Off To A Good Start

                                   

A friend of mine, the world renowned Short Jewish Gal, posted this photo of herself the other day. It was taken in the 70’s, early in a high school career. The photo struck me because, although it is just a snapshot, it suggests so much of what it is to be a successful teen: competent, confident, happy, purposeful. Stepping off the doorstep of your home, stepping onto the sidewalk of life.

This is certainly not a reality for a great many teens, teens that struggle with social and economic conditions that no one, of any age, should have to endure, certainly not developing youths. For far too many teens it is so much more than pimples and bad hair days. For many, the barriers are substantial, the hardships are real, expectations almost nonexistent, progress elusive. For many, by the time they are 14 or 15 they will have become convinced, have had beaten into their brains, that the future holds absolutely, positively nothing to look forward to.

The photo above, however, gives a welcome look in the other direction. Well dressed and well groomed, a smile on her face and books in hand, (a budding Westside Jewish democrat at that!), she certainly appears to be among the most fortunate of teens. But the thing that grabs me most is her wave. An open mouthed smile and her right hand in motion she greets the photographer, the day, the world, in a manner that acknowledges, welcomes, and places her firmly in command. This photo is the picture of parental success: A nearly grown child confidently stepping into adulthood. Not privilege or entitlement, just well prepared, able, and happy about the whole damn thing—and, willing to show it!  

A Note On A Mother's Passing

A dear childhood friend of mine's mother passed away the other day. I hadn't seen her in over 40 years but, having grown up as the kid across the street, she has never been absent from my memory.

Thinking about this woman, a homemaker with three boys and a working husband, I was struck by how much sociological change has occurred in the American home in the course of those 4 decades. She was of an era when the mother's task was to raise the children and maintain the home. It fell to the mother to ensure the kids did well at school. It fell to the mother to ensure the kids practiced good citizenship. It fell to the mother to ensure the kids grew up to be productive adults. It fell to the mother to ensure the kids grew to adulthood reflecting well on the home from which they had come.

My friend's mom, like my own, was really dealt a rotten card when it came to timing. The 60's and 70's turned out to be a time when a social epidemic swept the nation, when conformity, heritage, and tradition fell off the mantles of homes throughout the country. The passing on of religion, social mores, and politics, all the hallmarks of successful and productive childrearing disappeared in less than a generation. For many women, what they had hoped for and expected never became part of the generation they had raised. For many women, my mother and my friend's mother included, it was a grave disappointment, a second wave of postpartum depression. Some never adapted, never recovered a sense of place, of personal esteem.

Living as we do in a era of dual incomes, rapidly receding gender-specific roles, and a social landscape with limited boundaries, it's hard to understand what these women stood for. It's hard to understand the valor and validity of a life dedicated to ensuring your children not only did well but did the family proud as well. It's hard to understand how a woman could be satisfied living to see her hopes and dreams fulfilled in the lives of others. Selflessness receives so little play these days.

With the passing of my friend's mother I am reminded of just how lucky some of us are to have been raised by mother's who-- while they may have seemed at times overbearing and intrusive-- never wanted anything more than for their children to grow into substantial adults. It wasn't about happiness. It wasn't about wealth. It was about success in the truest sense-- success as productive members of society-- theirs and ours.

The Chili Weather Continues

Okay. I think it is pretty safe to say that, as of today, March 27th, nobody in the state of Michigan is feeling good about seeing snowfall. No one but me.

Over the years people have always spoken of the "old days," with snow up to the window sills and rooftops. This year we've had that. The "old days," where if you walked more than 50 yards your face would freeze solid. This year we've had that. The "old days," where you weren't through with snow until well into April. This year we're making a serious effort in that direction. And all this snow and cold does have it's serious disadvantages. The roads are so fractured and potholed I don't know if they'll ever be right. Furnaces can be heard wheezing and grimacing as they fire up once again on a cycle that has been repeated every 20 minutes of every day for the last 4 months. And cabin fever is so severe and epidemic that kids aren't even antsy anymore-- they're just sitting, catatonic, staring at their hands and the floor.

Me? So far I'm actually okay with all this snow and cold, even as I look out at my just-washed truck, returned from the dealer after an oil change, all red and shiny with snowflakes drifting by, kissing its windows and sills. And the reason I'm okay with all this is tortilla soup-- or in this case, tortilla chili. Chili, whether tortilla or otherwise, is a cold whether menu item. Sitting and having a bowl of chili on an 80 degree day just doesn't sound good or make sense. (A nice thin tortilla soup, sitting poolside at a certain pink hotel on Sunset Boulevard, sure. But not a hearty chili.) So, for now I'm good. I have my hearty vegetarian tortilla chili/soup and I'm happy to watch the snowflakes fall.

Note to weather gods: I've only made enough for a couple days.

White People

Tam and I debated for some time whether it made sense to have Ev enroll in our local Chicago public school. It would mean splitting the family at least 4 days a week. It would mean Ev would not be maintaining anything to speak of in the way of early childhood friendships. Nevertheless, we took the plunge and enrolled Evan at Ogden School, a public International Baccalaureate school about a block from the condo.

There were two reasons really, for our decision. First, the academic standard was very, very high at Ogden. Ev is a smart kid and, if he isn't challenged, he zooms off to another planet. The other reason was diversity. Here in our mid-Michigan hometown there is very, very, very little social or racial diversity. We both felt really strongly that we wanted Evan to grow up around people of all different races, colors, social backgrounds and nationalities. And we certainly have that to offer both at the school and the city around us living in Chicago.

So how's it going? Well, Ev's grades are good and he has about 1 hour of math and reading homework every night, Monday through Thursday. He is learning that school is about becoming educated, actively learning. As a kid, education is what you do. So while he's busy with after school activities 3 days of the week, he knows that going to school, learning, is not something that occurs only between 8:40 and 3:20.

And the cultural experience? Well, true story: Saturday we went to lunch at a local Chinese place here in town. There were about 7 or 8 tables seated at the time and, as we started in to our meals, Evan started to look around with a frown and quizzical expression. "Do you guys notice anything?" he asked, all Mr. Concerned-about-something. I looked around not able to imagine what he was seeing. "What?" Pointing to the skin of his forearm he said to his Mom and me, "Everyone in here is white."

Okay. Pretty strong performance in the diversity piece.

Chocolate Covered Marshmallows

I wandered into a candy store at the mall the other day. Having to wait one hour for a new pair of glasses is, on the one hand a luxury but, on the other hand can lead to some potentially treacherous expeditions while waiting. As I checked out the case filled with massive slabs of english toffee, almond bark, and a multitude of truffles I noticed two trays of chocolate coated marshmallows, milk and dark chocolate, of course.

My Dad loved chocolate covered marshmallows. He could seldom find them and, in a pinch, when a craving took control, he would substitute one of those red foil wrapped Annabelle's Rocky Road candy bars. I never thought of my Dad as having much of a sweet tooth although I've come to rethink that to some degree, his two favorite beverages being Jim Beam and Seven-Up and Harvey's Bristol Cream Sherry.

Funny how after your parents have been gone for a number of years one filters that experience. I guess I'm fortunate in that I have nothing bad to say. My Dad was a man who was loved by many people and who taught me to be kind, thoughtful, and considerate in all things-- qualities I've been able to embrace with variable success. Mostly, he was a nice guy with a kind heart and I know all to well that places him far ahead of a vast number of dads in circulation these days and before.

Finding those chocolate covered marshmallows made me think of him and inspired me to bring a couple home. So, the one I've split in half for the photo I'll devour today in memory of my Dad, on this day, the 105th anniversary of his birth. The other I'll probably take to Evan this weekend and I'll tell him all about it-- unless Kelsey shows up here first!

Birthday Math: A + B + C = B'day

The math genius looking forward, warts and all.

It's weird. I woke up this morning having all kinds of philosophical thoughts about turning 57 years old-- age, history, the whole past, present, and what lies ahead thing. I especially remembered that day in 1966 when my friend Greg first met my Dad and discovered my Dad was 57. It was the first time I realized my Dad was what, these days, we call an "outlier."It was the first time I ever came to think of my Dad as vulnerable.

Last night before he went off to bed my little guy told me, forewarned me, that the gift he and Mom had picked for me hadn't arrived in time and just how sorry and disappointed he was about this shortcoming. Now his thinking is maybe where we all should stay focused on a birthday: celebration and honor. At 6 and 3/4 you still remember the old math: Birthday = A (party) + B (presents) + C (cake), the answer being directly proportional to the sum of the addends. But for most of us, however, I'd wager we no longer know the old math. "It's just another birthday," "I'm too old for birthdays," "I don't want anything for my birthday," "I've stopped celebrating birthdays," and on and on-- the new math being: A (age) + B (recognition of getting old) + C (concern about getting old) = Bad-day. It seems in this new equation, the first addend, age, increases sequentially by whole numbers while the second and third are variables. So how does one know how to solve this second equation if it's an equation with two variables??

Actually, the formula is pretty easy. In fact, the two equations are really exactly the same. My 6 year old recognizes he's getting older, loose tooth and all. Getting older and bigger, is exciting. More opportunities, more adventures, more fun lie ahead. He recognizes he is aging and shows no adverse concern-- life is opportunity! The problem for us older folks is not the math, it's plugging in the right variables: Do we plug in opportunity, or regret? Do we plug in gratitude or remorse? Acceptance or denial? Are we looking forward to more or dreading less? Anyone can solve the equation because the variables are not unknown, they're elective-- you can choose.

I hurt most mornings-- might be several years of volleyball. Or that football collision with Ron Moss where he flattened my ass on the playground at Emerson in 1970. Or, then, maybe it's the Crestor. Whatever the cause, in the grand scheme of things, the disability is minor. I have a great career although not without headaches and challenges over which I lose more than a couple hours of sleep each month. I have a boy with a very long way to go and a daughter who's almost there. In spite of all adversity and concern, opportunities remain abundant. and age is just a number-- so far.

So today, I'll say "thank you"for any birthday greetings that come my way. Even those from Google, mortgage brokers, and the place that makes my glasses. Because I know how to do the math. I know I'm fortunate to be getting older. Now if I could just stop getting bigger.

Deli Deficient, But Pity Me Not

Laugh if you must (SJG) but I feel no shame! A little disappointment perhaps...

I have to be forgiven: I live at least an hour away from anything that comes even close to deserving the title, "Deli." I'm not an expert but I've had good deli. Juniors, both Brooklyn and West LA, Sherman's, Nate 'N Al, even Rose's in Portland used to be okay. Good grief, Miracle Mile in white-bread protestant Phoenix wasn't too bad. In a deli emergency, that is.

While there are hundreds of great restaurants with all types of delicious food, sometimes there can be no substitute for deli. And while there are many good delis and, perhaps arguably, a handful of great, there are none of any ilk close at hand from where I sit perched this weekend.

There lies my predicament: when I get the urge, there is no local option. Add to that I rarely eat meat and it get's pretty hard to scratch that itch for corned beef or pastrami on rye. So, forgive me, but I am sometimes forced to make do. If I could walk into Sherman's in Palm Springs at lunch today I'd sidestep my dietary boundaries and have that Studio Special-- pastrami with cole slaw and swiss on rye. But I'm not. If I had even a legitimate deli counter here with good salty robust thin sliced pastrami I might bring home a quarter pound. But I don't. I'm here, smack dab in the middle of Michigan where 4 inches of fresh powder arrived last night-- and I'm not talking drugs-- deli deficient.

So forgive me but I was forced to improvise, to do what others would reject out of hand, turn from in disgust. But, like the man lost at sea and forced to drink his own urine to survive, by god it worked. You may laugh, you may talk in hushed tones and shake your head in pity or disbelief, but I don't care. When the craving hit I did what I had to and I scratched that itch: 2 slices of delicious fragrant Jewish rye, Russian dressing (home made), sauerkraut, swiss cheese, and a veggie dog fried and sliced thin. Piled high and pan grilled-- voila! Deli served up in my mid-Michigan kitchen on a cold winter day.

Yes, it does get better than that. Much better. But not under the circumstances.

March in Michigan: In like a…….

Like that annoying relative, winter just won't go away

My mom was always big on the "little holidays." They weren't really holidays. They were more the unsung milestones of the calendar year:  Shrove (Fat) Tuesday, April Fool's Day, May Pole Day, Summer solstice (longest day) and winter solstice (longest night). Like today, March 1st. She seemed to look forward to March 1st, that first baby step toward spring, and would always announce, "March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb." (She added a disclaimer, however, adding that, in fact, if March 1st arrived like a lamb the month would go out like a lion.) And this I could understand as a small child in Portland, Oregon: There it meant raining or not raining, the math was easy.

Here in Michigan it's a little more difficult. Today it's cloudy but there is no raging storm. It's 23 degrees with a forecast high of 27 and occasional snow showers. Just a regular old winter day. So, mom, lion or lamb? I mean, at this point it has been a hard Michigan winter with well over 65 inches of snowfall, a day like today isn't so bad: No icy roads or sidewalks, no blowing snow, no howling sub-zero wind, you can drive places without concern.

For most people in this neck of the woods it's neither lion or lamb. In fact, we need a whole new vocabulary. It would have to be Polar Bear, Snow Leopard, or Arctic Fox. Actually, and more to the point, it's that annoying relative you had to, but didn't want to, invite in the first place and who now just won't go home!

Oscar Wilde wrote, "Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative." Maybe so. But here in Michigan, on March 1st of 2014, it's the conversation of those who are desperate for relief from a long cold winter. We're definitely looking for this guest to leave. Bring out the lambs.