Grandparents

My daughter Allison is having a baby in a couple of weeks, and she’s trying to take care of the last-minute details before the little one enters the world.

One of the items on her to-do list included a text message to all the parents announcing the grandparent names we have chosen for ourselves.

I looked at the list and was floored that this baby is going to have 7 grandparents!

What a lucky kid! That’s a whole lot of love for this baby of theirs, not to mention for all 7 of us chomping at the bit to experience the joy that she will bring. It’s amazing that one little baby can make so many people so happy, just by being born.

This bounty of grandparents is the direct result of the unfortunate divorces in each of the new parents’ families. Talk about something so sad giving way to such delight.  

    

My own kids hit the jackpot with their 4 doting grandparents, each bond unique and creating cherished memories. Now sadly they have just 1 grandparent, PopPop. The humor and affection he so freely gives has been extended to the next generation, as he’s recently been promoted to Great Granddad, a badge he wears with pride. 

In stark contrast was my upbringing, void of the presence of all 4 grandparents. Two of mine were already gone when I was born, I never met my dad’s father, and I can’t picture my mom’s father’s face or voice; he passed when I was 5. I can vaguely recall his wife’s white-silver curly hair and coral-colored lipstick, and I can visualize my siblings and me sitting on hard plastic furniture covers in their living room while wishing I could have an ice cream cone instead of the hard candies in the glass bowl that were offered to us.  

In my 20s, however, I did enjoy the amazing warmth and tenderness of my then-husband’s grandmother MomMom, who scooped me up and made me one of her own. Because I wanted to learn and she reveled in teaching me, she spent eons of time sharing her skills and knowledge so that I could become a “balabusta” – the Yiddish expression for being a good homemaker – and patiently sat with me so I could practice crocheting a granny square afghan, baking kamish bread and preparing matzoh ball chicken soup for the Jewish holidays.

There was something so gratifying about being a novice under her watchful eye and loving heart; these days, I could easily find information on YouTube, given that everything is just a click away.  But I'd miss so much, in comparison.         

As you can see, I relish the precious connection between grandparent and grandchild.

By the way, the name I chose for myself is MomMom.

Now Is The Time

A few people I know, I’m so sad to say, lost their parents during the pandemic.

Due to tight restrictions in nursing homes, these family members hadn’t been allowed to visit and there had been little to no face-to-face communication for several weeks or months, or longer.

I can’t even imagine how painful this separation was for all the parties involved, especially when it became clear that the final days were imminent. 

It’s been 15 years since my dad’s passing, and I still think about what transpired the day before he passed.

I happened to be alone with him in the hospital for a brief period of time. My mom announced that she was going to step outside to get some fresh air (and maybe a cigarette!) and none of my siblings were in his room, so he and I were on our own.

Nervous that he might venture off to that unknown place in her absence, I anxiously told her to hurry up.  

Once she left, I stood by the door, ready to run out just in case things started to get weird, but he said my name and motioned to me to come closer. I remember thinking how surreal it was, knowing he’s dying and that he wants to communicate something on his death bed. Very cliché. 

I assumed he’d say something like, “Take care of Mom,” so I decided to help him out since he didn’t seem to have much energy left. I leaned in real close and just as I was getting ready to tell him “Don’t worry, Dad, we will always look after Mom,” he started to talk in a loud kind of whisper.

He went in an altogether different direction from what I expected and began to reflect on our relationship, bringing tears to my eyes. What’s remarkable is that as significant an exchange as it was, it almost didn’t take place.

Whether he planned in advance to say these things or it was a momentary impulse he went with, it was only possible because: 1 - I came to visit at that time of day, 2 - My mom stepped out, 3 - The siblings hadn’t come yet or had left, and 4 - he was still alive. 

I am so appreciative that not only did he speak his mind, but I had the opportunity to respond as well.   

This memory serves as an important reminder to tell loved ones and other special people how we feel NOW, while we have the chance.

Otherwise, it may never happen.    

Thinking About My Mom

One afternoon about 25 years ago, I went back to my parents’ house to surprise my mom. She wasn’t in her usual spot – the kitchen, so I went to her second most frequented place – the basement. This is where I often found her doing the laundry, or every now and then taking a Rolling Rock beer from her stash in the refrigerator.

My mom was very predictable when I came to visit. She always smiled when she saw me and leaned in for our kiss. Without fail, she’d ask me if I wanted something to eat or drink. Then we’d sit at the kitchen table and she’d rattle off a gamut of questions, depending on where I was in my life:  How are you? How’re the kids?  How’s your job?  How’re your friends? and so on. She usually did all the asking, and I did all the telling.

On this particular day when I located her in the basement, she didn’t see me come downstairs, as she was busy transferring the clothing from the washer to the dryer.

My presence startled her. I can still picture her face. She had a strange, unfamiliar and rather disturbing expression. She uttered “Judy!” in a very abrupt, accusatory manner. I was confused, but I soon saw what was happening, as she quickly moved her one arm to her back. 

In her hand was a lit cigarette.

My mom had been a smoker for most of her life. It stands to reason that she got sick with COPD – a respiratory condition – as she aged. There’s even a picture I have of her breastfeeding me with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. 

She had quit several years before this incident, and weaning herself had been a very difficult task. She also experienced mounting frustration relating to the weight gain that noshing caused. These factors added to my confusion.   

         

“Mom!  Why did you start again?” I asked, after I caught her in the act. Unlike in prior visits, this time around it was me asking her to respond…except that she didn’t, in words.  

Her face, however, spoke to me. She looked so upset that she might cry, which kind of freaked me out, because this wasn’t a reaction that I was familiar with, at all. She had always been very steady…unshaken…unless she was voicing an opinion about something that she felt passionate about.  

    

As I looked at my mom in this unusual state, I began to think of her very differently, almost like I was seeing her for the very first time. I realized that she was her own person; she wasn’t just my mom. Her very first layer was Florence – the individual – before the roles of wife and mother of 4 were piled on.    

The last thing I ever wanted her to feel was judged or shamed or embarrassed. Yet, I put her on the spot. She didn’t deserve to be questioned. She was 80 years old. She spent her whole life serving others, with enormous compassion, commitment and energy. She certainly didn’t owe me an explanation. I’d assume she was at peace with her decision to start again, for whatever the reason.

I just wish I could have a do-over.  

Cakemasters

Should I go on Facebook now?

Do I really need to start stalking at 7 a.m?  Every morning I ask myself this.  It’s rather early to become so fixated on the goings-on of everyone and everything around me, when there are still 15 hours or more before bedtime that I could be doing this.  

But, I wouldn’t want to miss anything, that’s for sure.

One day last week, I succumbed to my weakness maybe even earlier than 7, and the very first post caught my eye.  It was from one of my favorite Philly groups: “We grew up in West or East Oak Lane in the 40s, 50s and 60s.”

Usually the pictures I relate to are of the “C” or “Y” buses that I took to get to school as well as old advertisements for family-favorite restaurants like the Open Hearth, or for row or twin homes that sold way back when for under $12,000.   

But this picture was of a store name that stood tall among the others on Ogontz Avenue, called Cakemasters. 

And just like that, I felt like the little girl who, some 50 years before, would delight with anticipation at just seeing the big white box, tied securely with cord, as it made its way onto our kitchen table. 

My mom would wrestle with the cord for a few seconds…excitement mounting…until the box opened and then there it was, in all its glory…the Cakemasters Button Cake.   

Whether that’s the official name or the Cohen term of endearment for it, there was nothing better than this dessert.  It was a round cake with pinkish icing on the top and middle, coated with chocolate jimmies along the side, and the very best part – the top - consisted of 10-12 edible chocolate fudge “buttons,” spaced like a clock.

I acted on my urge to google Cakemasters just in case I could relive this childhood experience from a local bakery.  I have no shame; I’d have gone that day to get one.    

The only location I could find was called Cakemasters Bakery II, and it was in Florida.  From the description I read on their Facebook page, the owners were third and fourth generation bakers starting from the great grandfather who opened a bakery in Philadelphia.  I decided this must be the man who created the button cake, so I sent a note to ask if the Florida bakers are from Philly and whether they have button cakes.  I described the cake, just in case they weren’t familiar with the name, and told them how much I enjoyed it growing up.   

The owner wrote back to say her grandfather owned a bakery in Philly, but she wasn’t sure of the name or where exactly it was.  Even though I didn’t get concrete info about the original Cakemasters and she didn’t comment on the button cake, I felt like we could’ve been long lost relatives, trying to piece together a past with a timeline but without the people around to confirm it.  I also felt sad that she didn’t seem to know much about her grandfather and his creations, given that he started the family legacy.        

I then decided it might be fun to text my siblings to ask if they remembered the button cakes from Cakemasters.  I thought I could have to wait hours or a day to hear back but, 5 minutes later, they had all checked in.

They responded with “loved them!” which made me very happy that we finally all shared a memory in almost exactly the same way, which is rare.

My elephant memory brother recalled that my sister loved the buttons and that once or twice we had asked the bakery to add extra buttons for her.

I didn’t remember wanting extra buttons, just my fair share; my memory centers around my 4^th kid complex, once again…and declaring, when it was my turn to get a slice of the cake, “I want a whole button.”

There was only one worthy last bite:  the button, surrounded by an inch of icing on either side.  I knew if I didn’t speak up, I may not have gotten it.

The elephant brother also remembers discussion on the slicing of the cake and the adjustment our mom made so that no one’s portion – he didn’t name me – contained a partial button or was void of a button. 

That’s probably because I made a stink about it.

Unlike with the tea bag.

Shine a Light

We have a large China cabinet in our dining room with a lighting feature which, when turned on, nicely showcases meaningful items to us, such as wedding gifts and family heirlooms.    

In the 15 years since we’ve had this unit, we’ve never really used the lights.  In retrospect, they would’ve been a nice touch during Thanksgiving dinners and other events, adding greatly to the ambiance.

I see this cabinet every time I walk downstairs, as it is catty-cornered to the staircase.  One morning, just a few days after Matthew, David’s son, passed away – almost 10 years ago – I almost fainted.  

The lights were on in the cabinet.   

My first thought was WTF??? 

And then I ran to David to tell him that Matthew is signaling something to us.

I generally don’t think about communicating with loved ones who have passed; it’s just that the dining room lights had never gone on independently before, so it seemed plausible that, if I were open to signs, these lights could be one of them.

David, not a believer in this kind of thinking and reeling from a broken heart, shut the conversation down.  Although I let it go, I always believed that Matthew may have been conveying some kind of message to us, even if a simple “Hi, miss you guys.” 

One morning years later, I noticed the lights on again as I came downstairs.  Was it a coincidence that Lauren – Matthew’s sister – was getting married that day?

I told David that Matthew made another appearance, this time to let us know that he’s here, and he’ll be at Lauren’s wedding too, cheering on his sister and brother-in-law.  “OK Jewel,” he said to me, in that tone – the one that means he doesn’t want to engage in that kind of conversation.

Since Matthew’s passing, I’ve noticed the lights have gone on periodically – once a year or so.  Each time, I’ve wondered…What is Matthew trying to say?  Is he relaying feelings of missing us?  Expressing frustration with the Mets?  Sharing his affection for his beloved Shea Doggy?

I realize of course that the presence of the lights may have indicted absolutely NO correlation to Matthew, or to a particular situation.  Maybe, as David said, there is no explanation other than the electrical connection in the cabinet didn’t work as it should have.

About 3 months ago, after a fairly long hiatus, the lights reappeared.  I said “Hi” to Matthew and turned them off, without reading too much into it.  The next day was a repeat.  Several days later, they came on before dinner, too.  Before long, they were going on at different times of the day.  I couldn’t keep up; I felt like every time I walked by the room, I had to return to shut off the lights. 

     

When I went to David freaking out about this, he stuck to his mindset - based on reason and logic – to explain that the lights could be reacting to a variation in the power voltage.  I asked if maybe they were going to burn out momentarily, following the pattern of our kitchen bulbs.  I would have been satisfied had the answer been “Yes, that’s what’s happening”; instead, he said “No,” and went back to his business. 

Meanwhile, I had become a wreck!  While part of me was excited to be communicating with Matthew so regularly – I took full advantage to update him on our growing family and other goings-on – I was getting such an eerie feeling, too.     

I didn’t mention this to David but, with every passing day, I began to wonder…Are these lights a warning of some kind?  Is something terrible going to happen to someone I love, or is the world coming to an end?

I wondered if maybe David felt it too – although he’d never admit it – but he did end up unplugging the cord.  He later told me he did that because he was sick of hearing me talk about it.

I was somewhat nervous that maybe the lights would STILL go on, which in theory would’ve been impossible…but, luckily, I didn’t have to obsess further as that didn’t happen.     

Shortly after the cabinet was disconnected, news of the pandemic hit, and life as we know it changed.  Was Matthew trying to warn us?  To let us know he’d be here with us, as always?  I know David would say that’s totally ridiculous and that anyone can draw a line between two points, if they are looking for a particular outcome. 

I will never know for sure, but I do know that I want to plug that cabinet back in one of these days.

I’ve continued to feel comforted by Matthew’s presence, even without the lights.

Matthew’s birthday is tomorrow – Monday, April 27^th. 

He’d have been 30 years old.

Fingertips

What an awesome weekend!

I attended 2 birthday celebrations, spent time with our granddaughter, newborn grandson and all our kids and in-laws too, learned a new crochet pattern, read lots of stories about interesting topics and toured endless fields filled with beautiful pink, yellow, red and coral tulips at a local farm…all while sitting on my rear!

And…shhhhhh...between you and me…I was serenaded by Josh Groban – in his shower!

Thank goodness for the Internet!  What a tremendous source of entertainment and education it is.

While I spend huge portions of my day surfing the net, there is still a whoooooooooole loooooooooot of time left that needs to be filled.  Luckily the weather has been beautiful and my plantar fasciitis and chondromalacia patella have been behaving, so I’ve been able to take nice, long walks - not only for exercise and fresh air, but for clearing my head, too.

David, on the other hand, has been a 24/7 public health crisis sponge and news source of his own, enhanced by a variety of medical professionals and government officials.

He tracks all the trends in every state and country around the world, not to mention our county and surrounding counties.  For an actuary like him, coupled with the fact that he is retired, building his own models and creating his own forecasts as new data becomes available is second nature to him.  It is also an activity that keeps him engaged and in-the-know, which brings a sense of calm to an otherwise  overwhelming feeling of confusion, frustration and fear.

Thank goodness for Facebook, where he can mull over information and debate his theories with others, because I can only handle so much detail about the specifics of the virology, proposed treatments, virus and antibody testing, and the making of vaccines.    

Now if he wants to talk about front line workers, the plight of the poverty-stricken, the importance of health insurance and the increase in domestic violence etc. etc., I’m all in.  It’s this science and analysis business David thrives on that is just too much for me to wrap my head around.  I try to be a good wife and an informed citizen and listen when he embarks on one of his sharing sessions with me but, within a minute or two, I’m yawning once, 10 times and before long, 20!  He quickly becomes aware of my lack of focus and knows that the conversation is essentially over.  Back to his computer he goes.

We got a serendipitous “gift” of sorts on Saturday night, just as I was beginning to get stir crazy.  It was around 7 pm and I was washing out Shea’s dog food can when, all of a sudden, I slashed my index finger on one of the sharp edges. 

Normally I’d wrap paper towel around the injury until the cut settles down, and then I’d cover it with a band aid but, in this scenario, David immediately went from Covid researcher to wound care expert.  

He ran upstairs to look for gauze, came downstairs and wrapped it, ran back upstairs because he forgot to bring down the adhesive tape, rewrapped it, and instructed me - continuously - to hold my hand/arm above my heart to stop the bleeding.

In a rather warped way - because these are bizarre times, to say the least - it was kind of fun focusing on something different - together - even if it was a bloody mess.

Like My Mom

This past week, my husband started to call me Florence, my mom’s name.  I wasn’t offended; I was entertained and then flattered, kind of…but I did ask, “What makes you say that?”  He responded by saying nonchalantly and quietly:  “You are starting to look like her.”  Really?  How so?  Hmmmm...

Could it be – dare I say – the relaxed, braless look I've been sporting for several days, I mean weeks?  I know I’m not alone in this, right ladies?  Why do I have to wear a harness all day when we are hanging out at home?  My mom rarely wore one; in fact, I’m sure she burned hers way back in a rebellious act(s) in the 1960s and may never have thought to replace it/them/whatever her stash was.  

Or was he talking about my…growing…belly?  I’ve always been self-conscious about this, ever since those child-bearing years.  But after decades of trying to exercise it away with no success, I’ve given up.  Besides, it’s one of the things I remember so lovingly about my mom:  her “pouch.”  It brought me such comfort to lay my head on her lap while she stroked my hair.  

But now I’m extra focused on my mid-section once again, given our eating habits of late.  Those 5 or 10 banana breads I’ve made – I’ve lost track of the number – flashed before me as I wondered what David was referring to with his comment.  

I’ve been able to justify this baking habit by adding sweetness to our stress during these anxiety-provoking times and not wanting to waste our continuing inventory of brown bananas.  Plus, with a recipe name like "Healthy Banana Bread," maybe it's not all that bad.  

One day I must admit, however, that I almost made 2 of them, because we polished off the early morning treat so quickly that, by nighttime, I couldn’t even remember if it was the same day as I had made the other one. 

The mystery ended when he said, pointing to my head, “There, on your temples, you have gray, like your mom.” 

Gee, thanks.  I hadn’t noticed.

Nope, never saw the 1-2” gray roots any of the 200 times I glanced in the mirror.  I’m sure if David were taller, he’d let me know the gray is on top of my head, too.

He did reassure me, however, that he finds gray/silvery hair sexy. In his defense, he has been saying that for years. 

There is a practical aspect to the gray, he said proudly.

If I were to venture out to Target or a supermarket, I wouldn’t get carded during senior hours.