Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 39

September 11, 2017

Filling the Void When You are No Longer the Hub

I remember very vividly the day this family picture was taken:


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Lou was gassy and cranky and wiggling like crazy on my lap. Harry (top left) was annoyed at being interrupted from watching The Jeffersons. Frank (top middle) was irritated at missing baseball practice. Max (bottom left) had to cut short a play date with his buddy Brad and Sam (middle bottom) missed his much-needed nap. And all, including my husband (top right) balked at the formal attire thrust at them and ordered to be put on – quickly and without complaint – by me. Except for Louie, who was too young to formally protest.


In spite of grumblings and mumblings, the photographer cajoled the whole gang into smiling and snapped the picture, capturing our family in a moment in time. That portrait would hang in every entrance foyer wall of every home we would live in after that.


Okay, I admit it. I get a lump in my throat and a pit in my tummy most afternoons when three o’clock rolls around and the school buses start dumping out kids on corners all over my neighborhood.


I see those kids. Tired. Hungry. Stooped over with a cumbersome back pack. Pushing their friends. Laughingly engaged in conversation. Or walking by themselves, anxious to reach home from a rough day of addition and subtraction.


I once had five little guys racing home – in a wide range of moods and with a great variety of tales to tell me. Or withhold from me. I once had masses of potato chip crumbs, rumpled couch pillows stained with spills from apple juice, missing homework crises and jumbled piles of mismatched soccer cleats to deal with. And car pool arrangements, teacher conferences, exam dates and basketball practice and game schedules to coordinate.


I am no longer the hub of my sons’ lives.


I realized this when Lou sent me this picture, just weeks after his first son was born at the beginning of the summer.


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I realized this when, in mid-August, Frank sent me this picture with him vacationing with his kids and wife on the West Coast.


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My sons’priorities have shifted.


My control has waned.


My power diminished.


No longer do I have a say in the day to day doings of my children – what sports they play, what time they go to bed, how much ice cream they sneak in before dinner, or if they write a timely thank you note or fail to write one at all.


So, if you are one of those parents whose back seats are empty, what can you do to fill the void? Here are five tips:


#1 Find a passion: And carve out uninterrupted time to devote to that  passion. Be protective of that time. Do not apologize. I have a friend who takes classes each semester in the Ollie program at her local university – Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. She takes a wide variety of courses: Shakespeare, Classical Music, and Great Art, Architecture and Museums of the world. And very little gets in the way of her attending.


#2 Realize life is always a balancing act: It is impossible to always have your life in balance on a day- to-day basis. One of my friends, who has a challenging day job, is overwhelmed right now with caring for a mother who has multiple life-threatening health issues. Is she going to yoga class? Nope. Is she going out to a leisurely dinner with friends? Nope. Is she hosting sleepovers for her grandkids? Not at this juncture.


#3 Know your priorities: I have three: family, self-care and writing/speaking. Depending on circumstances and responsibilities, the order gets switched around and sometimes much more time is devoted to one than the other. But the important thing is that overall I am controlling my own remote.


#4 Invest or re-invest in personal relationships: I am now in regular contact with two buddies from college I haven’t spoken to in years. Ditto for some of my high school crowd. Take advantage of technology to re-connect with those you have lost touch with and to connect more frequently with the ones who you are close to. My sister and I talk more than ever. My husband and I are rediscovering the joys of spontaneous afternoon outings. We just went to a street fair and stocked up on whimsical gifts for our grand kids and bought a box of Greek pastries – just for us.


#5 Fan the flames of your curiosity: Ask questions. Stay eager to get out of your box. Explore your community’s needs. Develop ways to help others. I have a friend whose husband and buddies created and initiated a school safety program now in eighteen of their city’s public schools – and has expanded into helping adults read and mentoring and tutoring disadvantaged youth. Another friend volunteers weekly at a children’s grief center which provides free of charge help and support for children who have lost close family members.


 


I am so very happy my sons have grown into caring, involved and loving dads. But I miss those caring, involved and loving little boys too. Just yesterday, however, I was assured by one of my sons that although I was no longer the hub, I was still a very important spoke. I hope he speaks for all of them.


Keep Preserving Your Bloom,


Iris

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Published on September 11, 2017 05:26

August 31, 2017

I hadn’t ridden a bike in fifty-five years…

Iris Ruth PastorTHE BUY


Riding a bike. “No big deal, right?”


After all, how much more was there to learn after giving up training wheels at the tender age of six?


“No big deal, right?” I surmised, when curled up on the couch one stormy night, eagerly searching the Internet for bikes appropriate for those of us with creaky joints and jiggly kneecaps.


I ventured into my neighborhood bike store, which sported a dazzling array of two-wheeled wonders. I debated between bikes with just foot brakes – the only kind I had ever ridden – or leaping into the unknown world of bikes with hand brakes, which I’d never used. Pause for some thought, but “no big deal.”


And the whole gear issue? Whatever. I went with the recommendation from the nice bike guy, Paul, and settled for seven gears. “Tee hee,” I grandly announced. “One for each day.”


My husband gave me his squinty eyed gaze (which always signified profound disbelief), pulled me aside and furiously whispered in my ear, “It doesn’t quite work like that!”


“No big deal, right?” I muttered to myself and shot him back a dirty look.


What WAS a big deal? Picking out the color of my bike. I’m very particular about color. Some people may call it being shallow. I prefer to say I have discerning taste and take great pride in buying consumer goods consistent with my self-image. Anyway, I went with bright coral – with one additional show stopping feature: turquoise colored inner wheel rims. I figured the cruiser would look stunning parked in front of my salmon colored, Spanish style, urban two-story house. And bright enough so that both pedestrians and cars could readily see me coming.


The helmet was the next item of interest. To me it was, you guessed it: “No big deal.” To my overprotective, safety-minded, realist husband it was “the biggest deal.”


Patiently and intently, he listened to Paul explain the myriad safety features of every helmet displayed. They debated the merits of each and finally my husband picked out one for me. It was by far the most hideous and unflattering of the bunch. But I didn’t protest.


Picking out a water bottle, water bottle holder, front and rear reflectors, lights and bell ringer went quickly and smoothly. That was fortunate, because on the next item of accouterments, I was intractable: the basket on the front of my bike. I insisted on white wicker. Not brown wicker. Not a neon green plastic. Not metal. I only wanted a white wicker basket. Paul took off to forage in the back room and probably popped a few mood enhancing pills while there. My husband just looked at me with mild consternation, mixed in with a tad of wry humor.


I got my white wicker basket.


THE RIDE


I hadn’t ridden a bike since tenth grade – fifty five years ago. Not since I had gotten my driver’s license. Not since my blue bike morphed into a dust laden artifact in the back of the garage. “No big deal, right?”


“Try the demo out before we put in the final order,” Paul urged. “See how you like it.”


Gleefully and fearlessly I hopped on the demo, pedaling furiously (but wobbly) down the deserted side street next to the bike shop. I was quite impressed with myself.


The very day my bike was delivered, I responsibly walked it across the street to a nearby church parking lot. Empty. Devoid of cars, with long stretches of unbroken blacktop. Jumping onto my bike, I began pedaling furiously. My initial, unbridled burst of euphoria was short lived. Trying to ride in a straight line without veering crazily to the right and left was proving tricky. And executing turns using hand brakes was more challenging than I had breezily imagined. Nevertheless, every afternoon for the next three days, the parking lot was my training ground for re-entry into the real world of pedestrians, uneven sidewalks, and traffic whizzing by.


One evening, before sunset, I ventured out onto an actual sidewalk to test my biking skills. Choosing a short block, I scouted the sidewalk for cracks and fissures. None. Scanning the horizon in each direction for pedestrians assured me the coast was clear. I critically assessed the situation: to the left of the sidewalk was a heavily trafficked boulevard skirting the bay. BUT to the right of the sidewalk – fronting the entire perimeter of the sidewalk – was a grassy expanse of lawn devoid of trees and bushes – which, of course, in my idiot innocence, I never expected to utilize as a safety net.


I began to pedal – slowly. I gripped the handle bars tightly, I fixed my gaze straight ahead. Excited. Optimistic. Anticipating that wonderful sense of freedom that self-propelled movement elicits.


Within seconds, the sounds of the cars flying by in such close proximity unnerved me. How much larger and more powerful they were than my fully adorned, coral colored cruiser with the white wicker basket. I started to wobble crazily. Panicking, I steered my bike onto the grass, lost control, and the bike and I came crashing down in one fell swoop.


The quickness of the crash shocked me. Critically, I looked over the bike. Thoroughly, I checked myself for glaring loss of limbs or broken, jutting bones. All seemed intact.


“No big deal, right?” I reminded myself, and determinedly climbed back on and began pedaling. Again cars whizzed by. Again I panicked. Wobbled like crazy. Starting veering toward the road. Sharply pulled in the other direction. And crashed onto the grassy pad area once more.


Again, I picked up my bike, noted a few more grass stains on my white jeans, but no bodily or bike harm, and proceeded in the direction of home.


I’d like to say because I got up the third time and made it to the end of the block successfully, without wobbling, panicking and crashing. In truth, I was simply too rattled. After the second fiasco, I did indeed pick up my bike and assess damages. But I didn’t get back on it. Rather, I held onto it tightly. And I walked it back home.


THE END


So, what did I learn?                                                                                                



Riding a bike at age seventy for the first time in a very long time is “a big deal.”
I need more practice in the church parking lot before cruising in close proximity to pedestrians and other bikers.
Sidewalks and street riding are off limits pending improved balance.
Forget fashion and vanity; proper attire is a must in case of falls.
I must solve the mystery of the “sweaty hands syndrome,” which causes precarious, slippery grip of the handlebars.

So, what did I do?                                                                                                      



I ordered twelve orange plastic cones to practice maneuvering around, so that, hopefully, my balance would improve.
I added twenty minutes of daily parking lot practice to my to-do list.
I took more seriously my oldest son’s admonishments to be careful and aware.
I ditched my sandals in favor of closed toe sneakers and limited my bike riding attire to shirts with long sleeve and ankle length leggings and jeans.
I bought a pair of biking gloves – in white, of course, matching my helmet – to absorb excess hand moisture.

So, what did I realize?                                                                                              



If, after all my practicing, traffic still terrifies me, I will consider attaching a bike hitch to the back of my little red sedan and riding on dedicated bike trails only.
What you do with great grace and minimal effort at age six takes practice, grit and mindfulness at age seventy. It’s something you should know when riding a bike after fifty-five years.

Is there a hobby — new or old — that you like to try?


Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris

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Published on August 31, 2017 03:11

August 22, 2017

Think It’s Hard Sending Your Kid off to College? Think Again.

Who doesn’t send off children anywhere without a pit in their stomachs? Whether it’s college, summer camp, or kindergarten? Is it really going to happen? Have we have done all we could to prepare them for leaving the nest? Are they well equipped and knowledgeable about the challenges they will encounter? These concerns are legit.


Now it’s that time of year again when parents across the country will be sending their precious children off to their freshman year of college. And there are new concerns. I remember sending my each of my five sons off to a university years ago – concerned about tuition and room/board funding issues. Fretting about no longer being in control and in charge. Obsessing about if the college they ultimately chose was the “right” one. Fearing they would be lost in the wave of other entering freshman and neglected and overlooked.


Amidst my reminiscing, I began reading the book Irena’s Children, the story of a courageous woman during WW11 smuggling thousands of children trapped in the Warsaw ghetto past the Nazis – to safe houses, orphanages and convents.


On the eve of my sons leaving home for college, I worried incessantly that the meal plans offered through the dorms were carb-laden and unhealthy. And that my children would pack on the dreaded “freshman fifteen.” Parents of children in the Warsaw ghetto worried over food too, but didn’t have the luxury of worrying about excessive carbs and healthy food choices. Official rations allotted to Jews in the walled-off area were 184 calories per day per person. If lucky and/or wealthy, food was available through the black market at exorbitant prices. And great risk. 


Would my kiddies be safe on campus? Get a bid to the fraternity of their choice? Survive Hell Week? In the spring of 1942, 2000 Jewish children had begun living separately from their parents too – but not by choice. They too had new living arrangements and new challenges. Alone on the streets of the Aryan side of Warsaw, young Jewish men hiding outside the ghetto were in constant danger. Thugs and black mailers sadistically and randomly stopped young teenage boys and ordered them to reveal their penises for inspection. Circumcision was an instant death sentence. They had no “choices.” Every day was “Hell Week” for them.


A high school guidance counselor once told me acceptance to college called for a parent’s quick trip to Bed, Bath & Beyond for quilts, bedding sets and extra shelving. And to the Apple Store for a laptop computer, I Pad and I Phone – all of which parents hoped their kids would utilize fully to keep in touch. Parents who made the agonizing decision to have their children smuggled out of the ghetto had no time to prepare their children for the rigors they would face. Their last parting message to their kids was not to keep in touch – that was far too dangerous. The most common  parting message from parents to children before turning them over to Irena and her cohorts was to urgently remind them “to wear the best disguise of all: happy faces.” Their goal for their sons and daughters was not a diploma, but survival and to somehow be reunited with their families when the nightmare ended. Few were.


Parents routinely ask college campus student affair administrators if their children will be safe walking home from the library late at night. What about the dangerous risks of binge drinking? Depression? Date-rape? Families who gave Irena Sendler their children only asked one question: What guarantee can you give us of our child’s safety? Irena’s answer: “I can promise you nothing, but that I will risk my life today trying.” Babies were tranquilized and stored in toolboxes under bricks in flatbed trucks leaving the ghetto, bound for a “safe” house. Older children were re-clothed and instructed to completely shed their past and internalize the information on the falsified documents they were handed. 


I always worried that my kids, who had always approached studying and homework with underwhelming rigor, would feel overwhelmed their first semester at a university. My husband felt they could handle a full and demanding 17-18 hour course load. I argued for less, to spare them undue stress and ease their fears of “flunking out.” Parents living in the ghetto hoped to spare their kids stress too – only their stress was based on keeping their children from selections that led to deportation on trains headed for the death camps. Wealthy families who had managed to smuggle money with them paid as high as $15,000 per work permit for older children – who then had the “privilege” of toiling 17-18 hours per DAY in hard labor. 


Of course, the Jews in the ghetto didn’t have to worry if their kids had the “right” wardrobe essentials for their leave taking: sports jerseys and caps with university logo, towel wraps, snow boots, backpack, texting gloves, fleece vests. Jews in the ghetto wore patched, ragged clothing with the Star of David for identification. No option dressing. Authorities warned that severe punishment – up to and including death by shooting – was in store for Jews who did not conform and wear the badge.


So even with keeping things “in perspective,” what can we do when:



Calls come about difficult roommates?
Calls come about a disappointingly low test grade?
Calls come about a run-in with a professor?
Calls come about a disappointing social-life?

What three actions can modern parents take to help their kids successfully thrive when away from the nest?


We can act as our child’s coach, not rescuer.                                                          We can encourage them to take charge of their own experience – to seek out ways to solve their own problems using the resources available.

We can praise them for their efforts to make the best of their situation and work to the best of their ability.


Yes, there are great perils “out there” now in 2017. And equipping our children to cope with our 21st Century reality is essential. But let’s keep in mind how lucky we are to have these concerns and not the ones the parents in the Warsaw ghetto faced during Hitler’s relentless reign of terror. Let’s hold sacred our good fortune.

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Published on August 22, 2017 03:46

August 17, 2017

Three Sure-Fire Ways to Get Out of a Funk

Going Down the Rabbit Hole 


The other day I innocently asked my grandson what he would like for his upcoming ninth birthday. He thought for a moment, then gazed intently into my eyes and answered explicitly: No books, Nana. And nothing you knitted.


If I had been confronted by his blatant honesty last week, I don’t think I would have had the same lighthearted reaction.


Ever been in a deep funk where suddenly everything looked dark, foreboding and hopeless? I call this sudden turn of darkness “going down the rabbit hole.” And I went there seven days ago.


Sure, there were real frustrations:



The scale was heading north again; my beloved white jeans were tighter and   tighter.
I was spending more money than my income could bear.
I had career-related deadlines, setbacks, obstacles and challenges that were beginning to seem insurmountable.
And I was tired. So very tired.

Down the rabbit hole I tumbled. Isolating myself from family and friends. Viewing every situation and scenario in the most negative light possible.


Things Could Always be Worse                                                                                 Yes, I know that.


My favorite waitress’s mom is dying of a brain tumor at age fifty-two.


A high school crony is on dialysis three times a week and has just had four fingers on his right hand amputated due to his diabetic condition.


My mother’s long time friend has just lost her twenty-five year-old grandson to a drug overdose.


But I’m allowed to wallow in my own “petty” misery right? I’m allowed a few bad days in a funk? Even if my misery is less than their misery?


Three Ways to Claw Yourself Out of the Rabbit Hole


Perfect the Art of Gratitude


Let’s face it: the lack of gratitude causes an over-inflated sense of entitlement, a de-sensitizing to small material pleasures, and an inability to be sated. Practicing the art of gratitude is the gateway to seeing our world differently – we re-awaken to the pleasures in our lives that are already in place. I marvel at the orchid’s new bud. I savor my first sip of morning coffee. I drink in my husband’s handsome chiseled profile while he sleeps beside me.


On my climb out of the rabbit hole, I stop focusing on the deficits. I free myself from eagle-eyeing and stock piling every aggravation, annoyance and slight directed my way. From over personalizing. From utter self-absorption.


“Gratitude,” says Timothy Miller, in How to Want What You Have, is the intention to count your blessings while avoiding the belief that you need or deserve different circumstances.


Seek Out the Humorous                                                                                   Continually looking for the humor in the daily routine of our lives helps us weather instability and change. Finding the lighthearted edge reduces stress and aids us in concentrating less on our disappointments, frustrations and woes. A sense of humor helps us deal with obstacles, road blocks and bumps in the road, facilitates our evolving and finding a comfortable place for ourselves. And keeps us out of the rabbit hole.


Try these on:


A thief broke into my house last night. He started searching for money, so I woke up and searched with him.


Kids today don’t know how easy they have it. When I was young, I had to walk nine feet through shag carpeting to change the TV channel.


A recent study found that women who carry a little extra weight live longer than men who mention it.


Feel better?


Keep Things in Perspective                                                                               When storm clouds appear on your horizon, how do you cope? I do so by keeping  things in perspective. I recently wrote a column on the difficulty of seeing a child off to college. Of pre-school. Or Kindergarten. My column could apply to watching an adult child move far away to a new city.  It could apply to watching an adult child or a grandchild embrace a way of life that seems disjointed and foreign. My column could apply when we experience a lack of open and honest communication with our offspring. Sure feelings of loss, anxiety, and disappointment can pull us down, but keeping things in perspective will ultimately be the grease that makes climbing out of the rabbit hole easier, quicker and less arduous. It’s all about perspective.


Want an easy fix to attaining a proper perspective?

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Published on August 17, 2017 05:05

July 7, 2017

Magical Power in the Bahamas? Yep.

My initial look at Freeport, Bahamas was of a concrete lot filled with overflowing stalls of island crafts as I peered out of my cabin window that first morning. Just minutes later my feet hit the pavement and I am swept up in the excitement of haggling for the goods scattered about. Spotting a woman placidly sitting on a cardboard carton braiding another woman’s hair, mounting fascination propels me towards the pair.


Her nimble fingers entwine hair at a speed I never thought possible. Money then quickly exchanges hands and the next woman in line moves up to the braiding stool. More conversation and the braiding begins again.


I get in line and within minutes I am the one on the stool being transformed into an aging Indian goddess – a woman of the sea and the earth. I feel the emergent power stemming from the three braids dangling from my right temple. If three can wield such energy, how exhilarating would be a whole head full? I shiver at the thought of such sheer indulgence.


My husband grins when he sees me and encourages me to get more.


“Maybe,” I hedge coquettishly.


Hours later, I am sprawled on the beach watching the hordes of tourists go parasailing. A brightly dressed young woman saunters over and says, “Hey, Bahama Mama, how about some more? Twists. Don’t stop at three!”


At first I don’t understand. She explains easily. “For $80, I will braid your entire head.”


I look at her in disbelief. And shake my head no.


“Oh come on, sweet lady,” she implores.


“Eighty dollars is way too much,” I reply with vigor.


“A dollar a braid, missy,” she says boldly. “A dollar a braid.”


“Nope,” I shoot back brazenly. “Way too much.” I’m beginning to enjoy this bartering.


This woman, wise to the ways of the tourist, is not daunted. “Okay,” she asks me softly, “how much DO you want to spend?”


“Twenty-five,” I say daringly.


“You’ve got a deal, Bahama Mama.”


And so the ritual begins.


She points to a rock and instructs me to sit down and make myself comfortable. (On a rock? I laugh to myself. Back home, it’s padded, reclining chairs with arm rests, free coffee, and air conditioning. She must be kidding.)


She’s not. She sets a massive sack of beads and bands on my lap and instructs me to pick my colors as she sets to work separating my hair into sections. I relax as her nimble fingers wield her craft as she begins the ageless process of braiding. The outer left strand passes over the center one. Next, the outer right strand passes over the first one, which is now in the middle. And the process continues until the braid strand is finished. Soft and steady. Gentle and repetitive.


Unfortunately, though the process of braiding remains steady and repetitive, it does not stsay soft nor gentle. First, an isolated jolt of pain. Then a few intermittent tugs and pulls that sting the scalp, forcing my mind from any pleasant musings to full concentration on the source of the discomfort.


Then the hurt becomes constant as her fingers begin weaving in corn rows along the base of my scalp.


“That hurts,” I say reproachfully.


“Ah, that’s what they all say,” she murmurs soothingly as her skilled fingers continue on their murderous route.


Three hours later the braiding is complete. My euphoria has long since evaporated. My back is sore. My neck is impossibly tight. And the braids are pulling ceaselessly and uncomfortably on my scalp. I ease my stiff body up to standing position, pay her and watch her as she walks away, already approaching another unsuspecting tourist on which to exercise her finger power.


My husband loves my head of hair fully braided.


Me? I have endured and will continue to endure the discomfort that I soon learn will go on unabated for another few days until new hair growth eases the tightness of the braids. Nonetheless, I feel empowered. Connected to the multitudes of women who came before me and sat as I sat – by oceans or fire sides – in wagons or perhaps caves – lending their scalp to another’s skillful fingers to weave some magic.


No matter the scalp pulling, I feel both mighty and connected.

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Published on July 07, 2017 05:35

June 29, 2017

The Fourth of July Gave Me the Freedom to Try Something New

Leaning cake_1

Photo credit: knitnut.net


I never wanted to be mainstream, ordinary and normal.  Unfortunately, my cooking skills don’t reflect this desire to stand-out.  Cooking. Grilling. Baking. All are feats that I have marginal ability in performing.


Nevertheless, on a 4th of July many years ago, I decided to do what every all-American mother does for her son’s birthday: bake him a cake from scratch.


When I told Max, whose birthday was the following day, that I was baking him a cake without help from Betty, he looked at me with a stunned expression.  “Gee, Mom, I thought you only did mixes.”


I hit the book shelves in the living room in search of my seldom used cookbook section (that’s why it’s in the living room and not the kitchen) and quickly found the one I was looking for –  a reproduction of Hershey’s 1934 Cookbook.  I settled on the “three layer gold cake” illustrated on the cover.


For the next two hours, I measured, sifted, stirred, mixed,  folded and beat well. Sighing with relief, I slid the three cake pans into my gas oven and sat down to greedily lick any surface that had any batter left on it – spoons, bowls, beaters and spatulas. I restrained myself from licking the counters in case someone unexpectedly walked in.


The timer buzzed. I carefully removed the cake pans from the oven, cooled them for ten minutes and then “expertly” flipped the cakes to cooling racks. I let them cool for an additional thirty minutes.


I started on the recipe for “creamy rich vanilla butter icing” that I found in the Hershey’s 1934 Cookbook too. I made twice the amount recommended to ice a two-layer cake, figuring if the kids weren’t home by the time I was finished icing, I’d polish off the remains of that too.


When the timer went off, with painstaking precision, I began icing the first layer of my cake. By the time I placed the third layer on top of the other two, I knew I was in serious trouble.  The top layer refused to stay put on the second layer – the second layer refused to stay put on the first layer. And the top layers were hopelessly out of line with the bottom layer and with each other.


I looked around frantically.  Surely I must have something in the kitchen that I could stick through the middle of the cake to serve as an anchor.


Coffee Stirrers!  Ah – but I had none.


Pencils!  Ah – but I’d give my family lead poisoning.


A thick holiday candle!  Ah – but it would destroy the cake’s insides.


And then I spied my glass canister filled with very thin and very long angel hair pasta.  Quickly I counted out six strands, measured them to match the height of the cake, broke off the excess pasta, took a deep breath and plunged the entire bunch right through the middle of my freshly-baked masterpiece.


It seemed to do the trick.  It seemed to stop the slipping and sliding.  So what if a few strands of angle hair poked through?


My cake was lopsided and flawed, but authentic and original.  It was created with loving care and held together with “a lick and a promise.” Kinda like me. and kinda like Max.

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Published on June 29, 2017 20:58

June 22, 2017

How To Have A Happy Day

My dad, Pike Levine, has been gone for five years, so he was not around to celebrate Father’s Day. His family was thinking of him nonetheless.


His great grandson, Levi Pike Pastor, was born on June 13 and at his bris eight days later, his family gathered around to welcome him into the tribe. And at this momentous event, we highlighted my dad’s unique character trait and this is what we told him:


You are named for your great grandfather, Pike Levine, who could be described in the following way:


Scrappy– at the age of 14, he sold hot coffee to passengers on trains passing through Utica, NY, keeping the coffee hot by the same steam that powered the trains. The coffee, though hot, tasted awful. But by the time the customrers found that out, he had jumped off the moving train. Months later, he used some of this money to buy a tombstone for his mother, who died of pneumonia at age 42.


Gutsy – he went AWOL to marry his girlfriend. When he returned to base, he was called into the commander’s office. “Sit down, Sargent,” the base commander ordered. “Stand up, Private.” Let it be noted, soon thereafter, Pike was re-awarded his stripes because they were Europe bound. 


Practical – when he returned stateside after World War 2, he and his war bride quickly had two kids. He assembled their swing set and grounded the poles not just in dirt like most of the dads did, but he reinforced the holes with concrete. His children could swing as high as they wanted without fear of going airborne. It reflected the way he raised them: put them in a position to succeed and watch them soar.


Resourceful – he knew how to make money – from selling Venetian blinds to carpets to furniture to neighborhood bars to single family homes. And he became, after much night school education, the head of  his own real estate appraisal firm, serving as an expert witness in court too.


Irreverent – someone challenged him once, “Pike, now that you have money, you don’t talk to me anymore.” Pike shot back, “I never talked to you when I didn’t have money.”


Unique – he had many favorite phrases:


If you throw enough stuff against the wall, some of it will stick. (but he didn’t use the word stuff.)


Don’t’ get hurt, get even.


Nothing’s deader than yesterday’s romance. (He relished using that one after his daughters broke-up with their boyfriends or the boyfriends broke-up with them.)


You’re run of the mill. (Translation: You’re really special.)


The most famous one was “Them all.” He told his daughters it meant “Bless them all.” He told his son something different. If you knew Pike, you could figure it out.


Strong finisher – he closed every occasion with the now famous toast “Here’s to those who wish us well and all the rest can go to hell.”


And perhaps most importantly: he was a member of the Lucky Bastard Club. The Lucky Bastard Club was an informal grouping of crew members from the Eighth Air Force who completed a tour of duty in World War 2. Luckily, your great Grandfather Pike got into flying missions over Germany toward the end of WW 2, not at the beginning. By the time he was installed on a B-17 as a ball turret gunner, the Army Air Corp were sending out B-17s with escorts –  all flying in formation, which greatly cut down on the casualties. So he lived to tell the tale. Some 40,000 airmen didn’t. Hence, the Lucky Bastard Club membership.


So Levi Pike Pastor, may you follow in your great grandfather’s footsteps. May you be as unique, revered and loved as your great Grandpa Pike and may you always be “A LUCKY BASTARD.”


 

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Published on June 22, 2017 07:29

Levi Pike’s Bris Speech

My dad, Pike Levine, has been gone for five years, so he was not around to celebrate Father’s Day. His family was thinking of him nonetheless.


His great grandson, Levi Pike pastor, was born on ______ and at his bris eight days later, his family gathered around to welcome him into the tribe. And this is what we told him.’


You are named for your great grandfather, Pike Levine, who could be described in the following way:


Scrappy– at the age of 14, he sold hot coffee to passengers on trains passing through Utica, NY, keeping the coffee hot by the same steam that powered the trains. The coffee, though hot, tasted awful. But by the time the customrers found that out, he had jumped off the moving train. Months later, he used some of this money to buy a tombstone for his mother, who died of pneumonia at age 42.


Gutsy – he went AWOL to marry his girlfriend. When he returned to base, he was called into the commander’s office. “Sit down, Sargent,” the base commander ordered. “Stand up, Private.” Let it be noted, soon thereafter, Pike was re-awarded his stripes because they were euripi bound.greeted


Practical –when he returned stateside after World War 2, he and his war ride quickly had two kids. He assembled their swing set and grounded the poles not just in dirt like most of the dads did, but he reinforced the holes with concrete. His children could swing as high as they wanted without fear of going airborne. It reflected the way he raised them: put them in a position to succeed and watch them soar.


Resilient – he became one of the chief appraisers for the State of Ohio after being turned down for years by the highway department because he was not part of the “good ole boys network.”


Resourceful – he knew how to make money – from selling Venetian blinds to carpets to furniture to neighborhood bars to single family homes. And he became, after much night school education, the head of  his own real estate appraisal firm, serving as an expert witness in court too.


Irreverent – someone challenged him once, “Pike, now that you have money, you don’t talk to me anymore.” Pike shot back, “I never talked to you when I didn’t have money.”


Unique – he had many favorite phrases:


If you throw enough stuff against the wall, some of it will stick. (but he didn’t use the word stuff.)


Don’t’ get hurt, get even.


Nothing’s deader than yesterday’s romance. (He relished using that one after his daughters broke-up with their boyfriends or the boyfriends broke up with them.)


You’re run of the mill. (Translation: You’re really special.)


The most famous one was “Them all.” He told his daughters it meant “Bless them all.” He told his son something different. If you knew Pike, you could figure it out.


Strong starter – he was always the first one in line for food.


Own rulemaker – He took his grandsons out to breakfast before Sunday school every Sunday morning. And feed them mounds of bacon – which their parents preferred they not eat in accordance with Jewish dietary law. And he rarely ever got them to Sunday School on time. He was too busy showing them his appraisal projects.


Strong finisher – he closed every occasion with the now famous toast “Here’s to those who wish us well and all the rest can go to hell.”


And perhaps most importantly: a member of the Lucky Bastard Club –the Lucky Bastard Club was an informal grouping of crew members from the Eighth Air Force who completed a tour of duty in World War Two. Luckily, Pike got into flying missions over Germany toward the end of WW Two, not at the beginning. By the time he was installed on a B17 as a ball turret gunner, the Army Air Corp were sending out B17s with escorts –  all flying in formation, which greatly cut down on the casualties. So he lived to tell the tale. Some forty thousand airmen didn’t. Hence, the Lucky Bastard Club membership


May you follow in your great grandfather’s footsteps, Levi Pike. May you be as unique, revered and loved as your great Grandpa Pike and may you always be “A LUCKY BASTARD.”


 

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Published on June 22, 2017 07:29

June 8, 2017

Today is special. Why? It’s National Best Friend’s Day.



My first best friend lived next door and was eight months older than me. In our first grade class, she overpowered me to the point that a very wise teacher recommended that we be split-up in second grade so I could develop my own personality. (As pictured above, she was in front and I was in back of her.) Even so, she remained my best friend until she moved away in fifth grade.


There were other besties after that. I was drawn to two of them in particular because they challenged me to be more than just a boy crazy middle schooler and a love-sick teenager. One died nine years ago – the morning after she left a voice mail for me recounting her successful bout with heart surgery. The other – after a hiatus of many years – I reconnected with. She understands how poorly I communicate by phone and so tirelessly initiates the calls.


Newly married in my early twenties, I met a friend and instantly we became inseparable. Until the morning I missed our weekly bowling league outing due to minor cosmetic surgery. She was killed by an oncoming train on her way home from the alley. I had kept the surgery a secret. Had I told her, she would have been with me that fateful day. Not crossing the railroad tracks in her Datsun 240Z with the music blaring and a train ramming her to bits.


After that, there were more “best friends” equally as important. Like the one I refer to as “my rock” the keeper of my secrets – the institutional memory of my soul.


One I haven’t seen in decades – she lives across the country – she is like my muse – at odd intervals she writes me the most beautiful and encouraging notes that hoist my flagging spirits.


One is my comrade in arms – we buoy each other up when our warrior like behavior needs some reinforcement.


One can withstand my erratic moods – ranging from blatantly weird to weirdly sarcastic.


One who listens to whatever I want to talk about.


One who can make me laugh even when I do not think I can ever again even smile.


And this is what I have found: best friends are like lovers – you either click or you don’t. If you do, you tentatively begin to shed your carefully constructed facade in the hopes that they can withstand the gale forces that rage within you. You see that they are persistent, loyal and wise enough to peel back your layers of protective disguise and poke around in your muck to extract the good within.


I don’t need a best friend to shop with. I don’t need a best friend to share recipes with or knitting tips. I don’t need a best friend to even complain to. What I do need is a best friend who can genuinely celebrate with me my hard-won successes and, most importantly, my truly lucky breaks – without resentment and envy.


I need a best friend who will have the courage to tell me when I’m off track, irrational or stuck. And will have the patience to listen while I sort out my emotions and gain clarity.


I’m thankful for the coterie of woman I have in my life who I know in my darkest hours will stand by me and in my greatest shining moments will cheer me on too. Who look out for me. Check up on me. Believe in me. Defend me. Reflect the best in me. Never purposefully leave me.


Because that’s what best friends do.

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Published on June 08, 2017 05:58

June 5, 2017

Bonding Over Oatmeal

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I never knew why she picked me as a friend in junior high school in the early 1960’s. All I cared about was make-up, clothes, boys, dates, weight and hairstyles. She cared nothing for these concerns. While I read Seventeenth Summer and Marjorie Morningstar about young love, she was reading Miracle at Carville about leprosy.


For years, we remained close friends and met regularly for breakfast. We discussed not only our kids and our jobs and our spouses, but our strange high school friendship. I was attracted to Libby because she was different, had good ideas and was smart. She was drawn to me, because she said, underneath all the clutter and frivolity, she saw honesty, individuality and a free spirit.


And we always ordered and ate the same thing: oatmeal with salt.


Years ago, when I was regularly writing for a local weekly publication, I met a fellow writer named Rose at a party in honor of the newspaper’s first twelve months of existence. We immediately clicked and found we had many things in common – a strange sense of humor, a shared graduation year of 1965, sons, sons and more sons (together we had nine) and a love and reverence for the written word.


We had some great heart-to-heart talks, gave each other morale-booster shots and highly opinionated slants, and shared lots of laughs. We called ourselves not just Rose and Iris, but the never-fading blooms of the Midwest. And one day we agreed to meet for an early lunch.


Rose ordered grilled chicken salad and I ordered oatmeal. When our food arrived, I was hungry, as usual, and immediately began readying my oatmeal for consumption. I stirred the oatmeal thoroughly, ignored the butter, sugar and raisins that the waitress thoughtfully set beside me and methodically went for the salt shaker, which I promptly used with abandon.


My friend Rose stared at my concoction.


I stirred some more, shook some more, and expectantly lifted the first heaping spoonful eagerly to my mouth.


My friend Rose continuing staring.


“What’s wrong, Rosie?” I innocently asked.


“Is that the way you eat oatmeal?” she sputtered. “Without sugar, without sweetener, WITH salt?”


“Sure,” I said. “I’ve been eating it that way for years.  Cream of wheat too,” I added proudly. “And Ralston.”


She swallowed hard, took a deep breath and proceeded to lean forward conspiratorially. “I do too,” she said. “I only eat oatmeal with salt,” she whispered. “Never sugar. All these years, I thought I was the only one. Everywhere I would go, people would stare, gawk and comment on my odd little habit.”


“I don’t look at it as an odd thing at all, Rose,” I commented pretty matter-of-factly. “Nor as unexplainable. My grandmother ate it that way for years – and another really good friend, Libby, also from the Class of ’65, does too.


“And I have come to realize that doing things a little differently is a welcome sign of individuality, originality and divergent thinking.” Pontificating pretty heartily by now, I continued. “Anybody can eat oatmeal with sugar, but it takes someone with strength of character and confidence in their own integrity to light out on such an adventuresome path!”


Rose smiled. And settled back comfortably to eat her salad – images of salt-laden oatmeal dancing in her head.


We started a club that day – The OWS Club – The Oatmeal With Salt Club – for those hearty souls who dare to buck the established mode of conduct and blaze their own trails – in any realm.


Libby, Rose and I were the charter members but we welcomed others to join our quest, which was a dedication to self-exploration and to individual expression. And also to friendship – the joy of coming together with kindred souls who share a zest for life, a willingness to be their own person and sing their own song.


Libby passed away suddenly in 2008 and Rosie and I have long since lost touch. But I hold the memory of both of them close. They taught me to never let your own bloom fade and your own dreams wilt. And to make time for friends – to share a bowl of oatmeal with and a little bit of salt.

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Published on June 05, 2017 14:00