The "Keeper" Pile

No worries. I'm struggling too.

I had a vague sense of somebody behind me, even though he had not said a word. Not until I glanced over my shoulder, and realized I had been weaving, tracing erratic figure eights over the center line on the bike path. I was mortified. Sorry, I mumbled, inching back over to the right, keeping my head down.

Could he tell, I wondered, that it wasn't just my legs that were struggling to get me up the incline. There are no real hills in my neck of the woods; the anomalous upward tilt in the path had caught me by surprise, after two hours of pure flat.

I was so caught up in my daydream, I had barely even noticed my labored breathing. There are plenty of mountains in my daydreams, those "over the hill" kind of mountains that seem so daunting, the kind that take my breath away just by being there. I've always relied upon my solitary runs or bike rides or, more commonly lately, long walks for some productive deep thinking. I would compose lectures in my head, when I taught, figure out how to juggle three kids and a job and a flailing marriage. My work has changed, my children have left, and, well, the flailing marriage failed. These days, it's tough to find solutions when I can't even put my finger on the problems.

It's kind of like peering into my overstuffed closet, wanting desperately to clear it out but having no clue where to start. Someone told me, the other day, that she starts by pulling out the things she loves. It's easier, after that, to figure out what to toss. Forget about the discard pile, it's the "keeper" pile that matters. It seemed so radical. So brilliant. Focusing on the good stuff I already have is a skill I have yet to master, and my closet seems as good a place as any to do a practice run.

I'm struggling too. His smile was kind, and he was decent enough to keep the pass slow, lingering a bit in front of me so he could leave me with a shred of dignity before he left me in his dust. I pedaled furiously, determined to prove (to whom, I couldn't say) that I was doing just fine. At least my legs were.

It's one of the hazards of an afternoon ride on a summer Sunday. Norman Rockwell's America rolls by -- picnickers, leisurely paddlers in the lagoon, couples chatting away on their bikes. Life in the suburbs, built for twos, and threes, and fours, as I ponder the universe on my bicycle built for one. Forgetting, momentarily, that I actually have a bicycle, and the wherewithal to go out and ride it on a beautiful summer afternoon.

No doubt, the nice gentleman who passed me has his own struggles, as do the picnickers and the kayakers and the chattering couples. But out on a sunny afternoon, we are all the "haves," and not, by any stretch of the imagination, the "have-nots." The discard pile can wait.

Learning from Lives Well Lived

I was at a small graveside funeral the other day, for the uncle of a good friend. I had met him several times over the years, but never really knew him. I knew his story, though -- at least the pivotal piece -- which is that he spent the better part of his early childhood hiding and running from the Nazis with his older brother, my friend's father.

Nobody is anywhere near as perfect as they seem to be in their eulogies, and I'm pretty sure Uncle Freddy is no exception. Still, I tend to feel inadequate at funerals (because, of course, as with everything else, it's all about me.). I wonder who will step up at my own funeral one day, attesting to my unique brand of perfection.  If only my dogs could talk.

The man standing behind me at the graveside tapped me on the shoulder. "Do I know you?" he asked.

"I don't think so," I said, certain I had never seen this elderly gentleman with an extraordinarily long salt and pepper pony tail.

"Well I'd like to."

We all cracked up, the small gaggle of outsiders standing along the back edges of the makeshift chapel. Who knew my odds would be so much better at a cemetery than on a dating site. I thanked him for the compliment, even thought about giving him my card (if I had one). But this was about Uncle Freddy.

Uncle Freddy was, to say the least, quirky. Kind of a know-it-all, though, as his oldest friend pointed out, he had a right to be.  He was voracious about reading, voracious about discovering food and drink and other glorious mysteries of life. I enjoyed hearing about the things that shaped Uncle Freddy. About how, when he was a little boy, hiding in the mountains, his only friends were his books, which explains why he so loved to read. How, as an adult, he always preferred staying home to going out. Understandable, when his formative years were spent not knowing what a home felt like. How he never asked "why me?" when he was so plagued by illness later in life. He had never expected to live past the age of six. The next 75 years were a huge windfall.

A few hours after Freddy's funeral, I found myself on an impromptu "date" (I use the term loosely) with someone four years younger than I. After an hour, he looked at me as if he had just noticed me, and he asked me why I have such nice teeth. Do I know you? Why do you have such nice teeth? It was certainly a day for weird questions. He explained that people my age tend to have rotten teeth. I laughed. Not in the kindhearted way I laughed at the funeral, but more in the why don't I ever learn kind of way.

I thought about Uncle Freddy.  Unkempt, unconventional, largely unknown Uncle Freddy, who nevertheless made an enormous impact on the people who crossed his path. Had we spent an hour together, he would have been curious about a lot of things, least among them my un-rotted teeth. And I would have come away better just to have spent that hour.

Uncle Freddy was buried in a simple pine box, and would have preferred that there be no pomp, no ceremony, no hyperbolic praise. I'm glad nobody listened to him, and I'm glad I got to hear more of his story. Worth telling, and worth hearing.

Tragedy in Tajikistan -- A Mother's Perspective

Twenty-nine years old. Georgetown graduates. Believing with every fiber of their being that people are essentially good. Dead on the side of a mountain road, somewhere very far away. Tajikistan.

I am the mother of a twenty-nine year old Georgetown graduate. They had walked the same streets, maybe even lived in the same dorm. I have a son, who will turn twenty-eight tomorrow, who lives somewhere very far away. Not in a place that ends in "istan" -- that suffix that, well, I can't help it, automatically touches a nerve. My youngest now lives in New York. Some might think of that as a dangerous place, or even a place far away. I do not. Every day, though, I worry about all of them. I am their mother, and that's what I do.

I vaguely remember hearing the story a few days ago, about the random killing of some tourists in a place far away. ISIS had claimed responsibility. No, that's not right. That sounds too much like remorse, like holding oneself accountable for a horrible deed. They were not claiming responsibility. They were taking credit. I had heard the story and tucked it neatly away, in that safe place where I can ignore horrible stories about things that happen to other people, things that have nothing to do with me. It might very well have remained there, had I ignored the brief New York Times teaser that had popped up on my phone yesterday, something about a dream ending on a mountaintop.

The story stopped me in my tracks. The nameless and faceless victims were no longer tucked away. They were idealistic. They were in love. They had shed their creature comforts and their good jobs and were living out their world view. A world view that was populated by good hearted people and beautiful vistas and serendipitous encounters that could never happen if you spend your life in a cubicle staring at a computer screen. They probably held onto that world view until the end, even as the  band of thugs, in cars packed with guns and knives, bore down on them and mowed them down, then came out to finish the job.

Somebody's child died, brutally murdered, on the side of that dusty mountain road in a place called Tajikistan. Only a few days earlier, some local folks had brought the bikers flowers, entertained them with some music. It was enough, despite the grueling trek, the occasional unpleasant incidents along the way, to reinforce their optimistic and maybe slightly naive world view. As a mother, I'm torn. I would love to know that my own children have that kind of outlook, that people are good, that there are impossibly beautiful views that should not be missed, that it would be a shame to miss it all, or any of it. As a mother, though, I want to shackle them to their computers, move them into a house a stone's throw away from mine, somewhere close where I can know, every night before I go to bed, that they are safe. I admit it. I want them to be jaded and cynical and conventional and bored. If it means they'll be alive.

"And in the end it's not the years in your life that count; it's the life in your years." Abraham Lincoln said that, and lots of other folks have repeated it. A piece of me believes that to be true. As a mother, though, I can't quite shake the idea of the shackles.

Bananas Republic

We the people. 

I try to confine my morning anxiety attacks to the garden variety stuff, like having procrastinated on a few too many work deadlines or wondering whether I remembered to let the dog in before I fell asleep. I'm trying, really hard, while I work, to find an alternative white noise source to MSNBC.

This morning, relieved that Eli was safely curled up on the couch, I sat down with my mega mug of coffee to get right to work. All is right with the world, I suppose, when you set the bar that low.

Aargh. I was so close, except I couldn't unsee the video of some twisted version of "we the people" at a Trump rally in Florida the other day, spewing venom at the press and thrusting fingers at them and calling them liars and uttering various obscenities that had to be bleeped out to protect the "we the people" being treated to the spectacle in our living rooms. Oh, yeah, it was "our" president right there at the helm, stoking the mob. Why the bleep? Whatever they're saying, it's got the presidential stamp of approval.

So much for getting an early start this morning. My fingers wandered aimlessly on the keyboard, and I opened some new tabs, scanned a few articles about James Madison and the Bill of Rights  and separation of powers and freedom of the press and all that other nonsense those folks fought so hard for so long ago. America then and America now. I search in vain for some vestigial resemblance. The best I can come up with is odd hairdos on the men in power. And even that's gone haywire.

Mobs and revolutions are nothing new. It's how a lot of modern democracies earned their footing, toppling iron-fisted rulers who did as they please. But mobs attacking the press? The messengers? While they dance merrily around an illegitimate leader who cares about nobody but himself, cares particularly little about the obscenity spewing deplorables dancing around him and kissing his ring.

At least the folks in Congress are doing their job, protecting us from unfettered executive power. A bunch of them even called our president's behavior inappropriate. Glad they're not holding back. Deplorables. Yes, I said it again.

We the people are having an identity crisis the likes of which most of us -- certainly our founders -- could not have imagined. We are a republic gone bananas, and I don't think we can sit back and wait for God or anybody else to bless America. November is approaching, and "we the people" have a lot of work to do.

Movin' On Up....

As my youngest child prepares to move into her first "real world" apartment and pay her own rent, I am confused. Even more confused than usual.

With a strange mix of excitement, relief, and melancholy on all sides, she will be moving out of my 87 year old mother's Brooklyn apartment, my childhood digs. For a couple of months, she has walked the same streets I used to walk, stood on the same dusty subway platforms, arrived home late at night through the same deserted lobby while my mother, her grandmother, lay half awake, waiting. In the mornings, she sips coffee at the same tiny round kitchen table where my brother and I used to sit across from each other reading the backs of our favorite cereal boxes, with an occasional break to launch a gratuitous insult.

For two brief months, we have all had at least one foot firmly planted somewhere familiar, with the other testing new waters. My mother was enjoying the rare treat of seeing one of her grandchildren on a daily basis, and relearning how to walk the fine line between parenting a child and enjoying the company of a fellow adult. She was struggling to balance the joy of the closeness with the annoyance at the intrusion. My daughter, at once appreciative and put upon, endured her own juggle. I worried from afar, tempted to intervene and micromanage with advice and assurances, knowing that silence was my best option. My mother marveled, regularly, at how wonderful and responsible her youngest granddaughter is, as if it had happened suddenly, certainly in spite of my parenting.

Next weekend, we all start a new chapter. For my daughter, it will be the official launch, different from the somewhat illusory independence she enjoyed at college. For my mother, it will be a return, yet again, to the comfort of life on her own terms, the rigid and unimpeded schedule she has relied upon for so long. As relieved as she is, her space will feel empty, at least for a while. For me, I will adjust to what it feels like not be anticipating the return of a child. It is time, I think, to finally get rid of the bulky bags of tee shirts and old clothes I have stubbornly clung to as reminders of their childhoods. It is time, I think, to clear out the closets and just tuck the memories away where they don't take up so much space.

A friend told me, recently, that she and her husband cracked open a special bottle of wine to celebrate a job well done when their last child went off the payroll. Three children, well-raised, well-educated, ready to make their mark. I, too, might crack open a special bottle of wine (I hardly need an excuse), but I like to think that though my job description might change, my work is never done.

Limping Back an Awkward Truth: My Story

One evening, long ago, my husband and I hosted a party at our home for some summer associates at his law firm. I spent a good deal of time trying to figure out why one of the young women looked so familiar, until I finally had my "eureka" moment, and shared it with her. I won't go into the details, but it involved my prefacing my revelation by saying something really nasty about her doppelganger -- and being very specific about why I knew her -- only to find out that this young woman indeed had a twin, one who would have been exactly where I said she was when I knew her.

My misstep (and I'm being generous here) was horrifying enough, to me, my husband, and the smattering of others who overheard the conversation. My "walk back," which was instantaneous and seemed brilliant to me, at the time, was worse. "Oh yes, I knew her, but that's not who I was thinking about." Color drained from faces, eyes popped. One friend burst out laughing.

I felt vindicated, years later, when I found out the twin was just as bad as the one I had known, and was eventually fired. Vindicated, that is, about my assessment. As to my "walk back," I remain horrified -- even if it is kind of funny. A lot funnier, say, than treason. I have tried, since then, to to be more truthful, certainly to not assume people are that stupid. I've had some slip-ups, of course, but it's never worked out well.

There are lots of bad things to say about 45's, um, Helsinki "misstep," which I view as both unsurprising and, like all his absurdities, immune to consequences. So, too, is his "walk back." But what is truly telling about his "walk back" is his utter disdain and lack of respect for his audience which, I assume, is Republican lawmakers. And, truth be told, they have earned it.

I don't get what motivates them, other than this mystical "base" that supposedly justifies condoning repeated departures from democratic norms. For this, they are willing to accept something as absurd as the no, the person I thought looked just like you was a person other than your identical twin who happened to be someone I knew. Whether it's stupidity or abject whorishness remains to be seen. Maybe, one day, there will be a price to pay.

Whistlin' About Dixie Cups

Central Park, NYC, circa summer 2018

Our Good Humor ice cream man's name was Smitty. I remember thinking what an odd name that was, until my mom told me his last name must be Smith. Ahh. So no first name at all then, which seemed even odder. I wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.

Every summer evening, Smitty showed up, in his white pants and white shirt and white truck, to serve us our chocolate eclairs and toasted almonds and jet stars and, for the truly unimaginative -- like my brother, as I recall -- vanilla dixie cups with the little wooden spoons that didn't really look like spoons. Smitty was all but forgotten by the time he secured the big shiny lever on the tiny freezer door, tipped his white hat, and went on his way. Except for the one evening that Kenny from the sixth floor and some of the older boys on the block threw eggs from Kenny's terrace at Smitty's truck as he drove off. I could never figure out why anyone would throw eggs at anybody or, for that matter, any thing, much less Smitty and his truckload of treasures. 

Eventually, Smitty and his little white truck were replaced by a bigger truck and a driver whose name none of us bothered to learn. I have rarely thought about Smitty, or even Kenny, whom I had thought was kind of cute until I saw him throwing eggs. Older boy or not, I at least had some standards. 

In the suburban neighborhood where I raised my own kids, a lifetime and just as many miles away from my girlhood home, there was an ice cream truck, I think. Occasionally I would see parents and their small children gathering on the appointed corner at the appointed time, but it never seemed anything like those summer nights in the sixties on the quasi urban streets of Brooklyn. Our moms never came out to wait with us; they threw us little purses filled with change from the terraces -- dropping them straight down so they wouldn't land on anybody. Terraces were handy launching pads, I suppose, back in the day, both for good and for evil. 

This morning, I watched my daughter run a race in Central Park with her co-workers. The race had a retro theme -- people wore bright sweat bands and leg warmers and psychedelic sun glasses and afro wigs. It was adorable, but I fretted to think that's as retro as folks get these days. Until I saw the little Good Humor truck drive up into a clearing, with the guy in the white pants and white shirt and white hat looking exactly the way Smitty used to look. Mostly, everybody seemed to ignore the truck. I just stared (and snapped a picture). 

I thought about Smitty, about how I simply expected him to be there, every evening, even after the egg incident. Serving up sweet treats, but, more than that, an invaluable thread in the fabric of my childhood.  Thank you for your service, Smitty, wherever you are.