Boxed In

My move from a suburban house back into a city apartment meant that I lost living space and many closets. It was also the end of an era, as my two children were grown and living in their own homes, and I was eager to get back to Manhattan. Not only would this eliminate my long commute for work, but I missed the city, having lived there before moving to suburbia when my children were young.

Most of the furniture in our four-bedroom house was given away, some was sold, and we moved into a much smaller, two-bedroom apartment in my old neighborhood, in Manhattan’s East Side. Many boxes were packed up for the move, and most came into the apartment to be unpacked and put to use. Others were put in a storage room in my new apartment building. They stayed there until now, thirteen years later.

My husband, Doug, had a long-term hobby of making and playing miniature war games. He recently decided to give up this hobby, and needed to vacate his studio, where he created scenarios for these games. He had rented this studio when we moved back to the city, as we no longer had the needed space, since the basement in our suburban house was the venue for his building materials for his wargaming. He sold much of the materials, but there were some things he wanted to keep, at least for a while. We don’t have extra space in our apartment, certainly not for troops and war game paraphernalia. I suggested we go through the boxes that were in the storage room so we could throw out what I expected to be mainly useless things collected over a lifetime, after all— we hadn’t missed them in the thirteen years they were in storage. We could then put my husband’s war game materials into this storage area until he chose to use these materials again, perhaps to run games in future miniature wargame conventions.

We did it. After realizing that neither my husband or I had the energy or stamina to shlep so many boxes, we enlisted the help of our son and his wife. One Sunday morning they came to move the boxes from the storage room into my apartment, and then brought the boxes from the studio to store in the storage room.  

A total of 18 boxes came from storage into my apartment foyer. There were three or four with tax materials from at least ten years ago. I threw out or shredded everything that was more than seven years old (based on a recommendation I had read for how long tax returns should be kept). From the more recent tax files I threw out things that would not be likely to be needed for an audit, like electric bills, receipts. and old car insurance policies (I’m a bit of a hoarder, so I keep all bills and receipts and store them with each year’s tax materials). Going through these materials brought back memories from all these years – of clothes I bought and the special events they represented, growing children’s needs, repairs for the house and medical visits. This took many more hours than I had planned, as I savored some memories and resurrected regrets associated with others.

After tossing and shredding tax-related materials, two boxes were gone- this was looking promising. 

Then the challenges emerged.

My husband Doug has three boxes of research articles written by him and his colleagues, all more than 20 years old, from his days as a criminologist/research scientist. He saw these as a treasure trove, with many articles published before the internet, and nowhere else to be found. I thought about getting them all scanned, but knew this would be a large undertaking. Determined to find a home for them, Doug called a criminal justice university library to see if they would be interested. They were. But in this COVID time they were not accepting any new materials. My husband said they should call him when they were ready to receive them and he would bring them over. Although this means these boxes will continue to reside in my foyer for a while, I am glad for my husband, for he is reassured that part of his legacy will be sustained. 

There were lots of family photos, including the baby books I created for my son and daughter, and thankfully they will take them. There are also lots of old photos, with my children-   school photos, holidays, summer camps- where were they all to go? I can’t throw them out. I will talk to my children about this. Meanwhile these boxes will remain. Looking through them reminds me of their youth, and mine. All fond memories. There are also photos of my parents, siblings, old friends, dogs I have cherished- some of whom have died … can’t throw them away.

Memorabilia from my children has a special place in my heart.  These include years of Mother’s Day cards and letters from sleep away camp. I even found an envelope with short curly dirty blond hair, from my son’s first haircut. He’s now 41. I showed him some of the letters and the beloved blond locks, but there was not much interest. I can’t throw that wonderful treasure box away either.

Sightseeing photos fill another box. For many years, pre- phone cameras, I took and developed many pictures when I went to interesting places for work or vacation, often in Europe. The photo development shops where I brought them provided two copies of each photo, and I kept them all, and the negatives. Many are of places I don’t remember, but they are lovely statues, churches, fields, bodies of water. I could throw out the duplicate copies, and the negatives… but that still leaves a boxful. It’s not going anywhere yet- memories of places I traveled, when travel was possible years before COVID, are important reminders of what life was once like.

And I don’t know what to do with the box full of VCR tapes – some are classic movies (like Star Wars), some are tapes of family parties, including Bar and Bat Mitzvah tapes mainly filled with scenes from the parties we had after the religious ceremonies.  All these will have to be turned into discs to be viewable. I will do that sometime. For now, they can stay in the same box with the photos.

Then there are the tchotchkes that decorated my environments- three boxes full. These are mainly travel memorabilia like little statues (I collected Mother and Child figures, Russian stacking dolls), and framed family pictures- I had many places to display such things in my house and in my office. My diplomas are in this box too.  I packed up my office things when I retired over a year ago and the books and papers I still use as a consultant are now in my apartment study, the tchotchkes went into the storage room. It’s hard to know what to do with them and other work life materials. They represent an important part of my life’s identity, and I’m not ready to part with that yet- neither the objects nor the professional identity they represent.

So of the 18 boxes, I am down to 15. Not much progress for two months. All are sitting in my foyer. Some are made of tan cardboard, about 1.5 feet square, some are white file boxes about the same size, and all are a little crushed. They sit piled two or three high, leaning against each other and the foyer wall for support. They are waiting for me to decide their fate.

Although the storage room is almost totally filled with what was in my husband’s studio, I think a few boxes can go there. But I don’t know what to save, nor what to do with the rest.

But I don’t need to decide right now, as I am not too concerned with the unsightly piles they create.  During COVID time we are not having guests at home, we only see family and friends in outside venues. Since no one is coming to our home I don’t care if it looks messy, so the boxes are safe for a while.

Also, I recently visited my daughter in her new home, a large house in Virginia. She has lots of storage space in her basement, and when I told her about the boxes she offered to store them there for me. Now there’s a thought.

Successful Aging

I have always been achievement oriented. As a child I worked hard to get good grades. As an adult I tried to be successful in the many roles I had – student, parent, wife, research scientist, friend, and others.  Perhaps that’s why when I heard about the concept of “Successful Aging” it appealed to me. Now that I am fully along in the aging category, I certainly want to make a success of it.

But what is success in aging? It seems to me that it’s one of the few things that you shouldn’t have to work hard at to be a success… just keep living. No need to cram late at night like I did for school grades, or write research proposals like I did to be a successful research scientist, or make sure my children had their homework done as I needed to do as a parent. I just need to wake up in the morning, and know that if I make it through the day, I had another day of successfully aging.  

But wait—there has been a lot written about successful aging, so there must be more to it than that. Maybe I can learn something to help me be even more successful. Looking through some of the writings on this topic, I found a book on Successful Aging by Rowe and Kahn, and three components were described:

(1) absence of disease and disability— I agree with that. So far I am successful in this component, although  doctors’ visits and medical tests seems to be taking more of my time. But I can keep that up.

(2) high cognitive and physical functioning—“High” is relative, but I do a lot of reading, some writing (like this blog), and can discuss the terrible state of the country with knowledge of the latest outrageous headlines. In terms of physical functioning, I exercise almost every day (ok, maybe 3-4 days/week), and go for long walks several days each week (ok, once or twice).

So far, I’m a big success. That wasn’t hard.

(3) active engagement in life—I think this is a big one, and for me it is my main source of pleasure. In this time of COVID this has been challenging and changing. Visiting family and friends has been replaced by Zoom or Facetime calls. Trips to explore other countries or parts of the US have been reduced to local bus travel to shop for necessities. Enjoying the theater, museums and other entertainment in NYC has turned into Netflix, TV, and on-line shows. 

Does this mean I am a failure in this component of successful aging? No! I have redefined engagement in life as something I can do from my desk chair. That will have to do for now, and hopefully not for too much longer. So I declare I am being successful in this last item too.

But wait—success should also be sustainable. What will happen as I continue to age? I am likely to have diseases or disabilities of aging (and maybe get some that have little to do with aging). My cognitive and physical functioning may decline, as may my engagement in life, especially since it is somewhat dependent on my health and functioning.

Also, since people close to me who I love are getting older too, if they need my assistance I want to help take care of them. This no doubt will reduce the time I can spend on some of those activities that have made me successful in aging so far.

But maybe providing this care for aging others who I care about can also be part of successful aging. Also, while my activities are likely to change over time, for example trips to other countries may have to be taken virtually, I can still find many that are meaningful to me. But I think I will also hold on to my initial idea—that simply being here, every day, and looking forward to a new day doing things I enjoy, will mean that I am mastering successful aging.

BRIDGES

NYC had been closed for more than three months due to COVID, and I was feeling confined. Living near the East River, I noticed that the commuter ferries were still running, although they seemed empty most of the time. I decided that a ferry ride would give me a long-missed sense of freedom and being outdoors, and would likely be a safe activity. I know some New Yorkers who fear leaving their homes during this COVID time, but I had no concerns about making this outing. With a mask and gloves, I have gone for walks and shopped in supermarkets, and I was ready for a new phase in my own opening. And although some of my friends consider me brave (foolish?) for my activities outside of my apartment, I was ready for a new venture.  Years ago, when I was in therapy, my psychologist said I was “counterphobic.”  I liked that, since it helped me understand that doing things I was afraid of, either in social or work situations, actually helped me manage the fears. I think this leads me to take on activities during COVID time that others might consider brave, even if I take appropriate precautions.

 I invited Ellen, a friend and neighbor, to join me on the ferry going from East 34th Street to Wall Street.  It was mid-day on a friday, with New York City still in Phase I of reopening, and I was surprised to see so many people on the ferry. I had no concerns, as all were masked and socially distanced. Some of the passengers had beach clothes on and were carrying blankets, so I assumed they would be taking another ferry at Wall Street that went to Rockaway Beach. It felt good knowing that despite the COVID sadness and limitations hanging over the City, some folks were out to enjoy this lovely summer-like day. This raised my own expectations for having a good time.

I was glad to make this trip with Ellen. Although she and I lived in the same apartment complex for many years (she was there before I got there about 13 years ago), we had only recently become friends. After retiring from a busy career about one year ago, I wanted to make some new friends, especially some who shared my interests, including exploring NYC. I consider myself a bit shy, and felt awkward about how to make new friends at this time in my life. I decided I would seek out opportunities. I met Ellen at a meeting of a senior network in my apartment complex, and her comments about the city indicated that she loved it too. Tall, thin, and energetic, she had retired from her career in advertising several years ago. It seemed strange, in my 70s, to be developing a new friend, but I believed the relationship would grow. We previously took a walk together over the Manhattan Bridge, and talked about other places we wanted to visit. She was glad to join me on the ferry ride (perhaps she is counterphobic too).

Ellen and I both wanted to sit on the ferry’s top deck—to get the best view and feel the breeze. As we left the dock, I was excited to have this adventure together. Heading south to Wall Street, I especially loved going under the three bridges connecting Brooklyn and Manhattan. They were strong and majestic, as always, waiting for city traffic to start up again. 

These bridges were built around the turn of the 19th century- the Brooklyn Bridge opened in 1883, the Williamsburg Bridge in 1903 and the Manhattan Bridge in 1909,  and they led to the subsequent growth of the borough of Brooklyn. They have a special meaning for me as I was born and lived in Brooklyn until I was 23. While growing up, I was eager to go into “the City,” as Manhattan was called, and when I see the bridges they represent my growth into adulthood. It was in Manhattan where my career developed, I met my husband, and my children were born. They still represent successfully crossing barriers into a fuller life.

We got off the ferry at Wall Street and as we walked inland toward the huge granite office buildings something felt odd— there were very few people. Rather than a midweek lunchtime it felt more like a deserted Sunday morning. Realizing that many people were still working from home, and others were temporarily out of work, I hoped that this emptiness would not last long. The energy and stimulation I love and always feel walking in the City was not there. I wanted the crowds back.

We walked past One Financial Square, a large office building, and I noticed some larger-than-life bronze statues of women in the archways that form the street level of the building. I pointed the statues out to Ellen, and we were both surprised and delighted to see statues of powerful women and read about them on the nearby plaques. There were ten in all, and we eagerly moved from one to the other. I knew some of them, like Jane Goodall- primatologist and Oprah Winfrey-entertainer, and others I didn’t, like Tracy Caldwell Dyson- astronaut and Janet Mock-writer.

It was especially wonderful to see them in what is the location of male-dominated industries. Recent reports on the status of women on Wall Street found that women account for less than 17 percent of senior leaders in US investment banking and 18 percent of total employees in private equity.

I later learned that the statues were part of a “Statues for Equality” exhibit by the sculptors known as Gillie and Marc, and were developed to counter the gender inequality in statues. Only 3% of NYC statues were of women. Gillie and Marc Shattner are an Australian couple known for their public sculptures and activism. After display in lower Manhattan these statues would be placed in permanent locations around the country. I left the statues feeling that progress for women was underway, and could be found even in this time of COVID and of a “pause” for so many parts of our lives.

We continued walking, looking for a place for lunch, and found a small shop open on the street level of one of the huge skyscrapers.  It seemed to be a shop from another time and place. What an unusual array of items— big glass jars with candy, boxes of teabags, a tall cooler with drinks, a tray of muffins, and a cash register that appeared to be from the 1950s. This all seemed out of place in the modern glass building surrounding the shop.

The elderly, short, hunched- over proprietor was masked. Dark-haired and swarthy, he reminded me of an Italian “old world” shoemaker I knew from my neighborhood in Brooklyn when I was growing up. Not seeing any lunch food, we asked where we could buy a sandwich nearby. He told us that nothing was open since there were no workers there, but that he could make either ham and cheese or tuna sandwiches. Not much choice there but we were hungry, and as he was masked and gloved, we felt comfortable having him make our sandwiches. He took the ingredients from a refrigerated drink case, painstakingly made the sandwiches, and carefully cut and wrapped them. We selected chips and drinks and the total came to $18. As he had no credit card machine, I gave him a $20 bill and said keep the change. He didn’t hear me, and began taking out two singles from the register. I repeated – that’s ok, keep the change. His eyes looked up, surprised and pleased, as he warmly said God bless you. Because of the mask, I couldn’t see whether he had a smile on his face… I’m sure he did. We may have been his only customers that day Ellen said as we walked away, and we were pleased that we provided him with some income.

We found a nearby bench to have our lunch, and I felt that although this vibrant part of the city was virtually empty today, its life would return. Those bridges were waiting to bring people back to lower Manhattan, the powerful bronze women were keeping watch over the empty streets and held the promise of progress in reaching gender equality where little had been found before, and the deli man optimistically tended the store with few customers for now. I felt confident that they would all be there when the city opened up again.

The ferry ride back up to 34th St had many fewer people on board, and we again enjoyed the sun and the views. As we walked home Ellen and I began talking about our next venture and settled on another bridge walk, over the Ed Koch Bridge at 59th Street. It seemed this would be just the right thing to do—representing new crossings and hopes, and new phases for the city and our friendship.

More or Less

As I get older, I experience changes in my body that all come down to More or Less

MORE

Growths

I used to be proud of my skin. Somewhat dark-complexioned, as a teenager I loved lying in the sun during the summer and getting tanned. I had a few dark moles on my body that my mother called beauty marks. I never minded them. Anything I had called beauty was fine with me. Forward about 50 years, my body started having many add-ons, some even look like what used to be called beauty marks. But according to my husband, they are called tags. TAGS!- like something found on an object in a yard sale and sold “as is.” I seem to have reached a new stage of fertility.

Extra Skin

I was never overweight… OK, maybe a little. But still, where did all that extra skin on my arms and thighs and face come from? I never could have filled in all that space. And who would have thought that gravity, an abstract concept, would play such a significant role in how I look.

Weight

Talking about weight, who ever said what goes up must come down? Weight loss plans work for my husband, but not for me. Between Ups and Downs, Ups are far ahead.

Comfortable Clothes

While all these changes are taking place, I have also found that comfort in clothes is more important to me. So no more high heels (except for very special occasions), and no need for tight-fitting clothes or short skirts that keep me from crossing my legs when sitting down. And I have come to appreciate elasticized waistlines, especially in this COVID time.

LESS

Hair

I always had thick, dark curly hair, typical of my eastern European Jewish heritage. It was so curly that as a pre-teen I had what was called a “poodle” cut, and in my 20s, in line with the fashion, it became an Afro. As I grow older my hair is thinning. My kindly hairdresser tells me that it was too bushy before, so now it is an improvement, but I know better. Sometimes less is not more.

Energy

I used to have three young children at home, a full-time job, and a long commute to work. Life was busy, but I had the energy for it all. Now retired, living in New York City, and with just my husband at home, I anticipated that my energy would be used for extensive day-long explorations of the city. It hasn’t turned out that way. Pre-COVID, when the City was open, I found I had less energy than I expected, and mid-day naps were sometimes needed. I expect that I will again find this post-COVID.

Acuity of senses

Vision and hearing have been declining for several years. Thankfully, unlike the energy loss, there are tools to help restore them – like glasses, hearing aids, cataract surgery, etc. Perhaps the results will make these senses better than ever, and I can move this item from the Less to the More category.

Multi-tasking

I remember days when I would push my body to exhaustion- there’s much less of that now. With children and a job, there were numerous activities to be done outside of work, sometimes two or more simultaneously, like walking the dog, helping children with homework, preparing a paper or presentation needed for work, making meals, shopping, and many more. No more- I can often plan a more leisurely day, including scheduling time for relaxing. 

So, if you ask me how I am managing the aging process I would say overall it’s not bad. Most days I feel pretty good – More or Less.

Under New Management

My views about my health care management started changing a few years ago. Until then, whenever I had a health problem, I felt confident that with enough rest, or medication, or even surgery, the condition would be cured, and I would return to my usual worry-free health status.

That’s not true anymore.

It started a few years ago when I went to a doctor about the pain in my right arm and shoulder. After examinations and x-rays, confirmed by a second opinion, I learned I have a torn rotator cuff that could not be repaired. As other muscles had come into play to compensate for this tear, I was advised to simply avoid heavy lifting and activities that caused pain. Although briefly sad that I was permanently  “damaged,” I was gratified by my body’s ability to adapt, and have readily followed this advice.

That was my first clue that with aging came bodily changes that might not be fixable. But I could adjust to these changes if I incorporated new management strategies.

This new view of my health status was reaffirmed when I went to physical therapy for lower back pain.   After a few sessions I asked the therapist how many more sessions were needed, and how long I would need to continue the exercises she had taught me. She responded that: The problem doesn’t really go away, you just learn to manage it. The exercise regimen would need to be incorporated into my life from then on.  As I was working with a trainer already, I integrated these exercises with my existing routine, and also do them in-between sessions.

Then I had a problem with foot pain. This led me to a podiatrist, who diagnosed plantar fascia. Injections helped the pain disappear, but he also fitted me with orthotics – inserts to put in my shoes to prevent a recurrence. And I would need to wear them from then on. They don’t fit into most of my shoes, but when they do, I wear them. So far, no pain recurrence.

So I am taking care of myself. I won’t lift heavy items so that I can avoid further shoulder problems, I will keep doing exercises to strengthen my back, and I will wear my shoe inserts when possible. So far, all these efforts have been successful. I anticipate that more adjustments and adaptations will be needed as time goes on, and I will welcome them when they provide relief from pain or keep my “equipment” in working order. It is clear that “Under New Management” has become a new way of life for me.

Vestigial? Maybe Not.

vestigial, adjective- retention of structures or behaviors that are no longer useful. Most often applied to biological structures such as an appendix.

During this time of COVID-19 I am doing some things that appear to be vestigial:

Zoom call preparation

  • I put on perfume before a Zoom call.

This helps me feel I am ready for the call, and I do it for personal or business-related calls. I used to think of perfume as something I wore for others… I guess not.

Attention to weather reports

  • I listen to the weather forecast every evening, sometimes checking it on my iPhone.

Pre COVID lock-down, I did this to know how to dress the next day. But most mornings now I don’t leave the house. Maybe I do it to remind me that there’s an outside world.

Carrying useless items

  • I carry my purse when I go for a walk. I always liked organizing the multiple compartments, and they include credit cards, discount coupons and a metro card.

None of these items are useful now but I take comfort in having them with me.

Keeping things neat at home

  • I make my bed every morning, keep my mail and magazines organized into neat piles, and put away all groceries (even non-perishables) as soon as I get them home.

Since I am having no visitors, I don’t have to do these things. I guess keeping my things neat and organized isn’t just for others to see.

Wearing makeup

  • I put makeup on every day, even when I am not planning on leaving the house.

After wearing makeup my entire adult life, I can’t go without it. I even refresh my lipstick before I leave the house. I realize this is of no use as I put on my facemask, and that it will just result in lipstick smears on the inside of the mask. But I can’t give that up either.

Smiling

  • When walking in my neighborhood, I still automatically smile to acknowledge someone I know. I quickly remember that they can’t see it through my face mask, and I wave instead.

I hope smiling doesn’t become vestigial. But in the meantime, I am working on developing more expressive eyebrows.

What’s to be done with these vestigial behaviors? I will keep doing them because they make me feel good (like the perfume) or they will be useful again (like my stuffed purse).

And perhaps they all do have some utility now- they keep me tethered to a past that I hope will soon be restored.

Almost Never On Time

Being “on time” is usually considered desirable, but that’s often not possible.

When I was a child, my family celebrated Hanukkah. The holiday always came around Christmas Day, but it fell on a different date each year, in accord with the Hebrew calendar. And each year my parents would say Hanukkah was either early or late. I don’t remember it ever being “on time.”

I graduated college a month before I turned 19 – that was early. I got married a month before I turned 34 – that was considered late.

Being born in July means your birthday happens about a month after many important events, like June graduations and weddings. It also means that when you are young your school friends usually aren’t around in July to come to a birthday party, so you need to have your birthday celebration in June or September… early or late.

I had two children, my son was born when I was 35 and my daughter just a few days before I turned 38. For both children, I was told that I was having them a little late in life. But since then times have changed, and having children in one’s 30s is no longer considered “late.” By the way, in terms of their due dates, my son was born just on time, but my daughter – she came early.

I had a long and productive research career, generally getting my projects done early. I recently retired, in my early 70s – which many considered late. Since retiring I have learned of people working into their 80s- so maybe I wasn’t late for that either.

All these activities in my life were completed and successful, and being early or late didn’t matter much. But there are judgments attached to these words.

Being an early riser or an early bird is generally commendable- but not if it’s because you can’t sleep. Being a late bloomer is often seen in a positive way- but maybe not if you missed out on some opportunities.

There are also some times when the words early or late are not greeted happily. Many women know the fear that can be experienced when they think their period is late. No one wants a medical diagnosis that starts with the phrase “early onset” or “late stage.” And no one wants to be known as “the late Mr or Ms… .”

So what does this all mean? Maybe just that being early or late doesn’t matter much by itself, it all depends on the circumstances. But remember, just in case, if you have things you want to do you better get started. It’s probably later than you think.

Bubba’s Legacy

Her smell always comforted me. It reminded me of warm, soft, freshly cleaned blankets. When I was seven and eight years old I would get into bed with her if I had had a difficult day or felt sad. She never asked me why, but she always had open arms. Only five feet tall, with long gray hair, she was my comforter and protector through most of my childhood. It seems fitting to write about her as we near Mother’s Day.

She wore her hair combed back and wound into a bun, held secure with long gray hairpins. Sometimes she let me make two braids that I pinned to the top of her head. She never seemed to mind when I fixed her hair that way, but always took out the braids and returned her hair to its usual style before leaving her bedroom.

Bubba, the word for grandmother in Yiddish, was my maternal grandmother, and lived with my family from the time she came to the US from Poland in the 1920s, when she was in her early 50s, until she entered a nursing home in her final year of life, about thirty years later. She was born in Krasneshiltz, Poland, a two-day buggy ride from Warsaw. As a child, hearing her stories, I often wondered if almost every place in Poland was a two-day buggy-ride from Warsaw.

Bubba had nine children and was widowed at thirty-nine when her husband died suddenly. She came to New York to live with my mother and our family after all her children had left home. My mother asked her to come to take care of her newborn, my older sister.

I was the youngest of three children and we lived above my father’s dry goods store in Williamsburg Brooklyn. Bubba never learned to speak English, so Yiddish was the language at home, but she did have an American-sounding given name: Dora (Devorah in Hebrew).

She helped my mother with childcare and housekeeping activities, as my parents often worked in the store together. I remember her cabbage soup and stuffed cabbage, but I never recorded those recipes. I do still make her noodle pudding, and before I entered the recipe into my computer, I kept it in my calendar book under “assets.”

Bubba enjoyed watching television in the evening and believed that because she could see the people on TV, they saw us too. She became very upset if I started to undress to change into my pajamas while watching evening TV. “Vus tist dee?” she would ask. What are you doing? “Gay arois.” Go out. She didn’t want the man on the TV to see me.

My mother bought a black upright piano when I was about four or five. Piano lessons were first given to my older sister and brother, and when they both refused to continue these lessons, it was up to me. I didn’t feel I had a choice, and in addition to the weekly lessons, I was expected to practice one hour daily. I never enjoyed practicing; I wanted to do my homework or play. If my mother thought I had not practiced for a full hour she would yell at me: “Practice.” Bubba would say, “Luhz er tsri.” Leave her alone. Then she told my mother that I had finished one full hour of practice before she came home. This appeased my mother, and I loved Bubba for her protection and the secret we shared.

For most of the time she lived with us, until walking became too difficult, Bubba went to the Orthodox Synagogue every Saturday. When she could no longer go she would sit in her rocking chair reading her prayer books, at peace in the world. She was always peaceful.

In the last two years of her life she had dementia. Although she had been our primary cook, she now began burning food on the stove. I was surprised when I saw her open the refrigerator to drink from a ketchup bottle. As her condition deteriorated, she would go out on the street and forget her way home. The police department would call and my mother went to the station to bring her home.

No longer at peace, often distressed, some evenings she would put her head out of our apartment window calling for my brother, concerned that he was out with a “shiksa,” a non-Jewish girl.

Bubba’s behavior became very difficult for my mother to manage at home, especially after my father died. About a year after his death, my mother moved Bubba to a nursing home. Although I visited Bubba in the nursing home, I only have a vague recollection of those visits. I remember that it was crowded and smelled bad. She died within a year of that move. I was fourteen.

I never told her how much she meant to me. I like to think that she knew. When my daughter was born, almost forty years ago, and more than twenty years after Bubba died, I named her Dara. Dora and Dara both have the same Hebrew name, Devorah. Dara is as loving and protective as her great-grandmother, my Bubba, Dora. Their similarities are striking and I see them every day. Dara with her family, friends, and her international work, especially in the Peace Corps. But I also realize that growing up around the turn of the 21st century, Dara has had many advantages Dora could never have had. Still, the thread of connection is there, and although they never met, Dara has inherited the legacy of Bubba’s love, through me.

It’s not too late to say it. Thank you, Bubba. I love you. Happy Mother’s Day.

ARGH

I am using a new word, ARGH. I have only been using it since March 2020, after concerns about Covid-19 took over our lives. I hate cursing, and this word helps me express myself about something that makes me angry or frustrated, but I can’t do anything about. I find that it is best to say the word out loud, with the volume and inflection depending on the level of anger or frustration. It generally ranges from argh to AARGH!! Here are some examples of its use:

I had problems with both of my desktop computers and made an appointment with the Best Buy Geek Squad to come to my home to fix them, but they had to cancel because of the virus. And I can’t reach them by telephone. So I have one computer that has WORD on which I can write documents, but it has no email, and a second computer that has email but no WORD, and no way to connect the two… argh.

I miss my cleaning lady. I can do laundry, but I have forgotten how to clean my apartment, and never liked doing it anyway. Thankfully, we are not having visitors these days. My cleaning woman has accumulated a large assortment of rags, cleaning solutions, mops, etc., and I can’t figure out exactly what to use for each cleaning need… argh.

I often yearned for time to spend at home so I could clean out my closets and straighten out my files, items on the to-do list that I created when I retired a year ago. I pulled out the list when Covid-19 forced me to stay home, but the list remains intact- nothing is crossed off. I can’t seem to muster the motivation… argh.

My looks are changing. Without my hair salon appointments, my gray is showing and my hair is getting too long. With no gym available, and increased eating, I have gained back most of the weight I lost before my daughter’s wedding last June. This gives a new meaning to “Stop the Spread”… Argh.

Some commentators on the pandemic imply that older people are expendable; if many die, that’s OK, that could help spare the younger population. Whoa – of course I want maximum efforts made so that my children and grandchildren (and everyone else possible) survives and thrives after this pandemic, but I am not ready to sacrifice myself, I have things to do, and I resent this as a suggestion for dealing with the virus… Argh.

I had finally arranged to have cataract surgery and a dental implant, and the dates for these procedures had all been scheduled for this Spring. Along came the virus, and all dates for these surgeries have been canceled. My vision seems to have hastened its decline and I can only chew on one side of my mouth. The former is especially important now that I am reading and watching TV more, and the latter is important now that I am eating more… Argh.

I like to limit contact with others when I go food shopping. My neighborhood supermarkets have created special hours for those of us in the high risk category (my age puts me there), but it’s 7-8AM. Do they think older people like getting up so early? Why not make it Noon-1PM?… ARGh.

I have been watching more movies, and recently saw Contagion. I also finally had time to see the AIDS-related documentary “How to Survive a Plague”. I think I was looking for useful suggestions from these movies. Not only were they not helpful, but they increased my overall fears and feelings of helplessness… ARGH.

I know these concerns are all trivial in the presence of this horrendous crisis. I have been fortunate to only have inconveniences during this plague and my family has been safe. I will welcome back worrying about the trivial after this time has passed, and I am confident that it will pass. But until then, there are no words for the loss of life and the suffering created by the Covid-19 virus… AARRGGHH!!

Blame Less

In this time of the COVID-19 pandemic, I turn to our country’s leaders for comfort, hope, and inspiration. As I listened to the President during recent press conferences I felt a discomfort that developed into sadness and then anger. In almost every press conference he identifies someone to blame or to criticize, He has become our Blamer-In-Chief, a role that is harmful to us and what we need.

-He blamed the Democrats and the media for creating a hoax about the virus.

-He blamed the Chinese government for not letting the world know about the virus sooner.

-Next came the governors, for not being sufficiently grateful for what he and his administration were doing for them.

-He blames prior administrations for not preparing adequately for this pandemic.

-Reporters are often targets of his blaming, particularly when he doesn’t like the questions they ask or the media outlets they represent.

-More recently he blames the hospital staff, implying that they are over-stocking or reselling protective equipment.

The virus is to blame and is the only enemy. We must share resources and learn from each other, and this requires cooperation from many sources, including foreign governments, media, governors, and health care workers- all the people our President has found blameworthy. Blame serves to divide us, leads to distrust among those who should be allies, and appeals to the worst in us.

Like most people, I have done my share of blaming others. Some were personal, like my parents for their perceived failings; and some professional, like work colleagues for lack of cooperation. While blaming provided short-term relief of pain, it was unproductive. It took time away from working on the issue that was causing the pain. In some cases, I realized this soon enough to ask for forgiveness or turn my focus to the needed tasks. Please Mr. President… blame less, and work to unite us and not divide us during this painful time… and afterwards.

Analysis of what happened so that we can do better in the future will be needed, and that can come later. But this is no time for blaming… or else we will be left with fewer to blame as this pandemic rages on… just ourselves.