Archive for December, 2008

Now where did I put that clean slate?

December 29, 2008

There has been much said recently among the people I know about memory. Or rather the loss of it. It was the topic of conversation at an otherwise very upbeat Christmas party just last week. My friend Ken recounted that recently he had gone up the stairs of his house three times and had forgotten each time what he had gone up for. Aside from the exercise it afforded him, he found it worrisome. Ken’s a pretty rational, level headed New Englander, not given to speculation, but he believes that Teflon is the culprit. I had never heard that one before, but as a writer, I like the idea. It is poetic.

Another friend whose name escapes me at the moment, stated that she now begins every story with the warning “Stop me if I’ve already told you this.” When it was my turn, I skipped the more commonplace incidents like “boiling the pot along with the eggs” or “forgetting the dog outside on the porch.” Instead, I shared that on my way to Wegmans a few weeks before, three quarters of the way there while stopped at a red light on Main Street, I was suddenly unable to remember where I was going. Was it the bank, the liquor store, the post office? I ran through the list of possibilities. Unlike Ken, I see the years of filling rolling papers and bongs as the probable cause. But that’s another story.

Thankfully I recovered before the light changed and realized that I was headed for the supermarket and, most probably and very shortly, for dementia as well. I had the thought, however, that if indeed dementia was to be my destiny, it might not be all that bad. At least, I wouldn’t know I had it. Aside from the notion of ignorance as bliss, there might be other benefits as well.

One such benefit, I figure,  is an ongoing clean slate. The chance to begin again…and again. And again. Who doesn’t love that? And this brings me to the New Year. As I create my list for 2009 of those things I’d like to be and do in the New Year, I think back to this very same time last year. What, I wonder, did I commit to for 2008? What did I aspire to just one year ago?

Not surprising, I can’t remember this either. I suppose there was the usual – “eat better,” “exercise more,” “meditate daily” and “finish the book.” With a somewhat vague assessment of goals I’ve forgotten, I guess I did ok. Surely, I could have done better.  Aren’t I still working on the book? No matter, tabula rasa means possibility abounds. Reason to hope. This year, with the blessing of being able to start anew once again, here are my resolutions. For 2009, I’d like to remember to be kind rather than right. To stay out of fear. To quiet down and go inside for the answers. To dance often. And lest I forget, to finish the damn book.

And yours?

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Ain’t evolution grand!

December 21, 2008

This week my daughter turned 21. There is a part of me that is amazed that this has occurred. There is the sense that it has come much too soon. I had been warned that this beautiful baby would be a lovely young woman before I knew it. In the “wink of an eye,” they said. It was true.

Perhaps having her late in the game made it seem so much faster, compressing time in a way only those of us with some years under our belts can understand. Just imagine what it must be like for that woman from Hackensack who gave birth to twins at 60.

In the beginning, I spent a lot of time calculating the future in terms of her milestones and my age in relationship to them. When Ani graduates high school, I will be, mmmmm… let’s see. When she has her first child, say at 33, I will be… oh dear. When she hits 50… Oh, my God. I can’t imagine having a child aged 50. What must that be like? I may never know.

For now, now that she’s made it to 21, at least I can breathe a sigh of relief knowing that evolution has been served. A decent human being has been added to the planetary roster.  I take no credit for it except for the loose managerial role I played. And trust me, it was loose

So now my baby has arrived at that much anticipated milestone we call adulthood. She can drink (legally) and does so much more responsibly than I ever did. (Who would have ever dreamed of a designated driver?) She is calmer than I, more accepting, less judgmental. A lot saner. When I find myself flailing about, caught up in the throes of an emotional meltdown, she will sit me down and gently put me on notice. “Get a grip,” says she. “Is it really worth crying about?” Steadier and more sensible than I, my daughter seems to lack the angst that drove me all the way through my twenties straight into middle age. She seems to know who she is. At least much more than I did at that age.

Of course, she has her stuff. She’s got the same difficulty with decisions as I do and can be as stubborn as they come but, on the whole, the genetic line seems to be evolving. This is a good thing. It is how it should be. From the time when our distant ancestors spent much of their day in trees, some six or seven million years ago, haven’t we humans always hoped for a new and improved model with each generation? Haven’t we always prayed they’d survive more fit than we at our fittest? I’m glad I could do my part. I’m glad my offspring stands upright and, for the most part, on her own two feet. Darwin would be proud.

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Star-crossed and stymied.

December 13, 2008

First the cell phone went. Then it was the toilet. Then the crown jewel, the oil heater. The heater went on the coldest, most blustery day of the year we’d had so far. And on a Sunday. Need I say more?

I took the death march down the basement stairs to check things out, knowing what I’d find there amongst the old IRS files, half empty paint cans and cobwebs. Sure enough, the steel box was cold and silent. I took off the front panel and hit the red restart button. Though I felt compelled to try, I was sure of the outcome, knowing from years of experience that a furnace does not turn off for the hell of it. There is always a reason.

The furnace starts up again, immediately. But almost as fast, the reassuring hum is accompanied by clouds of black smoke billowing from that welded corners. As it wraps around the room, I run to turn off the emergency switch. Luckily, its whereabouts have been marked with an arrow and the words, “on the rafter,” the thoughtful work of the last repairman. And that’s that. No heat tonight.

There is nothing like a very cold house to make me miserable. Though it greatly rekindles my admiration for my Russian ancestors, the simple acts of getting dressed, cooking dinner or working at the computer become chillingly painful. Wearing four layers, gloves, a scarf and ear muffs indoors makes everyday life cumbersome to say the least. I get grumpy. I can’t help it. Even the dog won’t budge beyond the small radius of warmth emanating from the space heater I’ve retrieved from the basement.

It is just one of those times when things go wrong. In this case, it’s those handy-dandy devices – electronic, electrical, and mechanical, which have become so vital to daily survival. They go on the fritz one by one, one after another. And just when you’re congratulating yourself for having fixed the first – boom, there goes another. The emotional cost is always the same – frustration mixed with varying degrees of frenzy, accompanied always by the hard, cold, terrifying reality of “this is really going to set me back.”

My friend Lisa Tracy, a former editor for the Philadelphia Inquirer and author of several books including the iconic The Gradual Vegetarian is the person I call at times like this. In an instant, she will cut to the chase. “Oh yes,” she assures me, “Mercury is in retrograde.” For the un-initiated, Mercury in retrograde is the astrological equivalent of Murphy’s Law (if something can go wrong, it will). About three or four times a year, this particular planetary configuration is believed to be responsible for computers crashing, traffic jams, telephone service snarl ups and machinery breakdowns. Oh, I think, thank God. That explains it.

I am relieved to know that it is not just me. That it is nothing I’ve done or not done. I am relieved to know that it is not the result of a random, haphazard world in which “shit happens.” For me, the chaos theory leaves a lot to be desired. I want to believe. Give me the notion of a perfect universe every time – a place of order, of cause and effect, known or unknown. It helps me to let go, relinquish control, relax. Call me delusional, but it is reassuring. It’s good to believe things happen for a reason. Any reason. Even if the reason is that Mercury… now what did she say – is in Uranus?

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Nu, a Jewish Plumber?

December 6, 2008

My friend Richard swears to me that he can fix the toilet. “Piece of cake,” he proclaims. “Done it many times.” He tells me he knows just what I need and doesn’t even have to come over and look. He’ll go and pick up the part. “Not to worry,” he assures me, “this item will definitely do the trick.”

I am a bit suspect. Not that I don’t want to believe him. I do. I know that fixing a toilet can be relatively easy and calling a plumber – very expensive, so I am relieved to hear Richard’s confident tone. Money is tight; I am grateful for his willingness. It’s just that I can’t believe he really knows how to fix toilets. I can not believe a Jewish guy could actually be handy.

No, this is not an anti-Semitic slur. I am a Jew myself, and in my experience, Jews do not know how to fix toilets, wire a house, put up drywall or lay tile. Now I know there must be some exceptions of course. Jesus for one, a particularly prominent Jew, was after all a master carpenter who made miracles with his able hands. But in my life, I have never met a Jew who could change a fuse let alone fix anything at all around the house. Until Richard, or so he says.

Richard is not a handyman by trade. He makes his living as an attorney. An employee rights attorney and a good one. But on the couple of occasions he has offered to help me with household handyman issues, he arrives at the door with his red metal tool chest, very eager to help and very sure of himself. He says he loves these kinds of projects. Been doing them for years. His skill, he says, dates back to his years as a machinist on the factory floor, after graduating Swarthmore when he set out to organize workers. He says this kind of work is great compared to writing briefs all day long. He is a born troubleshooter.

The last job he did for me, though, as Richard the Jewish electrician rather than Richard the Jewish plumber, is still giving him pause. He says that even now he’s trying to figure out why the new switch he installed did not work to produce light from the overhead fixture on the porch. He will never give up nor will he ever admit that perhaps the porch light conundrum surpasses his level of electrical expertise. It doesn’t matter. I put candles out there instead. You’ve got to love him for trying.

This time, crouching on the bathroom floor squeezed between the wall and the toilet replacing a cruddy, worn out water fill with a beautiful one piece model, it looked as if Richard the Jewish plumber would be victorious. He read the detailed instructions; I reread them back to him. He pulled here, unscrewed there. He loosened. He tightened. He turned the widget one eighth of an inch counter clockwise holding from the bottom as instructed, and when the cap refused to lift after several attempts, Richard announced that this particular step was not important. It could be skipped. Overlooked and on to the next. Finally, after the thin black hose was cut and secured to the angled clip, pulled just so to avoid crimping, both Richard and I rejoiced in the sweet silence of a dripless tank.

The next morning a little pool of water had formed by the base of the toilet. With great hesitancy, I called Richard before he went off to the office. “Houston, I think we’ve got a problem,” I said trying to make light of defeat. There seems to be a slight leak. I hated to have to break it to him. Feared for what lay ahead.

“I’ll be right over,” he said, “even though the guarantee has expired.” (Clearly, Jewish plumbers are comedians too.) And he came. At 7:30am, dressed in his plaid flannel shirt, he headed upstairs to assess the problem, eager to solve yet another mystery. Draping himself around the girth of the bowl, head down, he discovered a loose bolt between the tank and the bowl, its threads worn smooth. He tightened it and thought that it might be ok, but he wanted me to know that he was up to the task if it required more. As he spelled out several possible scenarios that might in fact be necessary, it seemed as if he were hoping it would require more. “I’ve replaced many a toilet, you know,” he reassured me. “There’s really nothing to it.” I look at him with dismay, picturing the possibility, yet wanting desperately to believe – that if you’re a Jewish plumber, you can pretty much walk on water.

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