Hopeful New Year!

My friend and his siblings chose to officially bury their mother's ashes on December 21, because it was her favorite day of the year. Well, and because the funeral home needed to clear the shelves, make way for some new urns. But mostly because it was her favorite day, although frankly I'd prefer to be doing anything but getting buried on my favorite day.

Shirley -- whom I admittedly got to know more from her children's and grandchildren's stories than I did from my few visits with her, toward the end -- was a lady who made an impression. Though she only died a little more than a month ago, an imperfect storm of illnesses had already curtailed her breathing and her thinking and her well-documented penchant for dishing out advice. Still, I am an unwitting beneficiary of her wisdom, as there seems to be no shortage of Shirley-isms for any occasion, or for any dilemma. "Here's what my mom would have done...." her son tells me, as I immediately search for a place to hide. The last thing I need is advice. The very last thing I need is advice from dead people.

At Shirley's funeral, the rabbi put aside his own notes and removed an envelope from his pocket. He had known Shirley for a long time, and was not surprised that she had written a letter, with instructions that it be read at her funeral service. To say that Shirley wrote her own eulogy would be inaccurate; that would be crass — more like something I would do, just in case my kids got it wrong. Shirley’s beautiful words said nothing about her, though they spoke volumes about who she was. It was a goodbye letter, to her friends, her family, and even the tangential folks like me who blew into her life for a brief cameo. It was a reminder, to those she left behind, of all that she loved — the people, the flowers, the rainbows. It was about a life well lived, by a woman who seemed to always know, no matter what happened, that life is a gift.

At the shiva, the Rabbi explained to us that though Shirley had just died, she was still not completely dead. Not as creepy as it sounds; he explained, quite logically, that we don't really die until there is nobody left who remembers us. For some, it will be the well-stocked bank of sayings that Shirley had at her fingertips for, well, everything. For others, it will be the ambivalent void left by the absence of her advice, suddenly wanted more than ever. For others still, it will be her generosity and her love of life and the people in it. For me, it will be my newfound love for December 21, the embodiment of the notion of a glass more than half full.

December 21 was not Shirley's birthday, or any of her kids' birthdays, or either of her wedding anniversaries. It was probably not, most of the time, a particularly sunny or warm day in the Midwest, where Shirley lived and died. Well, lived, and died for the first time. December 21 is the shortest day of the year, which, for Shirley, meant the best was yet to come. Wishing everybody a happy, healthy, and optimistic 2018!

Lessons from RFK

I was eight years old when Bobby Kennedy was killed. My mother came into my room and shook me awake with the news. Most mornings, she simply screamed my wake-up call from the kitchen. Somehow, that no longer seemed all that jarring.

Though I had not been around all that long, even I knew 1968 had been a particularly tumultuous year in a particularly tumultuous decade. To this day, I couldn't say whether I truly remember the day JFK was shot or whether it's that picture, of Jackie, dressed so much the way my own mother would dress, holding the hands of her young son and daughter, almost exact contemporaries of me and my brother. There was no such picture to go with the news of Bobby; just the rude awakening from an eight year old's dream.

In my young brain, that morning, I thought political assassinations to be the norm, and wondered why anybody in his (her?) right mind would ever risk a run. Martin Luther King had been shot only months earlier, and the nightly news was filled with images of violence and despair. In my Brooklyn Jewish enclave, Vietnam was little more than background noise;  middle class Jewish boys were safe -- they got deferments. It was the seemingly constant sacrifice of telegenic, articulate leaders that was so terrifying, struck so perilously close to home.

At eight, I was probably spared from the depths of despair, probably went off to school that day without giving Bobby Kennedy or politics or the state of the Union much thought at all. Years later, though, as the world would teeter on brinks and recover only to teeter again, I often wondered what would, or could, have been. Had Oswald missed. Had Bobby not chosen to run when he did.

Having just finished Chris Matthews' book -- Bobby Kennedy -- A Raging Spirit  -- I find myself wondering, yet again. As I turned the final pages, knowing things would not end well, I kept hoping I was wrong. In every Bobby quote, I could see a prescient warning of where we are today. In his favorite passages from favorite poets, I see ancient predictions of the sorry place we all seem so surprised to find ourselves in today. I re-read the last few chapters, looking for what we all must have missed, wishing we could wake Bobby, for just a moment, to ask him how we set ourselves back on a right -- or righteous -- path.

I despair as I realize there is no less ignorance today than there was back then, in the throes of the Civil Rights movement. We came far then, and we have certainly made strides since then, but evil is insidious. And, now, we have, at our helm, a person who knows nothing of public service and everything about self-service and self-aggrandizement and greed and abuses his power to stoke whatever hateful impulses lurk beneath the surface to catapult us back into the dark. And, ostensibly in the name of potentially swelling pocketbooks, scores of otherwise decent people are willing to look the other way. Exquisite.

I remember that wake-up call in 1968, though I am certain nobody could have imagined, on that day, what was in store. Chris Matthews ends his book with a favorite quote of Bobby's: Always do what you are afraid to do.  Touche.

Fa La La La La

This year, I finally got rid of my pink Christmas tree.

For years, I had been adamant about keeping our home treeless. We would have plenty of time for all that when we arrived at my in-laws' house in Michigan, where my father-in -law would hand me a martini and I would settle in and begin to put my stubborn (though somewhat ill-defined) Jewishness on the back burner for a few days. My participation in the rituals was nothing less than full-throated; I would hang ornaments (badly), repeatedly check my stocking for new additions, get swept up in the last minute Christmas Eve shopping spree, overwhelmed by the need to purchase all sorts of unnecessary crap.

Somebody asked me, the other day, why I get a little melancholy around Christmas. I have not been a part of the family celebration for years now -- just part of the collateral damage of divorce. At the beginning, my mail order pink tree helped me through it, allowed me to hang on to something that had never really been mine in the first place. I took comfort in the glow of the pink lights, even as the plastic branches began to list and fade. I told myself I was happy to return, after so many years, to the time-honored Jewish Christmas tradition of Chinese food and a movie. To stop celebrating a holiday that was, really, so meaningless to me.

My oldest daughter learned to crawl in a motel room in Kalamazoo one year, where we got snowed in on our way to Detroit. For a few years in a row, I seemed to acquire a new carved coyote from the Southwest store in town; I still have them. At the beginning, I would go with my in-laws to Midnight Mass, enjoy the music, choke on the incense, feel a little bit conspicuous while everyone else went up to collect a wafer and a sip of wine. In later years, I was the present-wrapper in chief, a self-appointed Mrs. Claus-stein, enjoying the satisfaction of growing the pile under the tree. Early on, my mother-in-law switched from that spiral cut honey baked ham thing to turkey and tenderloin, just for me, much to everyone else's dismay. I would drag myself out, every year, for a long run in the snow, before spending the rest of the day in sweats, stuffing my face and watching a "A Christmas Story" over and over again with my kids.

A holiday that had never been my holiday had become a part of me, and it's hard, frankly, to do without. The pink Christmas tree had served its purpose, though, and it was time to let it go. This year, I will decide, at some point, whether to participate in other celebrations or eat Chinese food or just stay home and reflect, enjoy the season quietly. The ghosts of my Christmas pasts do not haunt me; they are good ghosts, of family time well-spent.

New York Minutes

I can't even remember the last time I saw the Christmas tree in full lighted bloom at Rockefeller Center in person. Even when I used to stay on a few days after Thanksgiving, I would still be gone by the time of the ritual tree-lighting.

The ice sculptures are gone. My kids didn't believe me yesterday when I told them they had been there once, the ice sculptures. Maybe the lattice work angels and reindeer were what I had been thinking about. Maybe they just glistened more on colder days. It used to be much colder in December, if I remember correctly.

New York City is filled with a lifetime of memories for me, real or imagined. As I watched the Zamboni clear the ice in the Rockefeller Plaza rink yesterday, I recalled how my parents would take us there to go skating every year. Maybe it was only once or twice, but it's a part of my story -- the rented skates, the rubber floors, waving to my parents as they watched from above with all the tourists, under the flags. The skating part always seemed to go so fast. So fleeting.

We walked back out to the street, looked across Fifth Avenue at the holiday window display at Saks Fifth Avenue, the grand old store that bears no resemblance, in my mind, to all the glistening satellite stores that have popped up in malls over the years. I can still hear the clang of the metal elevator doors being pulled open, still see the almost invisible elevator operator sitting quietly at the controls, except to announce the arrival at a new floor. The lady with the jet black hair who knew my mother by name, and helped her outfit me in the finest designer dresses and matching socks. I remember worrying that my father was waiting for us in the car, long past the time my mother had promised we would be done. We had no cell phones, and shopping in Saks was serious business for my mother. My father could wait. He always shook his head at us when we finally appeared, but he seemed strangely content in his cloud of cigar smoke with his New York Times spread before him.

My daughter and I walked past my old elementary school in Brooklyn yesterday, on our way to the still gritty train station. I could still see myself on assembly days, in my blue pleated skirt, my crisp white blouse, still feel the thin, filmy softness of my green assembly tie. I could hear the din of my childhood companions, playing, with the black girls double-dutching off to the side, their braids flying in all directions. The ebbing and flowing of young friendships, all rose colored now since we have reconnected via social media from all corners of the globe. I remember the store where my mother had bought me a box of crayons on my first day of first grade. At least I think I do.

For a couple of days this December, I walked paths with my grown children where I had once walked, long ago. The memories are sometimes crisp, sometimes faded, and sometimes downright muddied, but always potent. Startling and predictable at the same time, like the tree at Rockefeller Center.

While We Were Sleeping

The nightmare continues.

Al Franken may have been collateral damage, but the rest of us just keep getting -- pardon the language -- fucked.  Not groped, or pinched, or distastefully riffed upon while we doze in the company of fellow USO entertainers, our most lucrative assets tucked demurely into a flak jacket  (has the photographer been fired by the way?). Fucked. 

Seriously, sorry for the language; as a woman, I should be more articulate, less offensive, downright more holy than the other 50 per cent. While I'm at it, I might as well be weaker, a perennial victim, and climb back up on that dusty old pedestal where, to quote the self-righteous general turned chief of sycophants John Kelly, women are "sacred." Lose the potty mouth, just shut up and look pretty. Too late for all of that, I'm afraid. 

I had reservations about the "Me Too" movement from the outset, worried that lines would get blurred, that true abominations would get confused with bad taste. I'm not condoning the unwanted gropes or the crass joking or the jerkiness, whether it's in the locker room or by the office Nespresso machine. I am concerned, though, that the plight of the truly abused is becoming diminished, and that, frankly, every good man (and lots of women, too) that I have ever known will now be ineligible for public office or have to live in constant fear of being fired and tarred and feathered by some ghost of past ickiness. 

When I first saw a "Women Only" train car pull up in front of me at a station somewhere in Japan, I was puzzled. My son explained to me it was public transit's answer to unwanted groping. I was amused by the concept, not to mention discouraged that my stereotype of the impossibly polite Japanese gentleman had been debunked. With the other brazen risk takers, I purposely avoided the "Women Only" car, trusting in my capacity to swat away a stray hand or stomp on an unwitting foot. Naive, maybe, but I was willing to take my chances. Frankly, I'd be fine if one of my daughters ended up on a train car with Al Franken. Not so much with Weinstein or Lauer or Moore. With 45, well that's just too offensive. 

While we willingly devour the prurient details of past indignities suddenly remembered by sometimes anonymous women, the threat of nuclear war looms, the Middle East has been further destabilized, and propaganda spewing media has fanned out, largely under the radar, to all sorts of local outlets to undermine our democracy. 

It took the travesty of last year's election to bring a lot of us out of our bubbles and face the reality of the shocking, lingering pervasiveness of racism and ethnic discrimination and misogyny and other sorts of vile hatred. It's taken the sacrifice of Al Franken to bring a lot of folks out of their knee-jerk progressive bubbles to step back and wonder what the "Me Too" end game is. 

How many wake up calls do we need? 

High Crimes and Misdemeanors

I remember thinking it was a bit odd when Billy Bush lost his reputation and career because, as I understood it, he didn't think to shove the words of a powerful and rich buffoon back into his mouth.

Collateral damage. He went quietly after he took that fateful step off the bus and literally got thrown under, while the buffoon got a pretty big promotion and continues to ride roughshod over everybody --  even the ones who have sold whatever souls they may once have had to curry his favor. Or avoid, for as long as possible, his reign of twitter terror.

In whispers, my forward thinking female friends and I share our ambivalence about the new wave of old revelations of sexual harassment. We are torn, as survivors of the pre-millennial workplace, knowing that the culture allowed certain improprieties and that, wittingly or not, some on both ends  of the gender spectrum played what sometimes appeared to be a harmless game. We are torn, as mothers now of grown women, hard working independent people who have been raised, we hope, to be unafraid. To speak truth to power, or at least to swat away a creep.

It is troubling to know just how many predators are out there, the ones who have made a career of abusing physical or financial power or some lethal combination of the two to assault bodies and destroy psyches; it is even more troubling to know just how many silent victims there are out there. It is most troubling, though, how quickly we call for heads to roll, no matter what the offense, no matter how complicit the culture might have been, while our nation's bus continues to be driven into the ground by the most shameless purveyor of high crimes and misdemeanors.

I have no idea where we need to draw lines on ancient offenses, though pedophilia and other "clear" abuses of any kind of power certainly warrant zero tolerance with no statute of limitations. I have no idea what "clear" is, but my bet is it's the kind of stuff that causes gut outrage across the board, regardless of party affiliation. If there is such a thing.

Billy Bush went quietly and has remained remarkably silent for more than a year, until he crafted a poignant op-ed piece yesterday. He was pointed without pointing fingers, and, without suggesting his own personal horror is equal to or greater than or even lesser than the plight so many women have endured in silence, his message was to look forward. He is so right.

Our collective past is filled with mistakes, not the least of which was allowing Trump to become our president. In the workplace, in the Capitol, in universities, and in every day life, we need to return to decency and figure out the rules -- for our sons and our daughters -- and not just make them up as we go along. But first, we need to fire the bus driver, before the damage is irreparable.

Down in the Weeds

I spent the better part of a balmy Sunday afternoon in December raking leaves.

Had I known, back in the day, how difficult and time consuming fall clean up could be, I might have thought twice about jumping into the perfectly formed leaf piles that occasionally dotted the curb in front of our apartment house. My belated apologies to the rakers and sweepers and blowers I unwittingly took for granted.

Raking, on an unseasonably warm and sunny December afternoon, was tiring but invigorating, mind-numbing but mystifying. Instructive, satisfying, filled with "eureka" moments about the meaning of life and the depth of my own inadequacies. (Not all about me, but significantly, at least.)

I started with the blower. It took me a few minutes to get the hang of it and avoid sending gusts of leaves onto the neighbors' lawn. I was buoyed by instant gratification, the growing mass of brown, dead, crunch on the driveway, ready to be swept and stuffed into awaiting bags. The high was short-lived though; despite vigorous blowing, I still could not see more than a few stalks of green grass poking up out of the weeds. I had barely scratched the surface; I took off my jacket and rolled up my sleeves.

The gratification was progressively less instantaneous, but far more rewarding. I dug deep with the blower, burrowing the narrow tip deep within the tangle and feeling downright gleeful as one large clump after another exploded into the air with a silent hallelujah. Free at last, free at last. The pile in the driveway grew, and the lawn began to burst with color. Neighbors on ladders stringing lights and miniature Santas notwithstanding, it was beginning to look a lot less like Christmas and a lot more like spring. The silver lining of climate change.

Having mastered the blower, I moved on with confidence to sweeping and raking and even getting down on my hands and knees to grab armfuls of muck to speed up the fruits of my labor. My need for instant -- or at least expedient -- gratification has been years in the making, and is not easily undone.

My friend laughed at me when I told her I was a bit delayed, would not be able to meet her for a little while because I was raking leaves. (She was equally appalled, once, when I confessed to shoveling my own driveway.) Weekends are for play, not work, and manual labor might be for somebody, but certainly not for a Jewish princess from Brooklyn. Maybe so, but when you like to do whatever it is you do well, there is nothing like being able to see the results right when you finish, instead of waiting and wondering (and doubting) whether you can be anything close to perfect.

Truth be told, it wasn't anything close to perfect. A start, but we ran out of lawn bags before we were even close to retrieving every dead leaf. I kept at it as long as I could -- just one more clump, one more inch of space to fill. Finally, though, I had to let it go, and, surprisingly, I was okay with that.