddled through and did “get satisfaction.”
And now? Fifty-six years later? Well there are no stats on our happiness quotient, our marriage status, our occupations, our income, the number of children and grandchildren we have. The President of our Class didn’t become the President of the United States. Ditto for the Vice President. And in spite of high expectations, the class’s “CUTEST COUPLE” didn’t stay together either. My boyfriend actually married a woman who later became one of my best friends – but that’s another column entirely.
I like to think that each one of us from that very memorable class and that very memorable time did manage over the decades to “get satisfaction.”
Many of us found that satisfaction by remaining in place. Two hundred thirteen of us still live in Ohio. But many of us spread out from the Midwest – reflecting the growing trend of the times to relocate. We are in 34 states, Mexico, the Cayman Islands and Washington DC. And the highest number of graduates who left Ohio now live in Florida, followed by California and Kentucky.
At first, deaths of our classmates were from freak accidents or acts of nature. Increasingly, our ranks are being reduced by physical ailments and diseases. At this writing, 106 of us are deceased out of the 594 of us who are accounted for on the website. (Approximately 200 folks are missing – without contact information.)
Our class Motto was:
ESSE QUAM VIDERI: To be rather than seem to be
I like to think that each of us, in our own way, lived up to that motto.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
Second, I was somewhat annoyed that the prescription for my high cholesterol meds was once again delayed. (I know, my priorities are slightly skewed!)
Third, I was annoyed that it took five minutes to figure out how to work the clasp on my new necklace – which resulted in me being late for my weekly lunch date with my friends.
Geez. Life is sooo annoying.
Then I got the e mail about Susie.
It came from Woodward High School – Cincinnati, Ohio – Class of 1965 and the subject was: In Memory Update. That always signals that one more of our high school classmates has passed on.
This time it was Susie – a junior high friend who I haven’t seen since our 10th high school reunion.
Shame washed over me. Being in good health, how petty that I allowed myself to be saddled with huge globs of aggravation over the minutiae of my daily routine. Geez.
Not only did my husband and I attend the same high school, but we graduated the same year.
And how very lucky we are to have an active high school website, plus a valued chronicler keeping our huge graduating class informed of both milestones and events. Thank you, Mark Abrams.
Susie’s demise jumpstarted me to do some digging – uncovering some stats on those of us who went to high school in the late 50’s and early to mid 60’s.
We were the first wave of baby boomers, so the Class of “65 was huge – 760 of us. We were a diverse bunch – hailing from the wealthiest suburbs of Cincinnati to the less affluent parts of the city. We were black, white, Jewish, Christian, bright and not so bright. While many of us worked, after school, many of us didn’t – pocketing our allowance to eagerly spend at the new shopping center across the street from our massive school.
The hourly wage in 1965 was $1.25
A new home cost about $21,500.
The cost of a dozen eggs was 53 cents.
The cost of a regular gallon of gas was 31 cents.
And here’s one of the most popular songs of that year – now heard on You Tube, sandwiched between ads – no longer blasting from a fat tube from which the records would drop down and play one at a time.
https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwjWiI2kh-3xAhXlKVkFHcc3Ca8Q3ywwAnoECAUQAg&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DnrIPxlFzDi0&usg=AOvVaw33fijInlWYlWL6l-bSJgxE
Back then, I feel pretty sure that even with having just one phone, a mower you had to push, a black and white TV with only 3 stations, Lipton’s Onion Soup as our only dip option, not much privacy, no Internet, no swiping, no cell phones or no virtual reality that we muddled through and did “get satisfaction.”
And now? Fifty-six years later? Well there are no stats on our happiness quotient, our marriage status, our occupations, our income, the number of children and grandchildren we have. The President of our Class didn’t become the President of the United States. Ditto for the Vice President. And in spite of high expectations, the class’s “CUTEST COUPLE” didn’t stay together either. My boyfriend actually married a woman who later became one of my best friends – but that’s another column entirely.
I like to think that each one of us from that very memorable class and that very memorable time did manage over the decades to “get satisfaction.”
Many of us found that satisfaction by remaining in place. Two hundred thirteen of us still live in Ohio. But many of us spread out from the Midwest – reflecting the growing trend of the times to relocate. We are in 34 states, Mexico, the Cayman Islands and Washington DC. And the highest number of graduates who left Ohio now live in Florida, followed by California and Kentucky.
At first, deaths of our classmates were from freak accidents or acts of nature. Increasingly, our ranks are being reduced by physical ailments and diseases. At this writing, 106 of us are deceased out of the 594 of us who are accounted for on the website. (Approximately 200 folks are missing – without contact information.)
Our class Motto was:
ESSE QUAM VIDERI: To be rather than seem to be
I like to think that each of us, in our own way, lived up to that motto.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
July 16, 2021
You Never Know What You’re Going To Get
My husband and I decided to embark on a road trip to our hometown – Cincinnati Ohio – starting from Tampa, where we now reside.
Basically, it’s just “down the street a ways” on I-75. A thousand miles or so.
Our first stop was Macon, Georgia, six hours from Tampa. I googled bed and breakfasts and the Burke Mansion popped up immediately.
It is a Queen Anne Victorian residence built in 1877, sporting the largest butler’s pantry in Macon, highly decorative molding and fireplace mantels throughout and a massive front porch. Not to mention, the proliferation of stain glass windows and exquisite furnishings gracing every room.
Of course, when you by-pass word-of-mouth suggestions, and go straight to the internet for your research, you just never know what you are going to get. However, I just had a feeling the Burke Mansion was my kind of place: old, charming, low key – with maybe a few ghosts hanging around. And, in the stillness of the night, maybe a few walls that would speak of past grand events.
I booked it immediately.
The mansion was constructed by Thomas C. Burke, referred to locally as a “Merchant Prince” in 1877. Townspeople remarked that an invite to the Burke Mansion was “highly coveted.”
You know the kind of house: the one you gaze at longingly from the street, thinking that “If I lived there, I’d be happy forever.”
Apparently, even the Burkes weren’t immune to sorrow penetrating their grand fortress. Public records revealed the Burkes had five children, but only two daughters made it to adulthood.
The two surviving daughters, May and Martina, never married nor had children. After the death of both parents, they split their time between their Macon antebellum mansion and New York City, where they resided at The Plaza Hotel.
Rumors hinted at a sisterly rift, as it appeared the two did not dine together. Actually, they did – each ate at opposite ends of the immensely long dining room table in the enormous dining room – thus those passing by saw each of them through a different window and assumed it was in different rooms!
On the one night we were there, my husband retired early so I spent the entire evening roaming the house – getting acquainted with its bones. No ghosts were sighted. No walls spoke of past intrigues. Only a quiet dignified silence accompanied me as I roamed from room to room. The house drew me back to a bygone era – an era where a whole room was devoted to sewing and multiple first floor sitting rooms were devoted to entertaining company engaged in lively conversation. And people actually sat in their front porches rocking, relaxing and hanging out.
The childless sisters lived in their family home until their respective deaths in the 1960’s. Proceeds from the sale of the Burke Mansion started the T. C. Burke Foundation, which cares for terminally ill cancer patients in Bibb County. It’s still flourishing today.
FYI: American actor, producer and director Tyler Perry recently rented The Burke Mansion for $25,000. Its massive dining room will be featured in his next upcoming movie “A Jazzman’s Blues” for all of 14 seconds.
You never know that you’re going to get when you are in the midst of Preserving Your Bloom.
Iris Ruth Pastor
Basically, it’s just “down the street a ways” on I-75. A thousand miles or so.
Our first stop was Macon, Georgia, six hours from Tampa. I googled bed and breakfasts and the Burke Mansion popped up immediately.
It is a Queen Anne Victorian residence built in 1877, sporting the largest butler’s pantry in Macon, highly decorative molding and fireplace mantels throughout and a massive front porch. Not to mention, the proliferation of stain glass windows and exquisite furnishings gracing every room.
Of course, when you by-pass word-of-mouth suggestions, and go straight to the internet for your research, you just never know what you are going to get. However, I just had a feeling the Burke Mansion was my kind of place: old, charming, low key – with maybe a few ghosts hanging around. And, in the stillness of the night, maybe a few walls that would speak of past grand events.
I booked it immediately.
The mansion was constructed by Thomas C. Burke, referred to locally as a “Merchant Prince” in 1877. Townspeople remarked that an invite to the Burke Mansion was “highly coveted.”
You know the kind of house: the one you gaze at longingly from the street, thinking that “If I lived there, I’d be happy forever.”
Apparently, even the Burkes weren’t immune to sorrow penetrating their grand fortress. Public records revealed the Burkes had five children, but only two daughters made it to adulthood.
The two surviving daughters, May and Martina, never married nor had children. After the death of both parents, they split their time between their Macon antebellum mansion and New York City, where they resided at The Plaza Hotel.
Rumors hinted at a sisterly rift, as it appeared the two did not dine together. Actually, they did – each ate at opposite ends of the immensely long dining room table in the enormous dining room – thus those passing by saw each of them through a different window and assumed it was in different rooms!
On the one night we were there, my husband retired early so I spent the entire evening roaming the house – getting acquainted with its bones. No ghosts were sighted. No walls spoke of past intrigues. Only a quiet dignified silence accompanied me as I roamed from room to room. The house drew me back to a bygone era – an era where a whole room was devoted to sewing and multiple first floor sitting rooms were devoted to entertaining company engaged in lively conversation. And people actually sat in their front porches rocking, relaxing and hanging out.
The childless sisters lived in their family home until their respective deaths in the 1960’s. Proceeds from the sale of the Burke Mansion started the T. C. Burke Foundation, which cares for terminally ill cancer patients in Bibb County. It’s still flourishing today.
FYI: American actor, producer and director Tyler Perry recently rented The Burke Mansion for $25,000. Its massive dining room will be featured in his next upcoming movie “A Jazzman’s Blues” for all of 14 seconds.
You never know that you’re going to get when you are in the midst of Preserving Your Bloom.
Iris Ruth Pastor
