Angel

It was a chilly day in January. I was a new mother, trying to figure out how to work my newborn into the everyday tasks of my life. Things were great when we were home. All the gear I needed was available at my finger tips. It was packing to get out of the house that made life challenging. Did I pack the bottles? Did I have enough diapers? What if I need something I didn't bring? It was quite overwhelming at first. This day was no different. It was the six week check-up for my newborn Jacob. I was still struggling to physically feel like myself again. Don't get me wrong, I was loving motherhood. But admittedly, I was still quite emotional. I had finally come to terms with the idea I could not breast feed, and though seeing Jacob finally put on some weight, thanks to bottle nourishment, I was still harboring a bit of guilt. I knew I had somewhere to be, and if I dwelled on the little things, I would never get out the door and to the doctor on time.  Not having my husband home meant I had to get the baby and the stuff out on my own. I was already feeling rattled. But I buckled my little chicken in the car seat, and we were off.

I can't recall, but this may have been the first time we drove anywhere alone. I had to take my eyes off the baby in order to drive, and I wasn't altogether comfortable. I drove along apprehensively, much the way a new driver does. It was an awkward carefulness. Jacob was a bit fussy in the back, not an all out cry, but enough to make me a bit anxious. I was rigid and guarded, and I just wanted to blink us to the doctor. I was in the left lane, up against the median, because the doctor's office would be a left turn. Out of the blue, a car on my right swerved toward me with no notice at all. I was blocked in between the car and the median and my reflex was to pull away from the car, so I jumped the median curb and slammed on my breaks. I was up on the median with my right tires hanging out in the lane. I freaked out and started panting and Jacob must have reacted to the sudden motion of the car and my panic, and began belting out a tiny but fierce baby cry. 

I couldn't get to him, because there was no safe way for me to get out of the car, and I had to get us back and moving. I was panicked because it was the first time I hadn't thought about an asshole driver pissing me off, I was worried about the safety of my baby. And my heart was pounding out of my chest. I could barely choke back my own tears. I calmed enough to get us safely back in the lane and continue to the doctor. My hands were shaking, my baby was wailing, and I just wanted to go home. I turned on the radio softly to try and settle my nerves, and out of those speakers came the soothing sound of Sarah McLachlan. In the arms of the angel, you may find some comfort here. It didn't take but one or two bars, before Jacob and I had calmed. He stopped crying, and I stopped shaking, and together we got through our first trauma. 

I know it will sound like a generalization, but I kid you not. From that time on, whenever I put that song on the radio, my Jacob would calm and coo, and often fall asleep. It became my go-to song in the car, and with the exception of one or two times, it always worked. Sarah's Angel gave us comfort wherever we were.

Bubbie

Bubbie, I want to learn how to cook our family recipes. Can I make copies? These were my words to my Bubbie, my mom's mother, when I was finishing up college and planning to get married. I wanted to be able to cook all of our favorites.

Why don't you come over, and I'll show you. It was like a golden ticket to the best of the culinary arts schools in all the world. And it was mine. And it was free of charge.

A roundish woman in her 80's, with a beautiful, full head of silver hair, my Bubbie stood about five feet tall. Maybe. Though I had great love for both my grandmothers, my paternal grandmother died when I was 5 or 6 years old, and unfortunately my memories of her are few. Bubbie however, lived to be 92, and when we moved to Florida in 1987, she became an everyday part of my life. She was such a good cook. Not a gourmet by any means, there was nothing fancy about her cooking, just yummy homemade treats, and lots of traditional Jewish fare. Hands down, the. best. matzoh ball soup. Ever.

I remember the day I went to learn the recipes. I brought a notebook, but it did little good. There were no recipes! Everything she made was from her head, the way a true cook creates. No instructions, no measurements, just a little of this and pinch of that. And of course she always reminded me, The most important thing is to put in lots of love. That's what makes things taste so good.

She amazed me. I think back now about that day, and it could have very well been a cooking blog, or a story cookbook. I don't think I wrote a single thing down, I just watched her. Every time she did something, she told me a story or explained why she did it a certain way. She was a product of her generation, she grew up in the Great Depression. Everything got used, and nothing goes to waste. Only need an egg white? Find a use for the yolk. Or freeze it for use later. Thanksgiving Turkey picked clean? Use the carcass for a pot of turkey soup. Like so many others from the time, she remembered throwing whatever they had in a pot to make soup. She ate chicken parts that made my sister and me squirm.

And kitchen gadgets? She didn't have any. Her favorite tool was her hands. I remember as she poured eggs from one bowl into a mixture in a another bowl, she used the side of her hand to wipe out every drop. Not a rubber spatula, but the half inch-wide surface created from the tip of her pinky, down to the heel on the side of her tiny little hand. The most advanced kitchen gadget she had was an electric juicer. I ended up with it when we cleaned out her place. I still have it. It makes me smile when I use it to squeeze fresh orange juice.

I loved to watch Bubbie cook. I loved the smells in her kitchen, and my Zaza trying desperately to wait for the latest dish to be presented for tasting. She didn't even seem to mind when he grabbed something off the plate to taste before it was formally presented. He loved her cooking. We all did. We could taste the love in every bite.

Dads

"Forget AIDS,  I'll double bag it every time. I do not want to be a dad." I nodded, agreeing he was too young to have children. "Not now, not ever. I never want to be a dad." I was perplexed, and couldn't help but respond in surprise.

"Really? You don't think you'll want to have kids some day?"

"Nope. I never want to be a dad. Dads are assholes."

 And he swore, as much as he liked girls and acting like a player at only 16-years-old, he'd always use condoms because he never wanted kids. Okay then. We left it at that. My high school students, mostly boys, needed this class. But we agreed we would be open, not personal.

**

We connected on FB several years after he graduated. I taught this kid for four years. I got to know his family, and he worked for my husband on weekends. I have a book's worth of stories about him and his classmates. We were a family. I handed him his diploma when he graduated. I always had a very special place in my heart for him. I asked him how he was doing.

"I'm getting married," he told me. "And I have a kid on the way." I wasn't sure how to react. I waited for more information. "Yeah, it wasn't planned. But we're going to make a go of it. I love her, and I'm not going to leave my kid without a dad." He insisted they were happy, so I was too.

**

The other night, after several FB posts reflecting on personal growth, I started to become concerned. I had seen similar posts over several days, and I was worried. He and his wife had moved up north to be near her family. Last I heard he had a great job, a beautiful little girl, and he and his wife were doing great. But the daddy pride and family photos were replaced with words of wisdom embedded in reflective memes.

I messaged him, "Everything okay with you kiddo?" He's about 30 now, but I'll always think of him as one of my boys. And I always called him kiddo.

"It's been a rough year, but I'm getting better." I didn't even inquire further. I didn't need to. "I just got out of rehab." All of the air pushed out of my lungs. My cheeks flushed and I wanted to cry. I wanted to give him a hug.

"Well that's bad and good, right?" I was appealing to the fact he got help.

"Yeah, I got caught up in all the wrong crap, fucked a lot of stuff up." We continued with banter about the Miami Hurricanes (he's a big fan of my alma mater), and he told me he was back in Florida living with his aunt and trying to get back on his feet. In between the small talk, he dropped bits about what was happening. "I'm learning a lot about myself. There's a reason I got the way I did." It seemed positive he was doing the personal work one needs to do when dealign with addiction. He shared that he likes his sponsor. And as I wondered what happened with his wife and daughter, and where they were, he let it all out. There were lots of drugs and alcohol and partying, and he was living what he described as a shady life. And he got caught and that sent him into a downward spiral resulting in more of the same. He lost control and knew it, so he asked his mom for help and they checked him into rehab. And he seemed remorseful. "I just don't want to fuck my daughter up. I lost everything."

And we talked some more, and I offered support. He was excited his daughter was coming for a visit after the holidays. He and his wife were at least on speaking terms. I reminded him nothing is impossible, and while I made no crazy promises about what I knew nothing about, I encouraged him to believe it may be repairable. He has some work ahead of him. But I'm certain about one thing. Not all dads, not even the ones with problems of their own, are assholes. At least this one isn't.

Me, Myselfie, and I

I posted a new profile photo today. It's been a really long time since my Facebook profile pic was actually a photo of my face. To tell you the truth, someone from long ago trying to find me would have a difficult time figuring out it was me because my profile is usually a sports logo or something related to writing- like a photo of my hand holding a pen and resting on one of my journals (one of my favorites). I post a lot of stuff on FB, mostly photos of my son and my dog, writing I've done on my blog, food I've cooked. But rarely do I post a photo of myself. I can probably count on one had how many times I've taken a selfie- if I could even remember when they were. And I've been thinking about this lately. Why don't I ever post a photo of myself?

Thinking back, I think the last time I had a photo in my profile was when I graduated with my doctorate. I had to submit a photo to accompany my dissertation defense announcement. A teacher friend who does photography on the side, snapped a photo of me in the courtyard at the school where we worked. She did a great job, and I thought I looked alright, so I decided to use it as my profile pic. Can't quite remember what I had before that, but it was two and half years ago. The photo remains as my Blogger profile pic (you can check it out to the right ->) but before too long, I changed it on FB.

So why don't I use photos of myself for my Facebook profile? I hate to be cliche and obvious, but I think it's a lack of love for myself. Like so many, I generally hate the way I look in photos. It's safer to use my interests than my face. I guess I don't take selfies because I don't like looking at my own face. No matter how much I try to improve my self image, to remind myself I am a beautiful creation of G-d, I still struggle to love myself. And I got to thinking, how am I going to change this?

Recently, I started focusing on things I do like about my appearance. They're hard to come by, but I'm trying. I'm trying really hard. Kicking self-degradation is just like kicking any other bad habit, and you have to give it deliberate effort. So, I started with my hair. Hands down, the feature I am most complimented on is my hair. Naturally curly, and naturally highlighted by the sun, my hair gets a lot of attention. I've actually grown to appreciate it. I don't do much to it chemically, so it's very healthy. This would be my focus for learning to like my face.

I started by taking selfies around my room and bathroom on days I liked my hair. I tried them in different light and at different angles. I marvel at these people who get so many great angles in their cars and the bathroom. Maybe it's because I'm short (and my arms are too?) but I struggled with this. Looking up, looking down? The latter makes you look like you have a double chin. I trashed them all, and tried again another day. Same thing happened over and over again. I realized I would never like a photo of myself because I'm not happy with myself. I've put on some weight and I can see it in my face. My eyes are dark because I don't get enough sun on my face. And holy crap, I'm getting crows feet around my eyes!

And then I realized, all of that is part of me. I can get a tan. I can lose weight. The wrinkles are just part of life. I need to learn to love myself and take care of myself. If the selfie is a reminder that my face looks fuller than I want it to be, only I can do something about it. If I need a little color back in my skin, I have to get myself outside more. But hiding behind a Dolphins helmet, or a Hurricanes logo, or my writing hand, is just plain silly.

So I took another photo and I posted it. Now my profile is the real me. Ready or not, here I come.

Heartbreak: A Micro Memoir

One of my writing group buddies attended the Sanibel Island Writing Conference this month, and she shared a new form she learned about in a workshop. It's called Micro memoir, and after reading a couple of hers I couldn't resist the urge to to try it out. So, here it goes...


"Since we're going to get married," I told him. "I need to tell you something." I confessed to my fiancé, lying on a bed cuddling, that I had been with another guy while we apart in college. In his heart I think he knew it, but I needed to make sure we didn't start our marriage with a lie. I worried because there was no explosion. Just a long silence. He said he'd get over it and he still wanted to marry me. I said I was worried he'd hold it in and later hold it over my head. I was relieved because I was able to shed the weight of a secret, but I was nervous he'd never get over it. And we moved on. At least we tried to. Twenty years of marriage, a solid and faithful one, and we never spoke of it again- until a couple of weeks ago when I was reading aloud a stupid Signs You Know You're Soulmates or in a successful marriage or whatever list on Facebook. Amidst the list items about laughing at each other's jokes, enjoying each other's company in silence, blah, blah, blah, it said:

"You've never broken each other's hearts." 

I said, "That's true."

He said, "Well..." And we both knew exactly what he meant. Ouch.

Lacey

I never fancied myself a dog person. I had nothing against them, I just wasn't impressed. My parents had a dog when I was little, an oversized Yorkie whose legs were long enough that his hair didn't even sweep the floor. He was cute enough, but I remember little about him. His name was Ralphie, and my mom and dad hated when the vet or groomer put the traditional Yorkie bow in his hair to keep it out of his eyes. He was a boy for goodness sake, and boys do not wear bows. Other than that, my memories of him are unfortunate and few and far between. Dad trying to give him a bath while he shivered liked a hairless Chihuahua, and the end of days when he was constantly messing in the house and my parents were angry and stressed about it. That and the time my mom was devastated because by dad and grandpa took him to a vet on a family trip to visit my cousins in Massachusetts, because the decision had been made that at 17 years and poor health, it was time to say goodbye. That was when I was in elementary school. We never got another dog, and I was never one of those kids who begged for one. Again, I had nothing against them, but I could take them or leave them.

Eventually my parents split up and we moved to Florida, there was never a pet conversation. Two of my best pals in high school had dogs and so did my boyfriend. The experiences were mixed. It never occurred to me to ask for one of my own. My sister and I even got my mom a cat one year as a present- my horrific allergy to them didn't develop until a few years later. But, no dogs, no problem.

In the spring of 1995 when I graduated college, my husband and I got engaged and moved in together. It only took a few months before he was driving home from work and saw a box of puppies on the side of the road. Yup, just like a movie, some guy had a box of puppies and was trying to find homes for them. Pet them, say how cute!, and then leave without one? Not a chance. My soon-to-be husband brought us home a 5 week old puppy. To a rental apartment. To house train. Yay.

Don't get me wrong, I liked the puppy. She was cute as only a puppy can be, and she was a mutt of lab and something with short legs, and maybe pitt. She was fun until she started tearing up the place.  We paid quite a few penalties in pet deposits over the next couple of years. But she was my husband's dog. He was devastated when we had to give her away because she didn't take kindly to sharing her daddy with a newborn baby. Faced with a choice between Jacob or Dusty, Dusty had to go. It was unfortunate, but necessary. And truth? I never really missed her. I was too enmeshed in becoming a new mother.

Dusty did leave something behind though. Back before Jacob was born, we dog sat for a couple of months for a friend who was moving and was in between homes. We were all young, and we collectively made the stupid and irresponsible decision to allow our dogs, not spayed or neutered, to get together and have puppies. Fortunately, the puppies were so dang cute we had no trouble finding homes for all of them, and we kept one for ourselves. Our dog was blonde, and the dog she mated with was jet black. Together their puppies were all black and white splotched like cows, except one. The runt of the litter was cinnamon brown with Cleopatra black markings around her eyes. For that, we named her Cara (face in Spanish), and kept her with her mama. She adjusted a lot better to having a baby at home, so she stayed with us when Dusty had to go.

So Cara was our family dog. Jacob loved to chase her and lay around with her, and looking back, I'm grateful he grew up around a dog from an early age. He's never been afraid of dogs and he has a love of and a respect for animals. I've written on this blog before about how much we moved around in the early days of our marriage and Jacob's childhood, and Cara's future would be caught up in that chaos. We bought a house and about two years later, sold it. We decided to rent for awhile to see where jobs and things would take us next. To save money, we asked my dad, who happened to work from home, (one they owned) if he would take Cara for awhile so we didn't have to pay the enormous pet deposit required by our new leasing company. Dog lover at heart, he was happy to oblige. And that was the end of that. Dad and Cara got so attached to one another, she never moved back in with us. We got to see her every time we visited, and we all promised Jacob when we bought a house, we could get another dog.

Jacob and Lacey the year we adopted her.

It was right around his 7th birthday when Paul and I decided we were ready to think about getting a dog. We were renting his parents' house from them, so no pet deposit required. There was a fenced in backyard, and boy was Jacob ever ready. We piled in the car and explained to Jacob that we were going to the Humane Society to visit with dogs and possibly adopt one, but there were no guarantees. The experience was one I will never forget. The procedure at this particular location was for visitors to walk up and down the aisles, identify dogs they were interested in, and then meet them one at a time in a visiting room. From there people could determine if they wanted to adopt the pet.

We walked gingerly up and down the aisles. I'm not sure if we all had different images in our minds of what we were looking for, or of it was all random. One thing was for certain. We did not want a "little yappy dog." We wanted a good size dog, kind of like Cara. We selected three and notified the
attendant. We were escorted to the visiting room. I remember it like it was yesterday. Rectangular, like the size of a large walk in closet with glass windows overlooking the main hallway. Across for the door where we entered, there were two chairs, where Paul and I sat down. Jacob stood between us. The first two dogs were brought in. One I don't remember at all, the other I remember as cute to look at but nothing notable in the way of personality.

Enter dog number three. This latte colored labbish kind of mutt with white cream spots on her paws and neck, sauntered in and walked around the three of us in a circle, sniffing and wagging her tail. She had perky ears, and when her tongue hung out of her mouth it appeared she was smiling. She completed the circle and stopped right at Jacob's feet and sat. And that was all she wrote. We talked with the attendant, learned the little bit of history they had on her, and Lacey went home with us that day. We kept the name she came with, she was 2-years-old and they explained to us the only way to change her name without confusing her was to make it something that sounded similar, like Casey or Lucy. We didn't give it another thought. She was clearly a Lacey.

I could share lots of stories about how great of a pet she is- how great she is around kids, how adoringly cautious yet friendly she is around strangers, and how she likes other dogs, unless they growl at her first. I can tell you she loves popcorn and will leap in the air to catch it, and like many dogs thinks ice cubes are treats. She's a licker too. And I don't just mean a little lick if she likes you. I mean she licks her bed at night before she gets in it, licks the sweat and drool off Paul's pillows, and she loves to lick feet (especially mine)! Don't judge her, it's a dog thing. She makes a wide-mouthed growling sound when she needs to go out, and Paul has convinced himself she's saying "out."  We've taken her camping and on road trips, and even people who aren't dog people have told us how great of a dog she is. Like other dogs, she loves to cuddle and go for walks and I think her favorite is just laying out in the grass on a sunny day. She really is the greatest dog.

Lacey resting on my knee as we waited
to be called for the ultrasound test.

And it was just about one week ago, when it felt like the world stopped turning. Lacey wasn't her usually spritely self and was showing signs she was sick. After a visit to the vet with blood tests, urinalysis, and whatever else they do when they take your dog to the back, things were not looking good. She was beyond lethargic and she was not eating. We had to carry her outside to pee and upstairs to the bedroom with us at night. All signs were pointing to a problem with her kidneys, but nothing in the test results was helping the doctor nail down the cause so she sent us for an ultrasound. By this time Lacey was clearly in pain and we had a hard time fighting back tears every time we looked at her. The ultrasound showed she had blockage in one of her kidneys, a mass of sorts and it was stressing out her body. The vet prescribed medication to help fight infection and treat the pain, and we waited on a more detailed report.

She seemed to bounce back a little bit and we were hopeful the medication was taking effect. The radiology report would lead to an order for another test when they would draw fluid from her kidney to determine if the mass was cancerous. Once again that test laid her out and we started to wonder if it was the end for Lacey. There was a lot of crying and concern. She seemed so uncomfortable and so lifeless- so far from the giddy, goofy dog she'd always been. We started to prepare ourselves for the worst, still hoping we wouldn't have to say goodbye. Finally after a week, yesterday we found out it's not cancer. At least no sign of it at this point. The vet has ordered a lengthy dose of heavy antibiotics and Lacey is starting to seem a lot more like herself. We're not sure she's completely out of the woods, but for now she seems comfortable and that means we are more comfortable too.

Jacob laying with Lacey on her worst night.

She's 12-years-old. Of course as pet owners you know the time will come eventually, we just weren't prepared for it to come so soon and so suddenly. Cara passed a couple of years ago, and it was tough. But we were distanced from it because she didn't live with us anymore. My dad was absolutely wrecked, and now I know why. Lacey has become a member of our family. A part of us. I never thought we'd lose her before Jacob left our home. I suppose no matter when it happens, we won't be prepared. But I wasn't prepared for how painful it would be for me. My heart hurt watching her suffer, watching Jacob lay over her in tears that she might be leaving us. I had difficulty leaving her to go to work, putting my head down to sleep. I kept wondering if that would be it. It felt as though the world was standing still. And now, at least for the time being, the world is back in motion. In another couple of months we'll take Lacey for a follow up ultrasound to see if her kidney cleared. If it does, she's in good shape. If it doesn't, we'll have some decisions to make.

For now, we try to resume our lives. Iguess I really am a dog person. I know I'm a Lacey person. I'll cherish every moment we have with her, and just hope when her time has come that she goes the way we all hope to, peacefully.

Lacey starting to look and act a little more like herself.

Lacey checking on Paul during a road trip.

This is one of the funniest pictures.. Jacob, Max, and I were all sitting in on a counter in an archway on the day we moved out of our house in Lehigh. Jacob was holding the phone up to take a selfie of all of us and he caught Lacey in mid-air jumping on all fours- another silly thing she does!

Still

How can things keep going

when it seems my world has stood still

while I wait, hopeful but scared

I try to work, try to clear my head

only to feel cloudy and unsure

of what to do next, how to keep going

Does she know what's happening to her

is she waiting for answers like we are

desperate to know if she will recover

She lays restfully, medicated and mellow

for her day's activities haven't changed

like mine have, trudging through the mud of fear

Today, another test to get some answers

about whether her body can fight

whether the doctor can work magic

And we keep working, 

and the world keeps turning for everyone else

as mine just stands still.

A Man Makes His Mark

How will I make my mark on the world?

At one time or another, most people consider what history they will have left behind once they are no longer here. I want to be remembered for this... Or, I don't want to be remembered for that... But fifty, or a hundred years from now, what will a Google search say about me? Will Google even be the way in which I would retrieve the information I was looking for?

Last month, marked the 20th anniversary of my grandfather's death. He died at 84 years old, just four months before my wedding. Do the math, and you recognize he would have been 104 this past August. Sounds impossible. Impossible he was not alive for my wedding. Impossible he was not here for the birth and raising of my son. Impossible he's been gone for 20 years. Sometimes though, those who are no longer here reach out to you to remind you they are always in your heart. 

Call it a random moment or a strange coincidence, but last month was also the culmination of some very stressful weeks at work. For the first time in years, I was having trouble sleeping at night. I would feel exhausted and get into bed, but then I would lie there trying to squeeze my eyes closed, trying to calm myself to sleep. I tossed and turned and for some reason, I started to think of my Zaza. (Zaza was my oldest cousin's mispronunciation of the Yiddish word Zaide, meaning grandpa. It stuck and all of us called him that.) At the time I had no idea why my mind was drawn to him. But I decided that night while lying there, when I awoke in the morning I would Google him. I knew he had done some pretty cool things (stayed tuned, I'm getting to all that), so I considered it a strong possibility he'd show up in a search, even though Google wasn't even on the map when he died. I was curious to see what the search would yield. Looking back at an email from the next morning I was able to date that night. I can see it was September 16th, just two days before the anniversary of my Zaza's death. Strange coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not.

***

When I was an undergraduate student at the University of Miami, I took a seminar course in Communications Studies. I tried to look back at the course catalog and determine what the name of the course was, but I graduated twenty years ago (another strange coincidence?) and I can't remember. The capstone project for the course was to do an ethnographic study. It's funny, I have such a better understanding now of qualitative research and what an ethnography really is. As an undergraduate project, I think our professor was really focusing on interpersonal communication skills, and how much you can learn from people by listening to them tell their stories. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I would come to find great value in this type of research during my doctoral studies more than 15 years later. My research methodology was novice, but in truth, I'm not sure my professor was correct in calling it an ethnography. I think it was more like a narrative inquiry. Notwithstanding, the end result was something special.  

In the narrow view of a 21-year-old, who would have more stories to tell than an "old person?" Like most college students, I chose what I expected to be an easy road. I wanted convenience and easy access, so who better than a family member to be the subject of my study, right? Family member, senior citizen, and just down the road, I knew I would ask my Zaza. He was willing and able, and my Bubbie was thrilled at the notion of me spending multiple days with them, sitting around and visiting.   I will forever be grateful for making that decision just about a year before he would pass. The youngest grandchild of eight, I was the lucky one to get this once in a lifetime privilege of learning from the primary source, what my grandfather's place was in American history.

***

We started on a Saturday. Bubbie fixed us all something to eat, and then Zaza respectfully shooed her away so he could begin the storytelling. He sat in his La-Z-Boy, the same one he always sat in, greenish-yellow, seventies-style with the kick out foot rest. It was strategically placed in their small South Florida condo. It was on an angle so he could see my Bubbie in the kitchen to the left, and the TV on the wall unit in front of him, in their small cozy den. It was a small sony TV, even by 1990's standards. But the television was never the focal point of this home. Family was. And food. Feeling strange at first, talking to my grandfather like I was a reporter, I was awkward and unsure how to begin. We decided on the beginning, as we all know there's no better place to start.

It was magical. I had heard bits and pieces of so many stories over the years, from my mom and my aunt and uncle. But I was the youngest, so often "grown-up" talk happened when I was out of the room. Other times it happened, but I wasn't interested. On this day, I had my Zaza's undivided attention, and while he started to tell me the stories of his past, my Bubbie would interject with small details or dig out artifacts to accompany the stories.

My Zaza, Isador, was the oldest boy of four children. He, his 5 year old brother, and two older sisters were orphaned in 1923, when he was only 12-years-old. My great grandpa, Jacob, was a leather factory worker who died in a factory fire. His wife, my great grandmother, Mary, died a few months later. The story everyone told is she died of heartache, unable to go on once Jacob was killed. At just 12-years-old my grandfather became the man of the house, with two sisters and a baby brother to help support. He explained, it was decided at the temple he would have his Bar-Mitzvah a year early, to ritually symbolize this transition into adulthood. And with that my grandpa entered the adult world and never looked back. Just like his dad, he eventually found himself working in a leather factory. 

Here's where he starts making his mark. As a factory worker, young Isador became involved in the local union. Conditions for factory workers hadn't been very good, as he knew too well from the death of his father. So he chose to get involved, to speak up, and be a voice. I hadn't realized, as a Speech Communication major, how much I shared with him professionally. I was always comfortable speaking in front of groups, and perhaps my knack for public speaking came from my Zaza! Just look at him. My mom has told me how charismatic and handsome he was. People used to say he looked like actor, Robert Mitchum. And I can just imagine his young New England accent thrusting out words in defense of fair treatment for workers. I've romanticized it a bit like a good speech from JFK.

I sat in awe, listening to him tell story after story, with humble pride. Bubbie continued to fill in the stories of work with reminders of how all the ladies were after him. Sixty-two years my grandparents were married until Zaza died, and Bubbie still boasted of him as though she was a proud young bride. He became a union representative for the Fur and Leather Workers Union, held various offices in the union and eventually was elected to be the Regional Director of the International Fur and Leather Workers Union in Boston. One of my favorite stories was my Zaza's professional claim to fame. Having never completed his formal schooling due to the death of his parents, his proudest professional moment came in 1949 when he was asked to speak to students in The Amos Tuck School of Business at Dartmouth College. You should have heard him. I can still see the look in his eyes. It was like he had arrived. It was pretty amazing for a man without a degree in business to be seen as expert enough to share his experiences with the students in an Ivy League school. And of course, Bubbie had the artifacts to prove it.

This is the article that appeared in the local newspaper to
announce my Zaza's address to the senior class at Dartmouth.

The program from when Zaza spoke at Dartmouth.

Check out the eighth name from the top on the right hand page. Yup, that's my Zaza.

My grandfather's career was amazing, and I found various articles online from newspapers allover North America. From local newspapers in Peabody, Massachusetts (where he lived) and other parts of new England, out to Texas, and all the way up to Ottawa, Canada, there were tons of reports of conventions where my Zaza spoke. Spend enough time on Google, and you can also find proceedings and publications of the labor boards and court dockets with his name. He truly has been a part of labor history. But the one thing I still have not been able to uncover, is an artifact from his most shocking story.

In the 1950's, during Cold War paranoia, one of the biggest targets by anti-communist Joseph McCarthy, was union activists. So, you guessed it, Zaza was accused of being a communist and was dragged into a hearing where he had to profess his allegiance to the United States, and convince the board he was not a communist. He said it was scary the way union members, especially those in the leadership positions, were being accused. You never knew if they were just going to arrest you right there. Fortunately, there was no aftermath in the lives of my grandparents from the hearing. Whoever needed to believe him apparently did, and he was left alone. It was scary, but it didn't keep him from continuing his work until he retired. He had quite a career. I learned so much about my grandfather during that time. Firsthand, from spending time with him and listening to his stories, I learned about his past which is really a part of my family history.

***

My Zaza, the retired union leader, was also a brother, a husband, a father, a grandfather, and before he died, he was a great-grandfather too. He and my Bubbie represent to me, the epitome of lifelong love. I have so many amazing memories of my time with them. Like Zaza taking us all out for dinner on a weekend when he hit big at the race track. He loved to bet horses on Saturday. Like his whisper with the come hither finger when he was pulling a hidden candy treat out of the cabinet as though Bubbie didn't know it was in there (she always knew). Like the way he taught us how to play 10 card gin and cut peaches around the diameter and twist them in half to pull the pit out. The way he couldn't sit next to you without touching you and how he could never have enough love from his kids. As a retiree, a grandfather, he wasn't an extravagant man. He played golf a couple of times a week as long as he could, spent summers with my Bubbie up in New England until they got into their 80's, and drove the same brown Mercury sedan for as long as I can remember. He told Paul and me when we got engaged, never to buy anything we couldn't pay for in cash, and always loved and praised my Bubbie's cooking. But what I remember most, what I'll never let go of as long as I live, is what he used to say to Bubbie when all of us gathered as a family during the holidays. He'd say, "Look at this Esta (Esther with a Boston accent), we did all this."

And as proud as we all are of everything he accomplished, I think he'd say his family is the best mark he made on the world.

A 1960's photo of my Bubbie and Zaza.

Zaza with his first great grandchild,
my cousin Eric's daughter, Molly.

Celebration of one of Zaza's birthdays in the late 80's.

Me and my Zaza in at one of my cousin's wedding in the 80's.

Naturally

As my staycation draws to a close and I look back at the to-do list I created for myself, I unapologetically admit I accomplished the underside of half the items on the list. Technically I have the weekend too before I return to work, and something tells me there is some writing and a movie or two in the works. We'll see.

In the meantime, I can think of no better way to have spent my last day than with my husband. He took the day off so we could visit the Six Mile Slough Preserve together. (It's pronounced "sloo" for those who don't know.) He had never been there before, and I just knew he would love it. All the bird and preserve watching I did over the last week got me thinking, and I asked him if he'd like to take the day and go with me. He was pleased at the idea, so we packed a couple of bottles of water and a couple of apples, and off we went to the Slough!

In his words, "It was a nice relaxing way to spend part of our day." He is so at ease in nature. He's pensive, meditative. He barely talks. He's just the way a human should be when walking through a piece of nature- an observer. He serves as a role model to me, to slow down and hush up. There is so much to see and hear, and if you're too loud you miss it all.

As we strolled quietly along the boardwalk, I found myself contemplative. David Orr once wrote,

"Elemental things like flowing water, wind, trees, clouds, rain, mist, mountains, landscape, animals, and changing seasons, the night sky, and the mysteries of the life cycle gave birth to thought and language." (Orr, 1994, p. 142) 

Thought and language. Yes, I did a lot of thinking. The word natural has come to mean so many different things. I won't even try to touch the bastardization of the word when it comes to the food and drug administration. Nothing sounds more artificial than a commercial preaching the use of "all natural ingredients." But I digress. Writers have these crazy internal dialogs all the time, and yes, on most days I consider myself to be a writer.

These were my thoughts about the word natural. I have been married to my husband a few months shy of 20 years. Our relationship and the time we spend together feels natural. I never feel pressured to be, feel, or act a certain way. I feel more myself around him than anyone else in the entire world. I am in a sense, stripped down and naked in front of him at all times- even when I'm fully clothed. We walked side by side down the boardwalk at first, even held hands for about 20 seconds. Then we let go in agreement it was too hot and sticky to hold hands. The boardwalk is narrow enough for one person walking in each direction, so we often didn't even walk next to each other, and that was okay. It didn't mean we didn't want to be with each other, it didn't mean we were enjoying any less "togetherness" in our day. Nothing even needed to be said. So we strolled, watched, pointed, and  whispered. And we spent the most glorious morning walking through the slough. Here are some photos from our journey. I can't wait to get back again soon- maybe with my writing group next time!

One of the first things you encounter at the Slough is the Rock and Stroll Garden. It's an inspirational garden  adorned with personally engraved river rocks people purchase to support educational programs provided by Friends of the Six Mile Slough Preserve. My favorite was this one here to the right. I can only imagine what the donor was healing from, but I can definitely understand how someone would find healing in the solace of this beautiful, calm and peaceful place. At the far end from the archway opening, I found evidence of one of the preserves inhabitants. I'm glad no one picked it up. Nothing is supposed to be taken from the preserve, alive or dead. 

As I waited for my husband to take one last phone call before disconnecting to enter the boardwalk, I visited the large sandstone rock at the edge of the garden. It has a plaque posted that I find particularly meaningful as an educator, especially one who teaches University Colloquium at FGCU. We spent last night's class exploring and discussing the Earth Charter. I explained to my students that the Earth Charter is a global call to action. The Monday Group of the 1970's really had it going on. They certainly felt called to action when they became aware the Slough was at risk, and were inspired to help preserve it for future generations. Read more at the Six Mile Slough Preserve website.

One of the incredible phenomena in the Slough, is the clarity of the water. When you look deep under the surface, it may appear to be mucky, but it's really not. It is constantly moving with life! However, at a glance on the glass surface of the water almost anywhere in the Slough, you can see a reflection of the tall trees and the sky. It's magnificent! 

I captured a whole lot in this photo above, more than I initially intended to. First, I noticed the simple beauty of a single flower shooting up from the water. I also thought the leaves floating around it looked like green pac-man! I tried to look up what these green leaves are, but I couldn't find a name and image match. Something tells me I have a friend who knows. I may need to ask a naturalist at FGCU. The tree that looks like it's hanging down from the top of the photo is actually a reflection of the tree in the water. If you look closely at the bottom right corner, or the tip of the top left corner, you can even see the reflection of clouds from the sky. The water mirrors the beauty of the preserve all around you. Below is another spectacular image of the trees mirrored in the water. It's as if I was lying on the surface of the water in a raft on my back, looking up toward the sky at the majestic treetops and snapping a photo. I was actually standing on the boardwalk taking the photo downward at the water. The image is crystal clear. Nature at its finest, indeed. 

We continued along the boardwalk, happily gazing and stopping to look closely at the water and point out observations to one another. I snapped this great photo of Paul, insisting I need "vacation photos" for this really to be considered my vacation. He laughed and stopped for a pose. He's a good sport.

On the latter half of our walk, we encountered this interesting arch formation amongst the trees. Because the Slough is a preserve, those who tend to it do so with as little intervention as necessary. They recognize that small fires, storms and falling trees are all a natural part of the ecosystem. Unless the tress impede the boardwalk or negatively impact another living thing in the preserve, they're left alone. Sometimes the trees die and break, other times they adapt and grow in another direction. You can see examples of both throughout the preserve, but I found this one particularly interesting. It arched over a large log, and I just imagined fairytale like creatures gathering there for a wetlands wedding! Imagine two turtles tying the knot under this arch. Beside them on the log, the great Blue Heron officiating. Sounds silly I know. But I can't help where my imagination goes. I'm a writer!

As we approached the final leg of our walk, we could see we were approaching the bird watching shelter. We decided to stop there and share an apple. We hoped to see some birds, but knew it was getting a bit late. Most of the activity in the Slough happens in the earliest part of the day and toward sundown. We decided our next trip would be in the upcoming month or so as the weather cooled a bit and after the time change. Instead of coming at the beginning of the day, we would like to come about an hour or so before the boardwalk closes for the day. We hypothesize the sunset would provide a beautiful backdrop and we might possibly see more wildlife activity.

We didn't see any birds here, but out on that tree branch there were two good sized turtles sunning themselves. We sat quietly and watched as we ate our apple. Once we moved along, we saw a little more activity than we did at the start of our journey. Though I didn't get many photos because I was enjoying the experience in realtime, we did see an anyhinga spreading it's wings and drying out, we saw a line of turtles sunning along a log, we saw a catfish and several bass in one of the ponds, and low and behold, we found these. Two beautiful white Ibises, fishing for food, scratching their itchy feathers, and fluffing out their wings. All this while a couple of squirrels chased each other about in the trees. It was an absolutely beautiful day at the Six Mile Slough Preserve. Happy last day of vacation to me!

A List

There are many things I want to do this week while I'm on my "staycation." I have no timeline, no deadlines, I'm just going to take each day as it comes. If I don't accomplish everything on said list, so be it. For now, I am going to enjoy being on my own for a few days. Here is my list:

• Upload some CD's to my iTunes so I can get rid of them.
• Revise my teaching statement for college/university applications.
• Read a novel.
• Write a piece or two for my blog.
• Prepare my screened patio for spending time out there with impending cooler weather.
• Bake a fall recipe.
• Shop for a vest for my son to wear to homecoming next weekend.
• Begin to plan for Thanksgiving (my favorite holiday!)
• Prepare a kick-ass lesson plan for my college course.
• Get a massage.
• Watch a movie or two.

This morning was a perfect start to trying to live in the moment this week. I opened the blinds to the sliding glass door in the back to let in some natural light, and have a view of the beautiful preserve. I got company!

My friend Helen wrote this morning about feelings of frenzy and growing out of the habit of rushing around all the time. On a regular workday I would have thought, cool I wish I had the time to go out there and really see. Today, I opened the blinds, stepped outside on my patio, realized I wasn't really experiencing the nature from there, and stepped out off the patio into the mushy marshy, post-rain backyard and stood in awe. I let my freshly pedicured, bare feet just sink into the wet spongy earth and watched this avian convention. I stayed there and watched with the wet grass itchy around my ankles and the muddy water pooling around my feet. I stood in place listening to the sounds of nature around me, wild and alive! Eventually, one of the three left the meeting and flew off, maybe to look for food or perhaps a mate. It was an interesting gathering of three completely different birds, as though they were collaborating over some plan for the day.

And as I took it all in and returned to my computer, my eye was caught by a flash of white, swooping across the same glass door. It took me a moment to find the careful hunter, but there he was off in the rainwater pool, carefully searching for breakfast. Thank you nature, thank you G-d, for opening my vacation week with a reminder to just slow down and enjoy this beautiful life.

Disconnected

Do you ever feel like you're disconnected? 

Like your body is separate from your experiences?

Going through the motions,

Working to make things happen,

Interacting with people,

Going places,

Arriving,

Departing,

Talking,

Blinking,

Breathing.

But you're not really there.

The shell of you gives the appearance you're present.

Your canned responses,

Your predictable reactions,

They're all in action protecting you.

What's really inside is disconnected.

Your mind is elsewhere,

Your soul, your spirit, 

Longing to be somewhere else, doing something else.

Trying to care about what's going on in front of you,

But not.

They think they understand,

They try to help,

But they don't

So they can't.

It's up to you to come down from the clouds

Or out from under the rock

To find the oxygen line from the depths of the ocean

The hand reached out in front of you 

Pulling you back

To engage,

To reconnect

To live in the moment.

Balance

Balance.

Health is all about the well balanced diet and exercise.

Happiness is about finding the right balance of work and play, love and passion.

Spirituality is about balancing your connection with and to the natural world.

There are a lot of beautiful images displaying
the chakras, but I thought this one was really pretty.
Credit: www.energy-healing-info.com

We've been told as humans, we need to find the right combination- the Yin and Yang, the aligning of our chakras, the strengthening of our core. We need to be one with nature and feel connection to others and to the earth. I'm not going to lie, I believe in most of it. I'm not discounting the value of spiritual groundedness or a physically balanced body. I just don't know how to get there. It's not for a lack of trying either. I think my Yin and Yang are yanking each other around, and my chakras, well they're just all over the place!

I'm not sure how to balance out my life. It seems no matter what I try to do, even with what I think are the best intentions, I'm being flung off the see-saw.

Do what you love. If your heart is in your work, if you're passionate about it, work won't feel so much like work. Maybe that's the balance. Not sure about that. Maybe in this scenario it's just the hard work doesn't beat you down so much so it feels worth it. The balance comes from working hard but also deriving joy from your work.

Find a job where you can leave work at work when the day is over, so you can be with your family and friends doing things you love in your downtime. The balance comes from giving the people and things you love in life the time they deserve. If you don't have that in your job, cut back a little and do things to get yourself where you need to be. Eventually you'll find balance, right? If you work a little harder on one over the other, allow yourself to be off balance temporarily because in the end things will balance out. Really?

I'm beginning to think we never find or achieve balance. I think maybe the lesson, if there is one, is in the constant struggle to balance the different aspects of our lives. If we achieve balance perhaps our work as human beings is done. That would mean we had reached self-actualization. So then what?

I've always had a propensity toward symmetry. My husband likes abstract art, off center wall hangings. Not me. Give me a ruler and a calculator and I'll split the difference down to the fraction of an inch to make sure it's in the middle. We even shift the dining room table when the other isn't looking. I like it perfectly centered on the chandelier, he prefers it's closer to the wall. I like things even, or evenly distributed. The armchair psychologist in me says my need for symmetry, even distribution, or balance could be about a need for control. You see, there are so many things in life we can't control, that finding order among the simple things in front of us can make us feel in control. As a student of brain research I remember it can be as simple as the human brain's natural tendency to sort. It's how me make sense of things in our environment. But again, looking for balance.

I can't help but think back when I hear the word balance. I was a gymnast when I was a young girl, even competed to the state level one year in New York. But funny, my best event was always the balance beam. My dad could never understand how I could perform so well on a 4 inch wide piece of apparatus. Low center of gravity I suppose. I struggled to reach 5 feet in my youth, and topped out at 5'2" as a fully grown adult. Could also be attributed to my power house legs and wimpy arms (bars was always my worst event). But anyway you slice it, I suppose I have been on the quest for balance since I was just a kid.

Often called the Yin-Yang symbol in the west,
the symbol is actually called Taijitu.
http://personaltao.com/teachings/questions/what-is-yin-yang/

So why did this topic surface for me now? I guess it's because my life seems really out of balance right now. I haven't been able to acquire a full time job doing what I most want to do- teach full time at a college or university. The reason I want to do it is because it's the perfect balance of all things for me. I love the overall feel of a college campus. It's like you can hear and feel people learning. I would be able to teach coursework to student teachers, conduct research, and write (all things I'm passionate about), while having some flexibility in the way my day goes. I love the idea of not spending my whole day in one room or one building.

My response to this has been to work as an adjunct (I have been for 5 years). It allows me to do what I love and to continue building my vitae for future opportunities. The only problem is, I also work a full time job. And I have a family. I've tried to embrace the opportunity because it's the work I feel most inspired by. Though I'm often spread too thin- let's call this temporary imbalance- it's building opportunity for me to get that job I want later. Worth it, right? When I'm in class it feels like it, but when I'm at work exhausted, or losing hours of sleep prepping, it doesn't feel like it. Missing out on some of my son's swim meets, and weeknight family dinners with my husband and son, and I really have to wonder. The see-saw continues to tip in the wrong direction.

As I was writing this post, I started reading a bit about the Taijitu and Taoism. I've visited some of these concepts before, often with great interest. Today, I happened upon a page about mid-life transformation. Notice I didn't say crisis. In other cultures it's not looked upon as a crisis but rather a transformation, much the way we view puberty in our culture. The body goes through physical, chemical, and hormonal changes, and it's not "just in your head." I started working out and eating differently about 7 or 8 months ago. I've long obsessed over my work and my job- the one I'm in, the one I want in the future. I think this helps explain my feelings of imbalance.

We are each a combination of Mind, Body and Spirit, yet so many people concentrate on the Mind or Body or Spirit at the exclusion of the other parts. 


Perhaps I'm a little too focused on my mind and body, and in need of a little work on my spirit.

The Road Up Ahead

The sky grows dark
storm clouds are rolling in. 

Few are on the road 

it is safer at home.

It is difficult to see what's ahead

visibility is short. 

The rain coming down in sheets

creates a grey hazy fog.

For miles and miles all I can see is the blurred image of orange side-markers topped with lights that do little but cast a glow above the road through the rain,

Turning my attention to what is right in front of me 

I focus on the white reflectors dotting the lane lines a few yards up showing me the way.

No cars, no taillights to guide me, only my thoughts, 
my concentration on right here, right now, right in front of me.

Eventually I'll arrive 

and there will be time for what's up ahead. 
For now I'll keep my eyes on what is 
right in front of me. 

Deferred Not Denied

It wasn't exceptionally exciting. It wasn't groundbreaking. But I had a great day.

For nearly six months I have been floundering about in my own head trying to decide what to do with the rest of my life. I seemed to have it all figured out about two years ago. I finished my doctorate, I worked one more year as a public elementary school teacher, and I started to explore new career opportunities.  I continued to work as an adjunct instructor teaching one or two courses per semester, and hoped to work my way up to a full-time teaching position at a college or university. I've been an adjunct for 5 years now, and my difficulty securing a full time teaching position in higher education since I graduated soured me for awhile. I started to believe it wasn't going to be possible, that I'd never secure such a position. The result... I convinced myself it wasn't really what I wanted anymore. It's not the first time I've done this to myself; I suppose it's a high achiever's defense mechanism for not being able to reach a goal.

In the meantime, I knew if I couldn't teach college I wanted to spend my time in a smaller, more personalized school or agency. My experiences early on in my teaching career were in this type of organization and after 8 years away, I was drawn back. I chose to accept a position in a place where I am passionate about the population and the mission. That's where I am today. It hasn't been without challenges, but I work with some amazing people and have had the chance to impact the futures of some girls who really need positive forces in their lives. I committed to staying with the agency for two years, and I'm now a couple months in to year 2. I never planned one way or the other what would happen when the two year commitment was up. I figured if the mission still spoke to me, and I felt as though I was making a meaningful contribution, I would stay until this was no longer so.

But in the past couple of months, I've started to wonder if this is enough. I wasn't sure about anything; what I'm doing now what I want to do in the future. I'd go back to the goals I had as I completed my degree. In school, I chose Curriculum & Instruction over Educational Leadership for a reason. I really had no plan to become a school administrator. I've managed to stay connected with the University, and though I took spring and summer semesters off I am teaching a course again for the fall semester. It's good for keeping my vitae current, it helps financially, and I really do love teaching... still.

Today I had a meeting on campus. I spent the day there with other full time professors, adjuncts, and other staff who work in and with the department for which I am teaching this semester. It wasn't a particularly eventful day. But it was relaxing, it was about creating the best learning opportunities for students. I felt comfortable, and I remembered this was where I wanted to be. I just have to work hard and be patient. I don't expect to ever get a full time position at this university. My gut just tells me it will never happen. But it will happen somewhere, someday.

On my leisurely drive home, I got to thinking. I almost gave up my dream for the wrong reasons. I almost convinced myself my dream had changed, just because it hadn't happened yet. I thought of Langston Hughs, who said, "A dream deferred, is a dream denied." I immediately came home and looked up A Dream Deferred. I couldn't exactly remember all the words, but I knew I wanted to revisit it again, it was speaking to me already.


A Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughs

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore-
And then run?
Does it stink lie rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over-
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

I kept thinking my dream won't die. It won't be denied. But it will be deferred. As parents, the dreams of our children take precedence over our own, at least while they are still children. Right now, I have made the choice not to move, not to chase my dream of full time employment with a college or university. I know the likelihood of joining a faculty full time will greatly increase if I widen the radius of my search. The options here where I live are limited. And right now I can't leave. While the options for me are few, the opportunity for my son to participate in an exclusive program for his remaining two years of high school is worth deferring my dream. There will be a time when he can live out his dreams without the shelter of my home. Then, it will be my time. Until then, at least I know my dream is still alive.