Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 40
June 5, 2017
The Secret to Living Happily Ever After
By the time I was 16, I had started to figure it out. My Saturdays were filled with washing and rolling my hair in jumbo rollers and plastering down my bangs with Dippity Doo. Then off to the local dime store in the new shopping center I went to buy bobby pins, eyebrow pencil and lip frost to add to my stash of cheap cosmetic wonders. Wearing those big plastic rollers to the shopping center was a status symbol in those days announcing to the world that you had a “real” date that night.
Nothing was more invigorating than my boyfriend pulling up to my house in his GTO convertible, with a full tank of gas in his car, his entire allowance in his wallet and a whole evening to ourselves – no parents, no pesky little brothers, no teachers, no homework or practices – just us. The feeling of freedom, abandonment, contentment and the sheer pleasure of being alive and with someone you adored was a feeling that was indelibly stamped in the memory of my 16th and 17th year. Saturday night became an unspoken dance between my boyfrien and I, representing a celebration of life’s promises.
When my freshman year at college proved to be a disappointment and my boyfriend from high school started dating a girl from Cleveland, my Saturday nights in the dorm were spent in the Study Lounge watching the headlights of cars carrying other couples out on their dates. I missed the glorious feeling of having someone special to go out with and someone special to be with on Saturday nights.
I transferred universities and my sophomore and junior years at the University of Florida were filled with Saturday night parties in smoke-filled frat houses dancing to music that was too loud and with boys that were too drunk. And although there was no one special in my life for many months, the promise of a Saturday night with someone I would adore continued to fill me with yearning and anticipation.
When I later married and had two children and found that my husband and I didn’t have the magic of a dynamic relationship, my feelings about Saturday night became shrouded in sadness. We had the economic means, the sitter, the time and the opportunity, but the chemistry between the two of us only emphasized for me that he was not the one I wanted to spend that magic night with because Saturday nights have always been special.
I met my second husband on a Saturday night. I fell in love with him on a Saturday night and I married him on a Saturday night.
Over the years of our marriage, he and I have partied on Saturday nights, gone to movies and plays on Saturday nights, and went out to countless dinners on Saturday nights. We’ve spent Saturday nights with friends, family, children and parents, strangers and acquaintances. But, by far, the best Saturday nights we have ever spent have been the Saturday nights we have spent with just each other.
Experts say there is no substitute for shared quality couple time – simply making uninterrupted time to be together – without kids, pets, in-laws, and bosses. And that the bond you form during those sacred times will help you over the challenging hurdles life inevitably presents. The experts are right.
For my husband and I, Saturday nights became fence-mending nights -nights to touch, reconnect, revitalize and re-establish our personal bond with each other. We left behind thoughts of our babies, our toddlers, our youngsters and our teen-agers. We forgot that we had car seats in the rear and cookie crumbs all over the back seat floor.
I became domestically unwired. I forgave my husband for not cleaning up after himself, not using the shoe trees I bought him and the belt rack I hung up for him.
He unhinged his entrepreneurial harness. He forgave me for being snippy, distracted, and disinterested in his newest real estate endeavor. And too focused on the mounds of dirty laundry and the cluttered pantry shelves.
Somehow my husband always looked a little more handsome, moved a little more gracefully and spoke a little more forcefully – on Saturday night. And somehow, I always dressed a little more demurely, spoke a little more softly and moved a little more slowly – on Saturday night. The wine was sweeter, the coffee richer and the food tastier on Saturday night.
And on those rare Saturday nights that the tension didn’t melt away and we carried the rigors of the work week to the enclave of Saturday night, we woke up Sunday morning feeling deprived and out-of-sorts. I cried while he fumed, because we had spoiled a potentially wonderful and soul-satisfying Saturday night.
So we learned to breathe deeply and let go. We left the sorrows of the week on the back yard swing. We left the pressures of the future on the front porch steps. Knowingly, and with great effort, we kept Saturday nights special. I guess that’s why they still are.
What Happens When You Take a Chance and What Happens When You Don’t?
It wasn’t a good week. I was stuck inside with a killer sinus infection, dragging myself through the must-do items on my overcrowded to-do list and canceling all the optional things I could relegate to the future. In other words, postponing all the fun stuff and slogging through the rest. Ugh.
Maybe it was the cough syrup I was spooning down my throat on a regular basis that was prompting dreams of unparalleled glory? Maybe it was the week of relative isolation that fueled my grandiose ideas? No matter.
Out of the box thinking for the moment was overtaking my normally conservative approach to life’s opportunities. It was over running my fever, my lightheadedness and my deep and constant raspy cough. Maybe I was hallucinating, but I seemed to have serendipity and synchronicity resting on my doorstep.
And, after having just gone public and shared my secret of being a closet bulimic for almost 46 years (that is not a typo), some of my thoughts turned to my recovery and what helped sustain it. The Weight Watchers program had played a critical role in keeping me from bingeing and purging. I wanted to share that golden tidbit with my friend Oprah – since she now had ownership in Weight Watchers and was featured prominently in their commercials.
One little thing stood in my way: I couldn’t find her e mail address. So, I did what I thought was a reasonable action. I googled Weight Watchers, pulled up the name and address of both the CEO and the marketing person, and sent them each a letter – hoping that they both had the coveted, direct line to Oprah. Here’s part of my letter:
Dear Mr. Chambers and Mr. Herrera,
Without Weight Watchers, my husband would be a widower, my children without a mother. Your product saved my life.
I am not being overly dramatic. Well maybe just a little!
ED (Eating Disorder) and I started “dating” in 1966. On Valentine’s Day, 2012, I hit a new low and simply knew I could no longer go on the way I was going. The destructive relationship with ED had to be terminated before ED terminated me.
My journey back to normalcy could not have been successful without the help of Weight Watchers. After finishing my three month period of intensive outpatient care at an eating disorder treatment facility, I spent the next six months binge- free, but with no structure to my eating. At the end of those six months, to my horror, I had gained over 25 pounds. I knew that if I could not lose that weight, ED would come calling with a vengeance. And the outcome would not be in my favor.
Weight Watchers provided me with structure, support and encouragement. I lost the 25 pounds and have utilized Weight Watcher products and the points system to keep my weight at a satisfactory level ever since.
I would love for us to put our heads together to see how we can utilize Weight Watcher programs in the eating disordered world.
Three days later, I woke up, reached for my I phone by my bedside and started checking my messages. Lo and behold, there was one from Oprah.
“Thank the Lord,” I thought euphorically. “Boy, they work quickly at Weight Watchers!”
My soaring good spirits plummeted as soon as I realized – upon actually opening the message – that it was a mass produced ditty. But tucked away in the third paragraph was a gem of high value: Oprah’s e mail address.
Okay. Okay. I am not a moron. I realized it wasn’t Oprah’s PRIVATE and PERSONAL email address. But, hey, it was a point of demarcation. I seized the moment, cut and pasted my letter to the two Weight Watcher executives into my e mail message to Oprah. I added a little further elaboration on why I felt Weight Watchers could play a key role in helping people recover from disordered eating patterns. And I crossed my fingers and hit Send.
Did I get a reply? I did!! An hour later. My soaring good spirits plummeted once again as soon as I realized – upon actually opening the message – that it was another stock reply simply confirming receipt of my message.
What does that show me? What does that say for the merits of my inspiration? What does that say to my chances of ever garnering Oprah’s ear to help the anorexic, the bulimic and the binge eater?
I don’t know.
Maybe I’ll hear nothing, because a clueless Oprah assistant fails to see the merits of my quest. Or maybe, just maybe, the first set of eyes to see my e mail will be someone who was bulimic or had a friend in college who was bulimic. And maybe, just maybe, that assistant will run it past a supervisor in the Oprah chain, who’s worried about her own daughter’s sudden weight loss. And maybe, just maybe, my e mail will keep bouncing upward until it reaches Oprah herself – someone who recognizes demons centered around food intake and restriction.
I don’t know.
Two things are for sure:
I’ll be checking my inbox carefully.
And I will keep congratulating myself on taking a chance and reaching out to Oprah in the first place.
Why? Because we all know what happens when you don’t take a chance. Absolutely nothing.
Three Ways to Banish Stress Forever
Ok, just so you know: I don’t do New Year’s resolutions. It’s always the same every year anyway:
Eliminate carbs
Jog three miles a day
Learn French
Streamline my personal belongings
Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.
So now I have a new approach to self-improvement – finding the most perfect stress busters. And here they are:
Be a divergent thinker – look at things in new ways.
Once there was a little bird who decided to stay in the North for the winter. However, it soon turned so cold that he reluctantly started to fly south. Ice began to form on his wings. Almost frozen, he fell to earth in a pasture. A cow wandered over and – excuse the verb – pooped on the little bird. Our feathered friend thought it was the end.
But the manure was warm and defrosted his wings. Comfortable, happy and able to breathe, he started to sing. Just then, a cat came by and hearing the chirping, investigated. The cat cleared away the manure, found the singing bird, and promptly ate him.
The moral of the story is: Anyone who dumps a little brown present on you is not necessarily your enemy. Anyone who pulls you out a pile of manure is not necessarily your friend. And – if you’re warm and happy in that pile – keep your mouth shut!
Find every opportunity to laugh. Humor has been found to consistently help us deal with obstacles, road blocks and bumps in the road. Humor reduces stress, helps keep things in proper perspective and takes the edge off. Employing humor helps us concentrate less on our disappointments, frustrations and woes and more on what’s fine in our lives. I keep a feel-good basket near my computer. Every time I come across a good joke, I print it out, fold it up and toss it in the basket. When darkness descends and despair come calling, I pluck one out and read it. And feel better.
Here’s one of my favorites:
One day in the Garden of Eden, Eve calls out to G-d. “Lord, I have a Problem!”
“What’s the problem, Eve?”
“Lord, I know you created me and provided this beautiful garden and all of these wonderful animals and that hilarious snake, but I’m just not happy.”
“Why is that, Eve?” came the reply from above.
“Lord, I am lonely, and I’m sick to death of apples.”
”Well, Eve, in that case, I have a solution. I shall create a man for you.”
“What’s a man, Lord?”
“A man is a flawed creature, with many flawed character traits. He’ll be stubborn, vainglorious, and self-absorbed. All in all, he’ll probably give you a hard time. But…he’ll be bigger, faster and will revel in childish things like fighting and kicking a ball about. He won’t be too smart, so he’ll also need your advice to think properly.”
“Sounds great,” says Eve, with an ironically raised eyebrow. “But what’s the catch, Lord?”
“Well… you can have him on one condition.”
“What’s that, Lord?” Eve asks.
“As I said, he’ll be proud, arrogant and self admiring…so you’ll have to let him believe that I made him first. Just remember, it’s our little secret…you know, woman to woman.
Molt.
Ever eat lobster? Ever heard the term molt – an interesting activity the lobster engages in? Molt is to cast or shed a shell.
Here’s some interesting facts:
In the first 5 years of life, a lobster molts or sheds its shell up to 25 times. As an adult, it molts about once a year. As the shell weakens, the lobster seeks out safe areas in the water to molt and protect himself as he readies to shed the old shell. Why? Because he is very vulnerable and in danger at this point – the new shell is not as strong nor as durable as the old one. The new shell is soft and more prone to invasions, so the lobster eats part of its old shell to help harden the new one more quickly.
Just like the lobster, we need to shed our old skins, and grow into bigger, more expansive and more inclusive shells, while retaining that which makes us strong and healthy and unique. And we need a safety net within to do it, such as in the protection and support of our own home, neighborhood and community.
Remember when your mom bought you a winter coat one size larger than you needed? What did she say?
“You’ll grow into it.”
Happy Growing.
Preserving Your Bloom
It’s not about gardening – planting, pruning, fertilizing and watering – at least not in the botanical sense. And it’s not an optional activity. Preserving Your Bloom is about being luminous, not lackluster.
Preserving Your Bloom is about trying risky new things – where the process is unfamiliar and the outcome uncertain. Like I am doing with podcasting. You recognize and honor the risk. You determine to be the best you can be in an unfamiliar situation. Not perfect. But good enough.
Preserving Your Bloom is all about doing what you do with flash and dazzle. And finding others to do the things that demoralize and drain you. I write. I get others to help me with the techy stuff. (If you based your opinion of my mental prowess on my tech ability, you would be surprised that I could put a simple sentence together. I do write a lot of run-on sentences, come to think of it. Hmm.)
Preserving Your Bloom is about making time for a hobby you enjoy. Doesn’t have to be a hobby you excel at. Mine is knitting – a great outlet for creativity. Its execution fits my needs too. It’s portable. Self-taught through You Tube. Easy to do while doing other things. Diet friendly – snacking’s hard when your hands are otherwise occupied. Soul soothing due to its rhythmic repetition.
Preserving Your Bloom is all about doing what scares you. Like speaking in front of an audience. As Jerry Seinfeld noted on his HBO special, in August, 1998: “It’s a well known fact that the number one fear people have is public speaking, followed by the fear of death – that means that people attending a funeral would rather be the person in the casket than be the person delivering the eulogy.” Thankfully, like most things, the more speeches you give, the more comfortable you feel. To a point.
Preserving Your Bloom is being aware, at any age, what you can still pull off with flair – like a short skirt. The only difference is, as we age, we learn to cover up our bare legs underneath that undersized skirt. To camouflage the jiggly knee caps. To hide the broken capillaries.
Preserving Your Bloom is about hiring the right people to make you look as good as you can look, but still be recognizable to the people who see you daily. The people who see you without make-up. Without professionally coiffed hair. Without the right lighting. Without a little Photoshop. (Thanks Buni, the photographer.)
Preserving Your Bloom is about knowing when to work and when to back off. Friends and family get very irritated at me because I answer and return phone calls at MY convenience. When I am writing, I am in “the zone” and refuse to let an incoming call de-rail me.
Preserving Your Bloom – do it for those you love and for those who love you. Do it for yourself, specifically. Do it for the universe, in general. Think about what the world would be like if we all took care of ourselves. And then, took care of each other.
In 2016, let’s make a concerted effort to draw on our own resources and talents, to live life fully, joyfully and productively. To chart our own course. Develop our own mandate. Write our own script.
Aging expert, Judi Bonilla, sees Preserving Your Bloom as lifelong learning. It’s the mechanism, she says, “to explore, awaken, and nurture our personal magic…the unique way each of us looks at a challenge, experience or topic.”
I will help you Preserve Your Bloom by blogging on hot topics of interest that pique your curiosity and engage your attention. Help me Preserve My Bloom by providing me feedback on the blogs I pen. Comment. Like. Share. Tweet. We can all learn from each other.
Henna, Not Heroin
There is no chance I will ever become a heroin addict. I hate needles.
Even the THOUGHT of an IV makes me cringe. And the ACTUALITY of one sets my normally prominent and generously sized veins into a state of such constriction that the routine procedure of inserting an IV becomes an agonizing ordeal.
It was with this attitude and proclivity that I approached tattooing. You might say I was just “slightly” squeamish.
The sign on the front door of the tattoo parlor didn’t help much to allay my fears. “NO CRYBABIES.”
I gingerly pushed the door open and stepped inside. My friends were already preoccupied with the ceiling-hung display boards housing hundreds of patterns that can be permanently affixed to skin.
“Anywhere but the face,” was advised.
“0h gee,” I thought disappointedly. “I was so looking forward to getting a tattoo on the tip of my nose!” It wasn’t clear whether state law prohibits face tattooing or if it is just a “No-No” in the world of permanent body art.
And Art it is. The owner of the shop, Dana, has a master’s degree in Fine Arts from the University of Cincinnati. And all his independent contractors have apprenticed for years under tattoo artists. Their designs are unlimited: Indians, skulls, nude woman (with large breasts), butterflies, flowers, castles and even cartoon characters.
I look around. The place is clean, uncluttered, business-like and mellow. The technicians all have lots of tattoos, lots of holes in their ears filled with studs and hoops but otherwise appear quite mainstream.
None of the customers seem totally bizarre either. One guy is involved in traveling all over the world checking out “ruins.” He has long blond hair (I’d kill for his locks) and is getting a Mayan tattoo on his leg and an Egyptian mummy on his back. All in one sitting.
Another couple has lust walked in the door. Young. Good looking. Dressed like they are out shopping at the mall. Her only distinguishing feature is that she is carrying a huge framed picture of herself that she wants duplicated on her boyfriend’s back. Talking about confidence in everlasting love. Or possessiveness.
I notice certain things. The recliners are comfortable and clean and the clients seemed relaxed. Technicians wear gloves. And instruments are sterilized by high pressure and high temperatures in an intimidating machine. There is even a Norman Rockwell print of a tattoo artist on the wail.
“Maybe I should reconsider,” I think. “Just a small ‘Iris’ on my ankle….”
Then 1 notice the sign tacked up by the plastic paint containers: Jeffrey Dahmer says: “Tattoos Taste Great.”
I experience a sudden surge of gagging – my initial repulsion comes flooding back.
I watch carefully as my friend is prepped for her tattoo after picking out the design and color scheme she wants – and deciding just where on her body to place it.
Brenda, the technician, cleans the area with alcohol and shaves it. Then she applies the stencil outline of the design onto the skin. After that, she fiddles with the machine that houses “the needle.” My legs are starting to buckle and my skin feels clammy. I sit down heavily, wipe my brow and force myself to pay attention.
My friend, meanwhile, is chirpy and chatty and perfectly at ease. They begin.
“What does it feel like?” I demand instantly.
“Well,” says Susan, “a little weird and then sort of like scratching myself with my fingernail.”
Minutes later I ask again as the machine whirrs on and on.
“Well,” says Susan hesitantly, “it feels a little irritating but nothing I can’t tune out because the needle’s not in place constantly.”
At the end of a line, Brenda stops and then starts again. Finally, she finishes the outline and starts on the coloring. Susan is still resting comfortably.
I think of my Grandpa Harry with his famous forearm tattoo of a naked lady that for my benefit he would wiggle to make her body parts move.
“Maybe just one tiny, teeny little band of cascading daisies running down my forearm -in memory of Grandpa Harry….”
In 45 minutes the tattoo is done. On Susan’s ankle is a black outline of a delicate rose with red petals and lush green leaves.
The cost: about $80 bucks. The care: minimal. Just leave bandage on for 10 hours. Then wash with warm soap and water and moisturize two times per day. Within about 3 weeks, all the itchiness and scabbing will be gone and within 4 weeks, the surface is back to normal.
I take a deep breath. I have the cash. I have the time. And I always like to try new things….
I look once more at the needle. I watch as it comes in contact with the skin. Nah, I can’t do it.
I’ll just have to stick with “Imposters” – those temporary tattoos you apply by pressing firmly on clean, dry skin, wetting with a sponge and after 20 seconds, peeling off the backing.You know, the kind my nine year-old granddaughter always has stashed away in her crayon box.
Or the henna tattoos I am beginning to be addicted to.
I always was and always will be a wimp when it comes to needles. And heroin.
We Plan. G-d Laughs.
My brother and sister-in-law, after living their entire lives in one city, retired to Arizona two months ago. They planned to enjoy the climate, mountains and people; vacation in San Diego; visit friends in Los Angeles; explore the West and experience our country’s wonderful national parks. In the end, only moving to Arizona would come to pass.
As they drove into their new neighborhood, just outside Tucson, my sister-in-law began complaining of terrible stomach pain. An emergency room visit ensued. Gall bladder issues were the culprit. A stint was put in. Two days later, the moving truck arrived and she got busy unpacking, unwrapping, and putting away. Her pain persisted.
Diagnosed with pancreatic cancer just a few weeks later, my sister-in-law started on chemo the very next morning following her initial appointment with the oncologist. There were no mountains of reasonable doubt to transverse. We all knew, but didn’t say, what was baked into the diagnosis: a death sentence.
We asked my brother the obvious question, “How long?”
My brother answered, “Six months without chemo. One year with.”
It was a toxic stew of circumstances any way you swiveled the rubric cube: New town. Thousands of miles from family. Devastating diagnosis.
Our family dug in. We called each other often, texted throughout the day and dialogued about how we could make her remaining time and my brother’s remaining time with her as pleasant and as least stressful as possible.
After the diagnosis, I had been in close contact with my brother daily, but kept putting off calling my sister-in-law. What do you say to someone who has just been delivered such bad news? One morning, consumed with guilt over my shameless procrastination, I decide to make the leap, figuring if I could just get over the initial call, subsequent ones would go more smoothly.
She answered the phone after a few rings. “Karen,” I said softly, “it’s Iris.”
“Hi, Iris,” she said calmly.
I took a deep breath and hoped that what I said next wouldn’t come across as totally crass, but would serve as an ice breaker – which is what I intended.
“Karen, you will just do anything to get attention!” I yelled out. “And this is a topper.”
There was silence.
And more silence.
Then I heard her familiar throaty laugh. “Oh Iris, only you could come up with that!”
And I knew it was going to be okay between us. How could it not? She was a well melded trifecta of brains, spunk and practicality. A staunch advocate for my brother and a loyal, non-judgmental family member to all of us.
I started immediately knitting a prayer shawl for her in purple and red. I finished it right before Thanksgiving and left it on my dining room table. I planned to mail it to her when I got back from my Thanksgiving travels.
My son, Sam, came up with the idea to send a Netflix gift card for a full year of TV watching to his aunt from him and his brothers. He planned to send it when he got back from his Thanksgiving travels too.
My sister-in-law went out shopping the day before Thanksgiving. And even though clumps of hair had begun to fall out when she was brushing, she was feeling fine. Thanksgiving was spent with some new friends. Friday, she tackled more unopened boxes in the morning and spent the afternoon reading out on their back patio – soaking in the sunshine and gazing at the panoramic view of the Santa Rita Mountains.
Saturday afternoon – following Thanksgiving – the first text came through from my brother: Today has not been good for Karen. Dizziness. Weakness. Jaundice back. We will be calling the doctor on Monday.
Saturday evening: In the hospital: Severe pain. She’s having an acute heart attack. Very serious.
Saturday night: Just spoke with the cardiologist. The good news is that it’s not the heart. It’s doing the best it can. The problem is blood. She has 30% of the blood she should have. In ICU. Getting a transfusion.
Sunday – 1am: Giving her another transfusion. It’s touch and go. She is very weak. Giving her a third transfusion. The doc thinks the blood loss is somewhere in the gastrointestinal area, but can’t give her another scope until she is stabilized.
Sunday – 4:21am: On full life support. Continues to bleed. Blood pressure is 60/22.
Sunday – 5:33am: Blood pressure is 45/14.
Sunday – 6:40am: She’s gone.
It just reinforces what we all know, but seldom acknowledge: We plan. G-d laughs.
Keep coping,
Iris Ruth Pastor
I Can Tell my Best Friend Anything, Right?
Jeannie was my very first “best friend.” She is in front of me in the wagon, which, as you will see, was her default position when it came to our relationship.
Tuesday, September 7, 1954: first day of school at Bond Hill Elementary.
Our principal, a towering and imposing figure, mandated that each school year begin with all students returning to their previous year’s classroom. Their teacher would then march them confidently down the hall and turn them over to their new schoolmarm. It was an exciting and improvisational way to launch the year.
As we all halted in a long line before our new classroom, my beloved first grade teacher leaned down and whispered to me to step out of line and wait for her to return. I then watched as Jeannie and the rest of my friends eagerly filed into their new environment.
Puzzled and unhappy, I waited – counting the number of tiles in the Rookwood drinking fountain beside me. I waited some more – counting the number of eye lace holes in my shiny, new black and while saddle shoes.
When my first grade teacher smilingly re-appeared, she walked me to a different second grade class – filled with a bunch of kids I didn’t know and – most importantly – without Jeannie.
I was despondent.
My despondency, interestingly enough, was short lived. It was a sweet twist: within days, I had made a whole new circle of friends.
Jeannie and I continued to play together daily. We were next door neighbors and had known each other since we were babies. We blew bubbles that burst all over our rosy cheeks, dressed up our dolls in fancy get-up, and wrote endless stories about prince and princesses in faraway lands.
In fifth grade, she moved away and my family bought her house. I eagerly claimed her bedroom for myself – and although my mom adored Jeannie, she was determined to stamp this space with her daughter’s own identity. My mom replaced the carpeting, repainted the walls a deeper color, and rearranged my furniture in a different configuration than Jeannie’s – amid much protest from me.
For a while, I visited frequently at Jeannie’s rambling Victorian residence in a different school district, but by junior high we had lost touch.
The decades rolled by but I learned little of Jeannie. I read of her parents’ deaths and a younger sibling’s engagement. And I often wondered what paths she had chosen and if life had been kind.
Thursday, August 30, 1989: I watch as my son boards the bus for second grade – sharply reminded of my harrowing elementary school separation. I call my mom to seek an explanation.
My mom pauses and I get the feeling she is choosing her words carefully. I hear an intake of her breath and she begins to talk. “Mrs. Norcross, your first grade teacher, observed firsthand that you and Jeannie were always competing. And guess who was consistently falling just a tad bit short? You. She felt giving you a fresh start with a new bunch of kids would force you to fend for yourself and develop the skills and the confidence that were being stifled.”
THANK GOODNESS FOR WISE FIRST-GRADE TEACHERS.
Thursday, March 8, 2001: My mother calls me early in the morning as I am scrambling to leave the house.
“Have you read today’s paper?” she pipes up brightly.
“Yeah, Mom,” I quip sarcastically, “in between my languid bath filled with scented bubbles and my leisurely romp through my (very small and very messy) walk-in closet looking for an article of clothing that is not wrinkled, filled with cat hair or too tight across the hips.”
She ignores my ill humor. “Top of Page 3,” she imparts excitedly. “And call me back.”
Disgruntled and frazzled, but curious too, I grab the paper and hurriedly turn to Page 3. My rush to get ready comes to a screeching halt.
Staring back at me is a face I know almost as well as my own – a face I looked at every day from age 6 months to 10 years – the face of my next door neighbor and my very first best friend: Jeannie.
I start to cry.
Jeannie will be in town promoting her newly released book, Shakespeare Behind Bars – The Power of Drama in a Women’s Prison..
Friday, March 9, 2001: Contact is made with Jeannie’s step-mom, who tells me she’s arriving tomorrow, but that I can call Jeannie at her home tonight if I wish.
I decline the suggestion – paralyzed with emotion – too afraid I’ll start off by sobbing uncontrollably. She’ll think I’m deranged.
Saturday, March 10, 2001: My mom digs up old pictures. One is of Jeannie and me at 23 months old, sitting in a Champion red wagon. I don’t miss the fact that she is in front and I am behind her.
Monday, March 12, 2001: We meet. We hug. We cry. We hug. We cry. We hug. We cry. Releasing each other, we play catch-up – capriciously skipping across and through decades, with emotions continually neutering facts.
In high school, she worked on plays. I worked on my school’s newspaper and perfected the art of applying eyeliner.
In college, she worked on becoming an actress in the east. I worked on getting my MRS., with a minor in sociology and communications, in the south.
Shortly after college graduation, I traced the trends and became a suburban wife and mother. She bucked the tide, abandoned acting, and became a free spirited wanderer – intent on cobbling a profession from her passion: redeeming lives through the power of theater.
We both married twice. She had no children and I had five. And we both became – among a myriad of things – authors and writers.
Seeing Jeannie was like getting one last present long after blowing out the birthday candles – all the more special, because it turns out to be the very best one.
Before we parted, she directed me to write down her name, address and E-mail so we can always be in touch.
She’s so bossy. Maybe one day I will work up the courage to tell her that.
Jews and Asians – A Workable Marriage Mix?
So I recently made a foray to Hong Kong for a week. For the record, I am not an ardent traveler/writer like Rick Steves nor an ardent eater/media darling like Anthony Bourdain. Aspiring to their level of admiration and success, however, has a prominent place on my bucket list. But that’s another blog post.
I went to Hong Kong for more personal reasons – to attend the 92nd birthday party of my future daughter-in-law’s maternal grandmother.
A week is a long time to be among “strangers” – people I had never met and whose culture, heritage, customs and, in some cases, language – I do not share.
The first inkling of how the trip would unfold started with the plane reservations. In retrospect, I should have heeded the emotional climate I would soon be enveloped in, but I am always a little obtuse in these matters. When Betty and Ed, my daughter-in-law’s parents, learned I would be traveling alone without my husband, they immediately offered me some of their airline points. Why? So I could switch to the flights my son and future daughter-in-law, Joia, were booked on. I was stunned by their generosity and thoughtfulness. And I was even more delighted that my future daughter-in-law didn’t mind spending 15 hours with me, beside her, on an airplane. In fairness, I didn’t realize that for most of the flight I would be in a Xanax-induced stupor, where conversation wasn’t possible anyway. But she didn’t know that when she accepted me so graciously as a seat mate.
Upon arrival at the imposing, bustling Hong Kong airport, we were met by Ed and Betty, swept into a taxi and whisked to our hotel, where we could unpack and rest. Just as the elevator doors were closing, Joia’s parents pulled me aside and handed me a green plastic card.
“What’s this?” I inquired, slightly puzzled.
“It’s like a debit card,” Ed explained. “With it, you can get coffee, subway access, etc. It will make things easier for you.” Again, I was stunned by their heightened sense of accommodation to a visitor/guest.
When I came to Hong Kong, I expected to have a nice time. I expected people to be polite and helpful. I even expected to be treated with a degree of respect, because in Asian eyes, I am an elder. And, as Joia has taught me, filial piety is held in high esteem.
But nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for what I was met with every single day. Special treatment. Deference to my wishes. Well-planned outings. Affection. Good will. And so many, many laughs and shared good times. It was a well-balanced blend of sightseeing, family time and down-time to relax and re-charge.
I didn’t get to experience Chinese Mah Jongg, but I did get a taste of authentic Hong Kong coffee – no sugar, but well blended with cream. I didn’t take high tea at the Sheraton, but I gambled at Macau and lost $1000 Hong Kong dollars in about 3 minutes, while attempting to figure out a complicated slot machine
I didn’t master the use of chopsticks, but I did embrace with gusto every type of Chinese noodle placed before me. I stayed away from anything squiggly or slimy, still moving or very undercooked, but I stuffed myself with turnip cakes at every opportunity.
I was enthralled with the big round tables we usually dined at, all topped with a swiveling round disc – a Lazy Susan. The conversation flowed continuously as waiters brought out each new course. And though there were many courses – usually about 15 – portions were small and the time between each serving ample. I left each meal comfortably full, but not stuffed. What was in excess was the tabletop banter and animated conversation. The latter reminded me of a Shabbat meal.
On our last Saturday night in Hong Kong, 45 of us gathered in a party room at the Four Seasons to toast, roast and celebrate Lou and Joia’s upcoming nuptials in May. As befitting my own love of Judaism, I incorporated Judaism’s classic phrase of a bestowal of blessings: “L’ Chaim.” To life. And I stated that I wished for all those present “good health, long life and the sharing of many more joyous moments.”
And then I paused. I lifted my glass once again. And I continued. “To Louie and Joia, not only do I wish for you both good health, ample wealth and an abundance of happiness. But, in the coming years, may you also be blessed with many little kiddos sitting around your Lazy Susan too.”
There was dead silence. Had I unknowingly committed an Asian faux pas? And then en masse, all 45 family members – aunts and uncles and cousins – stood. They smiled broadly. They lifted their glasses. Their voices rang out, strongly and with great gusto, echoing my toast. “L’ Chaim!” they roared.
No crystal ball sits on my kitchen counter. Who knows how my son and his bride will mesh their cultures, as they begin their lives as husband and wife next spring? Our first foray into the world of getting to know each other went smoothly. And that’s enough for now.
Big Deal – So my Dad was a Ball Turret Gunner During WW2
I wasn’t the brightest kid. I grew up believing the tale my father told me – that I had spent World War 2 being toted around on his back. It wasn’t until I was about nine-years-old that I realized the impossibility. I had been born in August of 1947, years after the war was over. And my father wasn’t traipsing around Europe on foot in the Infantry, anyway – he was a ball turret gunner in The 8thAir Force, operating in a confined space.
The ball turret gunner was one of the most dangerous assignments in World War 2. Ball Turret Gunners on B-17 bombers were protected only by a glass bubble jutting out from the bowels of the plane. Permanently fixed and unable to be retracted, there was no hiding from enemy attack. It was an enclosure that at any time could become an airman’s coffin. And often did.
Crews on a B17, fondly referred to as “The Flying Fortress,” flew enemy raids against Nazi Germany from 1942 to 1945. Originating from air bases in England, the B-17’s left to attack enemy targets in broad daylight because The Air Force believed in precision bombing – bombing to hit a specific target. This was only possible to accomplish in daylight. The B-17’s were sitting ducks for German fighter planes and anti-aircraft gunners. It wasn’t until 1944 that fighter escorts were deployed to accompany them on their missions. By that time, thousands of airmen had perished over the skies of Europe.
Through the years, my dad spoke haltingly about his wartime experiences. “I flew my first mission on a B-17 as a ball turret gunner with the 8th Air Force at the age of 21,” he tells me while driving me to school one morning. “We had a ten man crew and we were all terrified.”
Size mattered when it came to selecting ball turret gunners. Airman in the bubble were hunched over almost in a fetal position, knees up to chin, machine gun controls inches away.
I was 5’ 8” – a little tall for the turret, but I accepted the assignment, which some deemed as a suicide position,” my dad points out.
On days that missions were flown, the crew was up at 2 AM preparing their aircraft, cleaning their guns, grabbing a quick breakfast, getting briefed on the impending mission. After that: three hours of circling the airfield to get in formation – an absolute necessity to protect themselves against German counter attack. The formation would be maintained on the way over, during the raid, and on the entire way home.
By the first sign of daylight, the flying fortresses were on their way. Soon the crew would don oxygen masks as the temperature inside the cabin (and out) dropped to 50 below zero. Flight suits were heated and insulated but the crew often reported icicles on their eyebrows and frostbite around their mouths.
Pilots navigated. Gunners protected, constantly twisting and turning – checking for enemy fighter aircraft. The first gunner in any position to spot an enemy plane alerted the rest of the crew via the plane’s intercom system.
But sometimes things went wrong.
We learn details as time passes. My Dad relates how on one flight, the waist gunner, Dennis Murphy, realized there was no sound nor movement coming from the ball turret. Concerned, he investigates and finds my father’s oxygen tank has plugged up. “I was feeling pretty good by this time – like “three-martinis good” – from lack of oxygen,” my Dad reminisces. “So far gone was I that Murph had to instruct me on how to get out of the turret – I was not capable of remembering. He saved my life and up until his death, I kept in regular contact with him.”
About lunchtime, the B-17’s hit their targets.
In conjunction, enemy shells would be exploding at predetermined altitudes – blasts of flying flak raining down upon the ship. Deviating from the course and getting out of formation was sure suicide because German fighter planes were always lurking in the clouds, ready to pick off a random plane.
Another time, we glean a little more. My Dad relates, “I saw one of our planes – right next to me – shot down. It lost two engines and couldn’t keep up. Veering off course, heading for Sweden, I watched as it was blown up. It was a sickening site.”
Airmen badly wounded from flak would die without immediate medical attention at that altitude due to shock. So, many were tossed out in parachutes, in the hopes that German troops would give them emergency care before shipping them off to P.O.W. Camps. Injuries from flak accounted for more loss of life among the B-17 crews than any other factor.
After dropping their bombs, the B-17’s headed back to England. To warm beds. Hot meals. Poker games. And once very 30 days, a three or four day pass to London (and the British pubs).
The Brits however weren’t totally enamored with the boys from the U.S.A. As they said, “The Yanks were overpaid, oversexed and over here.”
But if the Brits were ambivalent, the Dutch more than made up for it. In 1945, towards the end of the war, a newspaper article told of planes flying over a tulip field in Holland on their way back from a mission. In the tulips were spelled out the words, “Thank you Yanks.”
My Dad says “I saw the tulips spelling out ‘Thank You, Yanks.’ It was the best sight in the world – second only to spotting the famous White Cliffs of Dover late in the afternoon after completing yet another harrowing mission.”
Over twelve thousand B-17’s were built by Boeing. Thirty-five hundred were shot down over Europe. All but a handful have been consigned to the wrecking yard. A few are still flying today.
Two hundred, ten thousand airmen flew over Europe. Twenty-six thousand never returned.
Only three ball turret gunners received the Medal of Honor.
Nothing my father had related to us over the years prepared us for the terrifying reality of his position.
“The first in/The last out
The most exposed/The least protected
. … The silent wing warriors.”
Thanks Dad.
June 2, 2017
A Sudden Death Leap-Frogs Me Into Action
Taxi Driver Stabbed to Death at Gas Station.
Gunman Causes Chaos in Casino Then Kills Self.
Motorcyclist Killed in Township Crash.
We become immune to the vagaries of fate until it hits close to home. I’m reminded of this as we head into June and I’m attending yet another funeral of a death not expected.
No one can prepare for the unexpected or gross accidental occurrence, but the older I get I’m beginning to see the wisdom of having cemetery plots, casket choice and funeral service details in place rather than leaving to happenstance. And, I think – most importantly – it’s essential to write your own obituary (before death is imminent) to express what you want to be remembered for and how you want to be remembered.
And the obit can even be humorous, as is the following:
“Faced with the prospect of voting for either Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton, Mary Anne Noland of Richmond chose, instead, to pass into the eternal love of God.”
Her husband of nearly forty-six years says the line wasn’t meant as a parting shot at either presidential candidate. Instead, Jim Noland said “it was a joke and a way for their children to carry on her sense of humor.”
Mrs. Noland, 68, of Richmond, Va., died Sunday, May 15, 2016 after a long battle with lung cancer, her husband said. The obituary was written by one of her three sons to capture Mrs. Noland’s spirit and celebrate her essence.
Being a Type A personality that likes to be in control, I don’t want to delegate the task of writing my obituary to anyone else, but me. So last week I sat down and pondered the question, “Who is Iris?”
Not as an exercise in self-absorption, but to craft an image of myself that represents what’s both important and essential to my well-being. And to be used as a starting point of an obituary I will be writing for myself – one that hopefully will lay untouched in a bureau drawer for many years to come. But one never knows.
So, this is ME:
A lover of
Double Bubble bubble gum
Black tights
Thunderstorms
New beginnings
Enduring friendships
An audacious warrior
A wrinkled visionary
A recovering good girl
An inveterate striver
A wisdom seeker
Whose rambling house is overstuffed with too many books and too much yarn and too many dusty house plants
Whose mind is fascinated by relatively unknown stories
And whose late night eating habit is still her bitch.
