Dog Days

I watched today with fascination as the six dogs, all having spent the better part of ten minutes languishing in the shade and ignoring each other -- leapt up in unison to charge the fence. Two dogs from the other building -- the one with the bigger balconies and the pool, and, from what I've been told, a state of the art gym -- had entered the tiny pathway just beyond our fence, en route to their own park. 

The grass is not greener on the other side of the fence, at least if we're comparing dog parks. It's the same actually, the same synthetic turf, green even in the dead of winter, delightfully mud-free during the fickle days of spring thaw. But ours, well it stretches much farther away from the train tracks, gives us a buffer from the noise, if we prefer. We have benches and trees on our side, plenty of shade for the hot summer days we thought would never arrive. The dogs on our side of the fence have no idea how good they have it, while we humans sacrifice the more enticing people amenities in the building next door.  Still, they thrill at the sight of the other dogs on the other side of the fence, want only to be with them. 

So human. Sure that the good stuff is going on in somebody else's yard. I've spent the past four months slowly getting to know my neighborhood and its surroundings. I have explored the nearby dog parks and paths, I've biked north and south along the lake front, and I've wandered by dozens of restaurants, wondering when I'd be one of the lucky ones, sitting outside on a makeshift patio in the middle of the afternoon, stuffing myself and having an early cocktail. I've walked by those people dozens of times, thinking how charmed their lives must be. How green is their grass, as I can do no more than trudge by. 

I took the plunge today, dipped my toe into that mystical other place. I reminded myself I must belong, and I stretched my legs out into the sun while I carefully tucked my almost 60 year old face into a slice of shade. As I sipped my margarita and stuffed in the last remnants of my tacos, I thought it's not all that different, really.  Except, I suppose, that I was looking out from the table side of the sidewalk, thinking maybe I would have been better off had I kept walking. Thinking maybe I should have tried the hamburger place next door instead, with the adjoining ice cream shop. I wonder if I will ever grow wise enough to be fully impervious to the ridiculous fantasy of greener grass. 

In our dog park, we know all the dogs' names, but we humans remain cautiously anonymous. We barely recognize each other on the street, clutching purses instead of leashes, or maybe we just pretend, so as not to intrude. We are comfortable with each other on our synthetic turf, watching our dogs fall instinctively into their flirtations and friendships, unencumbered by leashes or age old insecurities. They run and they dance, or, as they did today, lay about in companionable silence, waiting for something better to come along, just on the other side of the fence. Blissfully unaware that the fantasy is no better than what they have. 

Twisted Fates

Fucking poignant.

That's how my friend described a moment this morning, as he sat gazing out at acres of natural beauty while life, as he's known it, anyway, unravels. He said it without even a hint of irony, though I suppose I could be wrong about that, since the message arrived by text. 

He's more serious these days than he used to be, back when we were in high school and we were convinced we -- and everybody around us -- were invincible. Substitute ridiculous for poignant, for starters, and that's how we were, back then. 

"Fucking poignant" has stuck with me since this morning, as I knew it would. I told him right off the bat I was stealing it. As I trudged through the realities of my day, I came back to the phrase several times. I imagined the perfect confluence of great joy and overwhelming sadness that had overcome my friend, caused him to pair up such incongruous words. 

He sent me a picture. It was dawn there, where he was, but it could have been dusk (had I not known better). The time when night and day intersect, the push and pull of light against dark. If I had to label the picture, I would have chosen "serenity." Or maybe, come to think of it, "fucking poignant." 

While I'm pilfering phrases, I'll work on the next thing he said --something about pondering the difference between fate and destiny. He's way ahead of me on that one. I've never really given it much thought, though my gut tells me if I had to choose, I'd go with destiny. At least I might have a fighting chance at shaping it. I wonder if that's what my friend was thinking, that he had arrived at this place not because of some malevolent twist of fate but because he had unwittingly prepared himself for it. This confluence of great joy and overwhelming sadness, of night and daylight, of being at once the shaper and the observer of ones own destiny. Whether you like it or not. Fucking poignant. Weirdly serene. 

Silencing Voices, in a Place Far Away

I know almost nothing about anime, except that it is colorful and vibrant and originated in Japan. I don't really get it, which is more a function of ignorance than any sort of rational assessment.

When my son was getting ready to move to Japan after he graduated from college, I had not so secretly hoped that maybe the tsunami and the nuclear disaster only a year earlier might dissuade him. I knew better, but it never hurts to dream. I comforted myself with the thought that a tsunami would never strike again in the same place. Right. And the nuclear plant glitches, well, they can certainly be fixed. I like to think. 

On a map, Japan seems so small, so fragile. Even after a half a dozen visits, I still think of it as an inch long strip of vulnerability, a heartbeat away from earth's next tectonic shift, spitting distance from Kim's missile playgrounds. I experienced an earthquake a few visits ago, and though the sensation of swaying back and forth in a high rise was disconcerting, and the deafening sound of the push alert on my phone, accompanied by what appeared to be a screaming text in Japanese, was frightening, my thoughts went immediately to my son, who was at work. He has assured me earthquakes are a daily occurrence. That was supposed to be comforting. It wasn't. 

When something bad happens in Japan, people tend to contact me, to make sure my son is okay. I suppose I'm not the only one who thinks it's small. This time, though, the disaster was close, in Kyoto, a sister to his home city of Kobe. Spitting distance for sure, or at least a short train ride away. A mass killing, 33 people killed after an arsonist destroyed Kyoto Animation. I knew my son was in Tokyo, but I texted to make sure. 

It's a studio that has produced some amazing and profound anime, he told me, including "The Silent Voice." I wondered how something that calls to my mind the "hello kitty" cartoons could be either profound or amazing, but I looked it up. The story is hardly cartoonish, and indeed sounds profound. I'm guessing the animation makes it amazing. 

I have grown accustomed to hearing about natural disasters in Japan, but this one is decidedly unnatural, at least on that inch long strip, which always strikes me as clean and orderly and crime free. Another misconception, up in smoke. 

Bid(en)ing His Time

Kamala gives good theatre. There's a reason nobody makes movies about lawyers like me, who sit by themselves writing briefs all day. 

With a carefully rehearsed and impeccably delivered surgical strike, Kamala pretty much broke the applause meter with her take down of Joe. Her voice was quivering but strong, and her eyes, though on the verge of tears, were laser focused on her target, and if the pundits are to be believed, she won the battle. But can she win the war, where the only thing Joe Biden has in common with the real enemy is his old, white, maleness? 

I thought the debate format was stupid, pitting so many relatively smart and qualified people against each other with little time available to any of them do to much to advance anybody's cause but their own? Kamala -- and many of the others -- were representing a constituency of one. And Kamala, the masterful prosecutor, was damn good. Damn good. 

Does anybody really think that Joe Biden would not be a champion of civil rights? Does anybody really think that his vote, 45 years ago, on bussing, is indicative of how he would represent us? Does anybody really think that working across the aisle with segregationists, long ago, means that Joe Biden endorsed their positions? Did anybody notice that Joe got a little shot in, drowned out by the food fight, reminding Kamala that he had been a defense attorney, not a prosecutor? I would imagine Joe is biding his time, as much as it killed him not to get drawn into the food fight. 

Bussing is complicated, by the way. I remember watching the buses arrive in my Brooklyn school yard in the sixties. I remember playing with the white kids on one end, struggling to master a single jump rope while we watched the black girls do double-dutch on the other end. Hardly an across the board cure for segregation, from my perspective. 

Experience and long records are certainly double-edged swords. But I have no reason to believe, going forward, that theatrical prosecuting and flashy stagecraft and taking full advantage of identity politics will help us to win the war. 

In the middle of the night, unable to sleep, I turned on the television to see Donald Trump "making history," crossing the demarcation line into North Korea. I suppose that is making history, in the sense that we have never had a president ring up a murderous dictator to tell him hey I'm in the neighborhood, let's take a short walk and grab a spot of tea. And pose for a few pics. Maybe just a quick hello, maybe even a hug? Talk about stagecraft. We've already lost our collective soul; have we now lost our minds? 

I hope the next debates will really be debates. Not just pronouncements about all that is obviously bad and promises that cannot be kept and strategic take downs that have nothing to do with where we are headed. 

The Hole in the Book Fair

It felt right, finally, navigating through the crowds with my dog, thumbing through books, accepting treats (for him, not me), wandering among the tents. The city life I had envisioned -- a convergence of all sorts of folks from all sorts of places, with all manner of stories to tell. The Printer's Row Book Fair. A magnet for the enlightened. 

I was drawn, at first, to the women who sat, smiling, behind modest displays of the books they had written. The woman who, in the ten years since she retired, has published a slew of crime novels, weaving in the biography of a fictional female detective with the history of places, local and far-flung. I asked her which book was her favorite; her publisher, standing next to her, told me that was like asking somebody to pick a favorite child. Touché. I lingered awhile, thinking the fact of having written a book would somehow osmote to me. I bought the one that takes place in Paris; not only would I become a great writer, but I would be doing it in a cafe, on the Rive Gauche. 

Then there was the memoir lady. Forget crime novels, forget Paris, I would be writing my memoir. Unbecoming, I'd call it, since Becoming has been taken. I lingered again. If I was going to buy this lady's book, I was going to extract as much advice out of her as I could. She worked hard at it, she told me. Read lots of memoirs. Took lots of classes. And worked even harder. Oh, and yes, she appeared to even have a story to tell. Damn. I bought her book, still banking on the osmosis idea. 

I returned in the afternoon. Though the crowd had by then doubled, I arrived, quite suddenly, at a clearing, a parting in the sea of humanity. I glanced over at the large tent in the midst of this gaping hole. There was a handful of young men within the circle of tables, which were lined with beautifully bound books. I looked up at the sign: Muslim. It didn't just say "Muslim" of course, but I can't remember the rest -- booksellers, publishers, literary group, maybe. From the looks of things, it said "terrorists." Some irrepressible force of nature had repelled the crowd, parted the sea of humanity, of the enlightened. I even hesitated before I approached the table, thinking if biblical forces were at play, a lightning bolt could be next. 

As I flipped through the pages of a Quran, a thick hardcover volume, purple, in Arabic with English translations, I caught familiar names on every page: Moses, Adam, David. One of the young men approached, explained to me what the differences were among all the editions -- the languages, the translations, the commentary. I told him I was Jewish, and he asked me if I had been "there." There. I am not an Israeli, but I knew what he meant, and I said yes, a long time ago. We talked about the Old Testament and the New Testament and where the Quran fit in, or where it was supposed to fit in. Well, mostly he talked and I listened. Still, nobody else came near the table. 

I asked him, Fawaad, from New Jersey, if it had been like this all day, this pronounced clearing. He told me they had gotten some traffic, but, when he thought more about it, he told me that yes, it's been pretty empty, but that's just how it is. There is a stigma, he told me, and he has always lived with it, and he accepts that he has to until, well, he doesn't. Just as Jews once did. I told him I had never experienced discrimination as a Jew, but why would I, having grown up in Brooklyn in the sixties. In a Jewish bubble, where nobody could have imagined the kind of hatred that would continue to bubble up from beneath the surface, well into the twenty-first century. Here, among the enlightened, my optimistic new friend had grown so accustomed to being a "them" in a sea of "us" he appeared unfazed by the knee jerk suspicion and hatred that had somehow overtaken even the jerkiest of knee jerkers who populate book fairs. 

As I finish this post, I am gathering together some cash and returning to Fawaad's table, as I had promised, to buy my Quran, with the indecipherable Arabic on one side and the English on the other and the footnoted commentary below. I will read it, the way I sometimes used to read the Bible while sitting through endless Bar and Bat Mitzvot, so many years ago. And I will understand, even less, why nobody had visited this table. 

I

Extraordinary Ordinary Women

Somebody had kicked off her shoes, leaving a small clump of dried dirt on the carpet. Not my shoes, not my house, not my dirt, but I panicked, momentarily. Ann would have died, but she had already done that. Even so, I did my best to clean it up.

When a friend's mother passes away, it stirs up all sorts of unexpected emotions -- like an irrepressible urge to clean a microscopic section of carpet. An empathic fear of losing the person who knew you before you were knowable, who taught you when you didn't realize you were being taught, who continued to shape you even when you thought -- insisted, really -- you could do just fine shaping yourself. The person who could, with a glance, make you feel safe, sure that you could do anything. The same person who could, with a glance, make you quiver with fear, certain you could never do anything right.

As friends, we see each others mothers through different lenses. Yes, we are far more familiar with the tales of well-intentioned emotional abuse than we are with the mundane daily touch, or the thousands of times she peeked into our room while we were sleeping, adjusted covers that didn't need adjusting,  or the hours of silent worry because she wanted our lives to be free of all that is not perfect. But from the outside, we are often more able to see the unseeable good stuff, see the humor in their oft repeated incomparable wisdom. My personal favorite from my own mom: The best exercise is pushing yourself away from the table. I didn't always find it as funny as my friends do, but I've certainly retained it far longer than anything I learned in school.

My friend's mother died last weekend, long after the doctors thought she would after her diagnosis. I had gotten to the point of believing she was truly superhuman, that she would never go. When I saw her recently, she was as smart and funny and deliciously sarcastic as she had always been. And meticulously turned out, though she had become painfully thin. She had made her daughters promise to not let the hairs on her chin go un-plucked, even at the end.

At the cemetery, I half expected her to start barking out instructions to the guys who were taking too long to get her settled. I'm sure she was hoping we'd all take our shoes off once we got back to her house; the ground was so muddy. To my friend, Ann, mom, has always been larger than life, a force to be reckoned with. I get it.

Back at Ann's house, I was struck by her ordinariness. The unfinished crossword puzzle on her toilet tank. The lotions and potions she had not put away before she left, thinking she'd be back. The piles of papers on her nightstand, the assorted items in her cabinets that had long expired. I zeroed in on one of the cookbooks on her shelf full of cookbooks. The Pillsbury baking cookbook. Even from across the room, there was something about it that took me back, way back -- even though my own mom never baked. I pulled it out, flipped through the yellowed pages, looked at the copyright date -- 1959. The year I was born, right around the time my friend's mother became a mother. I am claiming that book as my own, an ordinary reminder of the extraordinary Ann.

Mother's Day, from a Daughter's Eyes

When I was eight years old, I went to a little store across the street from my school (at least I think that's where it was) and I bought my mother the most beautiful house dress. It cost eight dollars. Mother's Day was a few days away.

In Brooklyn, in the sixties, moms wore house dresses when they came home. At least my mom did. Some, as I recall, also wore nylon knee highs rolled down to their ankles (why, I could not say) and hairnets. My mom was a cut above; no rolled knee highs, no hairnets, just a clip to hold the wispy front flips of her hair in place. My guess is there was enough spray to take care of that, but you can never be too careful.

Only my close friends knew the house dress version of my mom. To this day, that side of her remains a closely held secret. A half century since I bought her that Mother's Day present, the stylish woman everybody knows slips into a house dress the moment she comes home. A house dress and the clip. Mom.

The clip, I'm fairly certain, is the same one, but no house dress has ever come close to the beautiful, hot pink, wrap-around, above the knee little number with the colorful appliqué of something on the pocket and the black and white trim along the edges. I loved that house dress. So did my mom; she wore it until it was so threadbare it practically disappeared.

When I was eight, I still had no idea that mother-daughter relationships were complicated. What I did know was that even if I had purchased the ugliest house dress in the store, my mom would have worn it to death. And, as stylish and picky as she was, she would have thought it was beautiful. It was something I tended to forget over the years, when we fought, when I was sure she was my arch enemy, when I forgot she was the president of my fan club, much less even a member.

I celebrated my first Mother's Day just a few weeks after my first child was born -- I have the picture of me holding her in front of the Small Mammals House at the Lincoln Park Zoo to prove it. I remember thinking, back then, that Mother's Day was an earned holiday, eclipsing even my birthday in importance, though all I had done to earn it, so far, was endure a relatively pleasant pregnancy, an excruciating birth (immediately forgotten), and a few sleepless nights. I would never have imagined, that day, that the small girl mammal in my arms would one day snarl at me, maybe even question my devotion.

It has taken me a long time to realize that my mother, my true mother, is the one who wore that house dress until it pretty much disappeared. And, three grown kids into my stint, I realize I am always, above all else, the young woman holding on tight to the small miracle who gave me the first inkling of who I was meant to be.