Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 35

My Own Voice From My Own Past

My granddaughter came to visit while my son was running for mayor. Looking closely around my library, she spotted a framed picture of two pieces of notebook paper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Nana,” she inquired curiously, “why do you have something framed that is so faded it can no longer be read?”

I peered closely and anxiously at the picture. She was right. My  sixth grade essay written in ballpoint pen over sixty five years ago was barely legible. I panicked. Were my words lost forever?

Immediately I took the picture down and stashed it in a dark closet – protecting it from further deterioration until I could examine it more closely.  This morning, with the aid of my cell phone light and a magnifying glass, I painstakingly transcribed the words onto my computer screen for posterity. I printed the essay out and glued it to the back of the picture.

My essay is as follows:

From where I stood gazing out into the September sky, I could hear her gasping for breath. Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead and lips – like icy rain stands out on a freshly washed window. Her pain-stricken body lay lifelessly on the wrinkled sheets except when stricken with spasms of pain. Her skin was pale with a bluish cast. New wrinkles had appeared on her uncluttered brow, new gray streaks in her once stark black hair. I couldn’t believe this woman who had fed me a bottle when I was an infant and comforted me when I was a small child, was now in need of my comfort. How could it be possible that this woman, who I had idolized and relied on all my life, was dying? I could accept the fact that my parents would die eventually, even my younger sister and brother would pass away as would my friends and relatives in the future. But this woman? My mind could not comprehend the fact that death would strike her. This woman could not die.



How would I live without her? My problems were solved by her keen mind, my fears whipped away by her soothing voice. When I achieved goals, received high grades, accomplished what I had set out to do, who did I want to share my triumphs with? Who came to mind immediately? It was always she as long as I could recall. Her appearance may grow dim and gradually fade from my mind. I may forget the pitch of her mild voice, the touch of her soft hand, but I would never forget her. She’s everything I am now and everything I will ever be. She is the backbone of my spine.



Soon it would be dawn. The frightening black of night was already transforming itself to dismal gray. Soon the gray would vanish and the sun would burst forth in an array of color as do fireworks on July the Fourth. A new day would begin bringing forth new life, new adventures, new memories. An old life would end



It was close to four o’clock when the final spasm struck her. After it, she lay limp on the damp linens. Numbly I watched life flowing out of her worn-out bones. Her face was tired. Her body feeble, but the look in her eyes was as serene as velvet. Silently her eyelids closed. My grandmother had died.

I was seven years old when my grandmother died at age fifty-five from pancreatic cancer. I wrote this story in seventh grade, receiving an “A.” Of course, my high grade didn’t make up for her loss, but sixty-four years later my written recollection helped answer the question of why I continue to miss her so intensely every day.

 

 

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

My Connection to Love, Loss and What I Wore

You may not have heard the name Ilene Beckerman, but you probably have heard of Love, Loss and What I Wore.

It was published in 1995, when first-time author Ilene Beckerman was sixty years old. Publishers Weekly described her book as a “captivating little pictorial autobiography for adults…a wry commentary on the pressures women constantly face to look good.”

Beckerman’s breakthrough: Our memories are tied to our favorite clothes. Her message resonated with us and how we tie together our personal history of relationships, disappointments and greatest loves with the wrap dress, the red spike heels and the Pucci knock-off adorning our closets. Love, Loss and What I Wore is always my go-to present for friends’ milestone events.

The first time I met Ilene was shortly after her book was published. In those days, relatively unknown authors customarily crossed the country on book tours. I was a writer, eager to interview her. We met at the Netherland Hilton Hotel in downtown Cincinnati Ohio – known for its elegance and art deco motif.

Introducing myself, I slid into the booth in the hotel’s opulent dining room. I was eager to size her up, analyze her life experiences, mine for kernels of wisdom. But the look on her face startled me.Two unexpected words leapt to my mind: Transfixed. Astounded.

I was momentarily taken aback. “Why do you look so disconcerted?” I probed.

“Well, I’m a New Yorker, honey,” she boasted,“and I thought Ohio meant farmland and overalls. Not a French Art Deco masterpiece of a hotel and a fashion plate of a reporter, toting a Louie Vuitton bag.”

That was the first astonishing thing that came out of my new friend’s mouth, but not the last.

Beckerman, a graphic artist and former advertising executive, confided that she didn’t even get started writing until the age of sixty.

At age twelve, she lost her mom

She married young to a man seventeen years her senior

She divorced

She remarried

She had six kids, one who died in infancy

She divorced again

It’s no wonder Love, Loss and What I Wore was resplendent with wisdom. Her book went on to become even more widely known when in 2008 the Ephron sisters, Nora and Delia, used it as the basis of a play with the same name. The play would run off-Broadway for a record making amount of time, be produced on six continents and in more than eight countries. 

But Beckerman, nicknamed “Gingy,” didn’t stop there.

In 2011, she published The Smartest Woman I Know, a narrative of growing up as a teenager under the guidance of her grandmother, Ettie Goldberg – who had no more than a third grade education and was a proprietor of a small Upper East Side candy, stationary and paper store. The Smartest Woman I Know is also a favorite gift-giving book.

Ilene “Gingy” Beckerman is a force, a warrior and a role model. She blossomed late. Triumphed over life’s roadblocks and continues to inspire everyone she touches.

Below is the link to her latest blog. I’m a fan. I hope you become one too.

http://lovelossandreallife.com

PS: She is happily remarried to a guy named Stanley and lives in New Jersey.

Keep Preserving your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

The Case of the Missing Credit Card

The first thing I notice is that my American Express card is missing from my wallet.

Not too concerned, I check the side pockets of my purse, the space between the front seats in my car and the pile of campaign paraphernalia splattered across my dining room table.

I can’t remember the last time I had used it, but I seem to fuzzily recall plugging it into the gasoline dispenser at the mini market down the street a few days before. I drive back, ask the cashier, peruse the parking lot. Nada. And with nine million calls to make, canvassing commitments and letter writing duties – all connected to my son’s run for mayor of Tampa – I kind of forget about the frustrating card disappearance.

I do remember, though, not to share the card loss with my husband – who would have been aghast at my carelessness in not immediately reporting my card as missing.

Election Day arrives dank, dark, cold and rainy. I stand out for four hours at a key precinct – a fellow mayoral candidate beside me.

“Few voters are making eye contact,” I remark to him casually.

“Not a good sign for either of us,” he answers.

We continue our vigil – becoming better acquainted, but more subdued.

The election results – though dramatic – are not surprising. The frontrunner – Jane Castor – almost wins the mayoral spot outright with no run-off – pulling close to fifty percent even with seven candidates in the race.

The richest man in the race – the one with blanketed name recognition and no budget constraints – comes in second. He is 1600 votes ahead of Harry, who is a close third. The richest man in the race outspent my son by thirteen times.

Comments, remarks and messages come pouring in – all centered on the same theme:

Harry ran an exemplary, substantive campaign laced with civility and devoid of negativity. Being the youngest candidate in the race, his future looks very bright.

“Sometimes you have to take a hit to advance,” I think.

My American Express card shows up on my front porch the following morning. No accompanying note. Just stark and striking, resting atop the black chair cushion. The mystery of its safe return unsolvable.

“And sometimes – even when you do absolutely nothing, it resolves itself perfectly.”

I guess that’s the irony of life.

No matter:

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris

A quote, a plea, and election fatigue.

“With the many faces and the haze of big money, few candidates beyond Castor and City Council member Harry Cohen have distinguished themselves from the pack with their vision, skill sets and compelling agendas.” ~ Tampa Bay Times 

Harry is starting to surge – very good shot at second place in the election tomorrow!!!!!

What’s going to put him firmly in second?

The most recent poll answers that question: THE UNDECIDED VOTER

I know I must be contributing to your “election fatigue” but the momentum is building in his favor and I’m asking for your help.  If you know someone who is undecided , please pass this along to them and urge them to vote and to vote for Harry.

Thank you sooo much!

Warm regards,

Iris

Who has brains and heart?

Harry does. That’s why Harry has a great network of family behind him.

And a great many friends, neighbors, colleagues and constituents behind him too.

I’m asking for your help. Please take a few moments to E-mail your contacts and spread the word:

Harry Cohen is the candidate with real plans to tackle the biggest challenges facing Tampa today.

Please vote!

Jan Platt Library from 10am – 6pm today

Tuesday, March 5, Election Day

7am – 7pm at your precinct

Thank you for your help, support and time.

Warm regards,

Iris Ruth Pastor Harry’s Mom

The Friday Before Election Day

I remember what my son Frank said after his first child was born: being a parent is like throwing your heart in the middle of a New York City street and hoping it doesn’t get trampled on.

I related to that – having been around as my five sons battled their way into adulthood.

 -Watching one of my sons at age fifteen umpire his first little league game – and listening to the parents jeering at a miscall.

-Watching one of my sons struggle with a painful break-up with his girlfriend.

-Watching them strike-out, fumble a pass, fail a test, re-take the test and fail again.

I watched when I could fix things.

I watched when I couldn’t fix things.

And tried to fix them anyway.

I learned that a mother’s instinct to protect her child never leaves – even when that child has gray hair and has almost reached the half-century mark

So I thought I was prepared to weather the ups and downs of a campaign – especially since my son had won two campaigns in the last eight years. And as always, I threw myself in to it with wild abandon and high expectations.

And what have I learned?

What again have I been reminded of?

Politics isn’t always fair

The most qualified often don’t win

Money can buy votes

And the only reliability is unreliability

And then there are the many high points:

The frontrunner for Tampa’s mayoral race declares three    times publicly that if she weren’t running, she’d vote for Harry

    Harry’s TV ad rocks it!

To all my friends and family that have not only supported my son Harry in his run for Mayor of Tampa, but have been there for me as well: a sincere, heartfelt, thoroughly appreciative hug.

There are one woman and six men running for mayor. If no candidate gets fifty percent of the vote on Tuesday, the top two vote-getters will be in a run-off.

Will Harry make the cut Tuesday night and make it into the April 23 run-off?

Who knows.

Will Harry be content with whatever the outcome is on Tuesday night?

You bet.

Because he fought valiantly, fearlessly, honorably and fairly.

Because he did the best he could and his best was good enough.

And that’s what really “counts” when the votes come rolling in.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom and please forward this to your friends and family living in Tampa,

Iris Ruth Pastor

The End is Near

 

 

 

 

 

Even as a little baby, my son Harry was always looking out beyond his confines.

He didn’t think out-of-the-box.

For him, there was no box

His television ad touting his qualifications to be Mayor of Tampa emphasizes he “has plans, not just slogans.”

What the ad doesn’t say is that though his plans are well thought-out and clearly explained, his plans are also fluid, evolving and subject to community input, creativity and innovation.

Fellow mayoral candidate, Jane Castor, has clearly stated on more than one occasion that if she were not running, her choice for Tampa mayor would be Harry.

As the Tampa Bay Times said: Cohen’s government experience, civic involvement and solid grasp of transportation and other key issues have made him a formidable voice for progress. He also has a proven ability to bring people together.

Go with Harry on March 5th – the candidate who has his feet firmly planted on the ground – 24/7 – for YOU.

 

If you’d like to help put Harry in the mayor’s seat, forward this email to your friends and family! Election is Tuesday, March 5 and early voting starts Monday, Feb. 25.

Doing Death Right

I’m not proud to say that I found the year leading up to my mother’s death very grueling, aggravating, and stressful – not to mention agonizing – as I am sure she did too.

The details of my personal journey with my mom as she faced her own demise are irrelevant. Everyone who has buried a parent has their tale – and so many of us long to figure out how to “do death right.”

Fortunately, we don’t have to reinvent the wheel. Author Katy Butler, age 70, has done that for us in her new book “The Art of Dying Well.” Excerpts appeared in the Wall Street Journal on February 9 and most of my newsletter today is drawn from her brilliant research on “how to get the best from our imperfect healthcare system and how to prepare for a good end of life.”

Butler immediately knocks down the assumption that living as long as possible is at the top of our list. She cites from a 2017 Kaiser Foundation study that “most people cared much more about not having their families financially burdened by their care or distressed by tough medical decisions; having their medical preferences honored; and dying in peace spiritually, with their loved ones around them.”

Stressing that we have to craft a vision, Butler advocates for making clear to your loved ones what gives your life joy and meaning. Existentially, it begs the question of how much suffering we are willing to endure for more time on earth. Pragmatically, it calls on each of us to answer the question that when we no longer have a good quality of life, what medical treatments would we refuse? Butler suggests putting it in writing and giving it to someone – not necessarily a family member who may be too overwhelmed to let you go – but someone who you trust to speak for you when you can no longer speak for yourself.

Planning for and accepting the inevitable is one way to keep shaping your life all the way to its end. In my mom’s case, after her diagnosis of advanced pancreatic cancer, she made it known that she felt safest going to Hospice, where she knew she would be surrounded by a caring staff and her family could be close by.

My mom had three clear requests:

     She wanted to be kept as pain-free as possible.

     She didn’t want die alone.

     She wanted to slip into unconsciousness and die on her birthday.

We arranged to carry out the first two. The third? I think she willed it from somewhere deep inside her and indeed slipped into a coma the morning of her birthday. When the sun was close to disappearing on the horizon, all three of her children and other family members and friends sang her “Happy Birthday.” An hour or so later, she drew her last breath and was gone.

I had already started a folder in my Notes section of my iPhone entitled “Funeral.” Up until reading Butler’s article, it only had one entry: my request that Bob Dylan’s song “Forever Young” be played before my funeral service began.

Here’s an excerpt:

May you grow up to be righteous

May you grow up to be true

May you always know the truth

And see the lights surrounding you

May you always be courageous

Stand upright and be strong

May you stay forever young

Forever young, forever young

May you stay forever young

After reading Butler’s article, I’ve got a lot more entries to add.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris

How to Keep Your Mama Happy

One of my sons called me last week – on his way home from work. We had a nice, substantive, fifteen-minute conversation. This is pretty much what we do now that he is married, a father, has a job with big responsibilities and a long daily commute.

The next night my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID and saw his name again pop up. Automatically thinking something must be radically wrong, I dashed for my cell phone and answered his call within two rings.

“What’s the matter?” I immediately inquired. “What’s wrong?”

“Geez, Mom, nothing’s wrong.”

“But I just talked to you last night. Something must be up for you to call me two days in a row,” I insisted.

“Nah, all good. I just called to tell you a funny story,” he replied.

Here’s what he said: Earlier that evening, he had dinner with a friend he’s known a long time. This friend, my son emphasized, is a very smart guy. And he talks to his mom EVERY night on his way home from work for FORTY-FIVE minutes.

“No way,” I wailed. “What’s THE CATCH?”

“Well,” my son impishly admitted, “there is a catch. His mom, in her day, was a very bright shining star in the same field as my friend. And my friend gets her undivided attention on challenging issues with which he is grappling.”

Okay. I had two primary reactions to his story. None – BTW – that I am proud to admit.

The first was pure, unbridled anger. So now I have to be unqualifiedly brilliant to warrant a daily call from my adult sons? It’s not enough to have diapered, fed, chauffeured and diligently read to them every night? In addition to packing the healthiest lunches ever – most of which they traded away for Doritos and candy corn anyway.

And my second reaction was pure, unbridled envy: How can I get some of what she’s getting?

So I started thinking. What are my strengths? What do I have to offer to my sons that they cannot get elsewhere?

I have no musical talent whatsoever – even though my piano teacher did remark that my hands were great for piano playing, but lacked any sense of rhythm.

I can’t dance, draw or carry a tune.

I have a hard time keeping up with the progress of the mess in the Middle East, the revolving door of men being ousted from positions of power due to inappropriate sexual advances and the latest trades going on with my sons’ favorite baseball team now that spring training is looming.

As far as my proclivity for deductive reasoning? The first time I looked at a sample LSAT question, it took me about five minutes to decipher what in the world the question was asking. When one of my four sons who actually took the LSAT “gently” pointed out that it’s not only a challenging test, but timed, I thanked heaven they didn’t inherit my innate lack of logic. In my family, it is jokingly referred to as “Mom missing the obvious.”

So…… what do I have to offer my sons?

       A willing ear to listen.

       A person who has their best interest at heart.

       A mom who loves them unconditionally.

      And isn’t afraid to express a difference of opinion.

Just for the record, I’d like mothers of adult sons who do NOT live within driving distance to answer the following questions:

      How often do you talk to your adult male child?

      For how long?

      When does he call?

My answers:

      Once a week.

      About fifteen mintues.

      On his way home from work.

Seriously, the bottom line is – no matter what our answers – our adult sons (and daughters) are the fruits of our efforts. And if we are fortunate, they are busy, productive, and helping to heal our troubled, but still beautiful, world.

On the other hand, they can further heal our troubled, but still beautiful world, by picking up the phone to call home once in a while too.

Tee Hee.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

What kind of person did this little boy grow up to be?

What kind of person did this little boy grow up to be?

Well, as a toddler, not only did he speak at an astonishingly young age, but what he said made sense.

As a youth, he preferred watching “Sixty Minutes” rather than taking walks with his mom and younger brother. His middle school principal and Social Studies teacher remarked that he was “the most politically astute student he had ever known.”

As a teenager, he was a role model for his four younger siblings on being politically aware, fiscally conservative and liberally compassionate.

As an adult, he ran for Tampa City Council, won and is presently completing his second term.

The people we elect locally have a profound effect on our lives.

Who are you going to call when a young kid gets mowed down by a car, while walking to school, because sidewalks are inadequate?

Who will protect you when a hurricane is looming?

Who are you going to call when your street floods or rain water seeps into your front door?

A neighbor oversteps his bounds?

Lack of parking downtown drives you nuts?

Your adult kids can’t move back home due to lack of affordable housing?

Your doctor has increased your blood pressure meds due to your aggravation over your long and congested commute to work?

What kind of person did this little boy grow up to be?

The person who has, can and will solve these problems.

The person most qualified to be the Mayor of Tampa.

HARRY COHEN

What have I learned while my son is running for mayor that applies to whatever city you live in?

     The importance of being informed on each candidate’s stances and qualifications.

The importance of attending candidate forums to see each candidate – unscripted – responding to specific questions.

The importance of voting.

If you’d like to help put Harry in the mayors seat, please contact me at irisruthpastor@gmail.com. To learn more about Harry and his plan for Tampa, visit www.Harry2019.com.

I’m “just wild about Harry” and hope you are too.

Iris Ruth Pastor