Moving Sidewalks

Sidewalk sales can be, for some, a religious experience. As far as I'm concerned, the best thing about a sidewalk sale is the sidewalk itself.

I was raised in a neighborhood where it was difficult to fathom a world where Jews are a minority. Though my family's Judaism had little to do with the temple that was only a short walk away or, truth be told, a supreme being other than my mother (at least we were monotheistic), my Jewishness is unmistakable, indelible, as solid as the dense matzoh balls my grandmother made for me every Friday when I was growing up.

Even so, there have been some glitches in my belief system. Most notably, I shop retail. Always have, always will. My mother must have missed that day in Sunday School, the day they warned against paying full price. All her life, she has strayed from the sale rack, her faith in the direct correlation between discounts and diminished worth unshakable. The woman whose religious fervor renders her incapable of eating a bagel without cream cheese still cringes at the idea of a mark down. A sidewalk sale would make her skin crawl.

Though I ventured out briefly into a world where Gentiles far outnumber us, even married one of them, I have spent most of my adult life living in places where the percentages are ridiculously skewed in our favor, where we can almost forget the centuries of persecution and annihilation, where the assimilation and intermarriage that threatens the tribe with obsolescence seems only to make us stronger and more numerous.

The annual sidewalk sale here is kind of like the Days of Awe in July. It is a time for families to spill outside together in droves, to bask deeply in the sense of community, to reflect on the meaning of a beautiful summer day, particularly when it is filled with bargains. It is, as I said, for some people, a religious experience.

This year, I helped out in my friend's little shop, a bit off the main drag but close enough to attract crowds of deal hunters, particularly in the first few hours of the first morning of the sale. I cowered in my chair by the cash box, marveling at the intensity of the congregants as they recited price tags in unison and touched ancient garments with reverence. I spoke very little, silently devoted to my peculiar brand of full price Judaism and uttering an occasional joyful Hallelujah when somebody wanted to venture inside and feel closer to my God.

For me, the sidewalk sale can be spiritual and uplifting, but it has nothing to do with the shopping. (Although I did find a fabulous pair of shoes that, though discounted, was still overpriced, so I was okay with it.) In a corner of the world where nasty weather keeps us inside for much of the year, it's nice to just see people out and about, shoulders un-hunched. It's amusing to watch people wanting things that nobody has wanted all year, purchasing all sorts of ridiculous items they don't need, just because it's fun to feel as if you're getting something for nothing. It's harmless entertainment, good clean fun. Much cheaper than going to a movie.

And, no matter how few people you think you know, you realize how many people have moved in and out of your life in a relatively short period of time. I saw folks I had not seen in years, was comforted to know that I am not the only one who is no longer a young mother of small children who worship her, or at least occasionally think she knows something. The sea of humanity searching for bargains on the sidewalks of my town this weekend is filled with familiar faces, kind of like temple on the high holidays. It's nice to reconnect, catch up, reminisce. And enjoy the weather before the nanosecond that is summer around here slips away, and reflect on the miraculous beauty of an imminent autumn, which will bring newly filled racks of fresh, full priced merchandise

Sure, there are bargains, but the real joy of sidewalk sale -- well, you just can't put a price on it.

Lost in Paradise

I live in a town where I can leave my relatively new iPhone sitting in plain view on an otherwise empty table in a crowded coffee shop and, an hour and a half later when I realize it is gone, I am not worried that anybody has taken it. It did, indeed, go completely unnoticed, or, if noticed, simply ignored.

It occurred to me that this might be more about apathy than core goodness, but I prefer to believe that my town, a town with its fair share of "have-nots" despite its reputation to the contrary, is a small oasis of decency in a world gone so horribly wrong, at least in places that seem far away.

The homeless man who used to wander the streets one town over, back in the day when I lived there, seems to have landed here as well. Usually, I glimpse him from afar, through the distance and slightly grimy fog of my car window. He is bulky, as he always was, I suspect from the layers of clothing he has amassed over the years. On a rare but seasonal ninety degree day last week, I watched him lumber along slowly, wondering how he could survive under all that material in all that heat. I glanced guiltily at my spaghetti straps, and at the air conditioner dial cranked to its highest level. I thought about turning off the air, sweating in solidarity with someone less fortunate than I. I thought about it.

Once, years ago, I passed right by him on the street, close enough to brace my nostrils against the thick odor, close enough to see his smooth, babyish face. I was taken aback by his smooth skin and his soft, clear brown eyes. He seemed so young. I wondered how he ended up where he was, buried beneath layers of discarded clothing, always walking somewhere, in some broad continuous loop. I thought about bringing him a meal, maybe some fresh clothes. I thought about it.

I live in a town where the Starbucks baristas insist I take my coffee on the house when they have unexpectedly run out of my favorite blend. I appreciate their kindness, but I don't find the situation all that tragic. I toss something extra in the tip jar. I live in a town where the lady at the dry cleaners insists upon giving me a discount because the guy ahead of me was so nasty. To her. I make a mental note to visit more often, bring in all my winter sweaters. The ones I don't give to the homeless man.

When I finally made my way back to the coffee shop to collect my iPhone, the guy behind the counter handed it to me, no questions asked. It's that kind of town. A town where things can be left behind and nobody even seems to notice. Things, and people. It's not a bad place to be, I suppose, if you're going to leave something or get left behind, but it might be nice, every once in a while, if someone noticed.

Faded Photographs

The other day, my friend's daughter snapped a picture of us with her new Polaroid camera.

They say the camera doesn't lie, which we all know is a lie, but an old fashioned Polaroid only lies because it has to. We watched the photograph as it slowly came into blissfully poor focus, blurring the lines on our faces and softening the rough edges. Three cheers for antiquated technology! Had I only thought to jut my elbow out to the side the way girls do these days to make even the flabbiest arm look like a scrawny chicken wing the image would have been perfect.

Somewhere in the apartment where I grew up, there are dozens of musty albums filled with photographs that look strangely similar to this one. The thin white border tucked into tiny photo corners, the glossy finish capturing shifts in light and the shadows of turning pages, people captured together forever in an indelible moment in time. These are not pictures you scroll through, not like the infinite rows of thumbnail shots stored on our cell phones. These are not pictures you could delete with a quick tap of the thumb. Each one has value, even if it is only the cost of the small rectangle of paper. You could always rip one up, but you didn't do so lightly.

I tucked the new picture in my purse. It's way too complicated to post a tangible photo on Facebook. Oddly, we are no longer amazed when our phones, cordless but attached to us always, can double as a camera (not to mention library, credit card, flashlight, mail carrier -- I suppose "double" is a bit of an understatement). But my friend and I watched, fascinated, as the Polaroid spit out a shiny blank rectangle that gradually turned into a flatteringly fuzzy reflection of us.  The moment it appeared it looked ancient, suggesting my friend and I had known each other forever. Or at least since the seventies.

We have not, although we seem to have just missed each other on several occasions. We are the same age, but we grew up in different places. Mutual friends and acquaintances have moved through our lives at different points on our time line. We attended the same school in the same remote town in New York State, at different times. We struggle similarly with the next chapter in our lives, wondering what to do with our expensive degrees, our stiffening joints, our children, who no longer depend upon us to make their decisions. Most of the time, anyway.

I remember when I retired my once very cool Polaroid Swinger for a much cooler Kodak Instamatic. My friend probably has similar memories. My friend's daughter likely has never heard of a Kodak Instamatic, but who knows, that may be next. Let's face it, the Polaroid has too many moving parts, and here in the twenty-first century we don't like too many moving parts. We multi-task and we consolidate, we "out" the old and "in" the new. We like recycling quaint old ideas, like Polaroids and Kodak Instamatics, and bell bottoms, and -- Lord help us all -- shoulder pads, but only for a short time.

I will cherish the Polaroid snapshot in my purse. It is a reminder of a shared past and a shared present.

Putting a Fork In It

I feasted on Chicago style deep dish pizza the other night with my daughter and a few of her friends, all of them home for the summer after their first year of college. Not a big deal, just a brief interlude before what would be, for them, an evening hanging out with friends and, for me, an early bedtime.

"You've led a fascinating life," one of them remarked. I don't think I spoke of anything in my past that was any more interesting than garden variety dysfunction. I don't think it was my basic paper credentials, the stuff I've always relied on to fool prospective employers, the stuff that says as much about me as the Scarecrow's fake diploma from the Wizard says about him. I don't think it was that I grew up in an apartment on a congested urban street. They even admit to knowing some elderly people who had to grow up in apartments. I don't think it was my job, since I barely even understand what I do. I am pretty sure it was all about the pizza.

"What's better? This or New York pizza?"

My daughter jumped in with a provisional response, bought me some time while I nearly choked on a thick bite of cheese. "Not better or worse," she explained. "Just different."

I admired her poise. She's become a little defensive of Chicago pizza this year, surrounded as she is by so many New Yorkers at school. Still, she's been raised to know the truth. It's like football in the United States versus everywhere else. Not the same sport, and, dare I say, without being judgmental, not in the same league.

We all have a tendency to remain loyal to the familiar -- the familiar being the stuff that reminds us of another time, the time that formed us. Growing up, I rarely went more than a couple of days without a slice of pizza. A flimsy triangle of paper thin dough weighed down by a heavy slab of cheese glistening with orange grease that oozes off onto the floor (New York pizza is best eaten standing) when you fold the triangle in half may sound a bit unappetizing to the uninitiated, but to those of us who grew up thinking there is nothing but frontier west of the Hudson -- except New Jersey, which is kind of in a class by itself -- it's ambrosia.  We learn early how to press a finger down into the middle of the sturdy crust and fold, catching the un-foldable and scalding narrow tip on our tongue without burning the roof of our mouth.  We pretend not to notice the filth behind the counter when we sashay in on a whim to grab a slice to tide us over until the next meal.

To be fair, I have lived in Chicago for a long time now, long enough to feel some of that loyalty that comes from the familiar, the stuff that reminds me of a time that formed me. I raised my children here, I have eaten dozens of deep dish pizzas without complaint. I am not straddling the fence though. Football, futbol. Apples, oranges. Pizza, delicious Italian meal in shape of a pie. I'm okay with it all.

Almost a thousand miles away, only hours before the Chicago pizza feast, my older daughter had lunch in New York with my mother, her grandmother. They capped off lunch with a coffee by a fountain where, ages ago, that same daughter had thrown -- in the words of my mother -- the tantrum to end all tantrums. I remember it well, trying to choke down the Chinese food of my own childhood while my generally well mannered first child pitched a fit that surprisingly did not attract all sorts of child welfare workers. The story of their lunch made me yearn for that rather bland Chinese food, for the bustling streets of Manhattan where a screaming baby turns no heads, for the days when my kids were always around. For the familiar, even when it wasn't all that pretty.

Those days are few and far between. I know my mother savored that coffee with her oldest grandchild, remembering fondly that day long ago when it was hard to envision the fine, upstanding person she would become. And I savored the Chicago deep dish pizza, too, with my youngest daughter and her friends. Eating pizza with a knife and fork seems a bit sacrilegious, but it's really no different from watching football with a round ball. You just have to get past the semantics.

It's all about the pizza, which is sometimes not what I think of as pizza at all, but still very good.

Old Glory, New Glory

For years, I spent America's Independence Day on the Canadian shores of Lake Erie celebrating my Scottish mother-in-law's birthday. I had to rely upon the distant fireworks display in Cleveland to stoke my patriotism.

Distant fireworks and the inevitable red, white, and blue icing on the birthday cake made by some mysterious woman in Detroit named Vicki. Actually, my mother-in-law's unique Scottish Midwestern twang and her immigrant obsession with American dental care notwithstanding, the celebration always seemed as downright American as apple pie. Stars and stripes napkins, greasy food, whining children of all ages. It could have been Anywhere, USA, except all the stores were open and, for the locals, it was just another lazy summer day.

I liked my Canadian fourths of July mostly because I felt a part of something. Different guests joined the core group each summer, but I could not have imagined it going forward without me there. Oddly, though, like most things, it does.

Since my marriage imploded, I have been relegated to a position of, if not obscurity, at least insignificance, in the suburbs of Chicago for the July Fourth holiday. I am an onlooker once removed, observing the parade and its spectators from a safe distance, with an odd mix of amusement and envy. I am way too cynical (and averse to primary colors) to don some red, white, and blue ensemble and cheer as my twenty-first century town morphs into Mayberry. I find it difficult to work up enthusiasm as local dignitaries wave from their convertibles and local politicians and bank managers toss out seemingly endless supplies of refrigerator magnets. I feel for the high school athletes, their teams' ranks thinned out by summer camp, looking sleepy and sheepish as they ride by, relieved, no doubt, that most of their peers have not yet made it out of bed to witness their humiliation. Young parents, their arms laden with chairs, herd their children down the sidewalks. They all seem happy. They cannot imagine July Fourth going forward without them there.

The crowd on the Canadian shores of Lake Erie has changed over the years. In the small cluster of cottages where my in-laws and their friends created, long before I came on the scene, what we referred to as their Irish Riviera, folks who were barely teenagers when I met them now have offspring who are older than I was on my first visit. Another generation of children has taken the place of my children on the Canadian sand, and I can easily picture them running down the beach chasing sea gulls. 'Scuse me! Pardon me! The birds would scatter, then return, and the cycle would begin again, to everyone's delight. Except, I assume, the birds.The core blood lines are the same, but there have been births and deaths and divorces and marriages, and kids who were supposed to remain forever young have moved on to create family holiday traditions of their own.

The same can be said for the crowd in suburban Chicago. But here, and everywhere, really, things seem strangely familiar, as if nothing has changed. A new generation of young couples and their children crowded the suburban sidewalks for this year's celebration. My eyes played tricks on me; I could swear I saw old friends, looking just as they looked twenty years ago. I could see my own children's faces in the strollers, in the gaggles of pre-schoolers testing their parents' patience. I even thought I saw myself, looking strangely content.

Sometimes I feel left out when things go on without me, but sometimes it's just reassuring. Yes, I was, in some ways, on the outside looking in this year, watching a strangely anachronistic parade, catching Facebook photos of the latest generation on the Canadian side of Lake Erie. But the continuity makes me smile and gives me comfort, particularly as I, like so many others, tweak the old traditions and maybe even create some new ones.