A Man Among Men

 

My mom loved Sidney Poitier.

When he died on January 6 – just 4 days before the anniversary of her passing on January 10 (tomorrow) – I felt crushed. He had brought her such joy, and I got to see it whenever we watched his movies, especially two of our favorites: “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” and “To Sir, With Love.”

To my mom, he was extraordinary: the first Black man to land leading roles in the notoriously segregated Hollywood and the first Black performer to win an Academy Award for lead actor for his amazing work in “Lilies of the Field,” among numerous other incredible achievements.

His career, which spanned some six decades, paved the way for other Blacks to step into major roles, transformed how Blacks were portrayed in film, inspired dreams which could actually come true and greatly impacted the world.

My mom appreciated that he was a terrific actor, a trailblazer, a fighter for civil rights, a man who seemed so incredibly decent at his core and dare I say it...Sidney Poitier had an extremely charismatic presence. I was captivated by him as well.  

The night after he died, David and I decided to watch “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?” once again. This movie, released in 1967, is about a white 23-year-old woman named Joanna “Joey” Drayton (played by Katherine Houghton, Katherine Hepburn’s niece), when she brings a Black doctor named Dr. John Prentice (Sidney Poitier) home to meet her parents after they become engaged, just 10 days after they had met.  

Joey’s parents, Matt Drayton (Spencer Tracy) and his wife Christina (Katherine Hepburn), are well-to-do liberals who pride themselves on their progressive, enlightened thinking. However, their ideals are challenged when they learn that their daughter is planning to marry a Black man.

What started as a brief meeting between John and Joanna’s parents turned into a dinner event with John’s parents too, played by Roy E. Glenn, Sr. and Beah Richards, who are equally uncomfortable with the marriage. The Draytons’ Black housekeeper, Tillie, played by Isabell Sanford – the amazing Louise Jefferson in “The Jeffersons” – also expressed her objection to the decision of the interracial couple to marry. The only person in attendance celebrating the union from the onset other than the lovebirds themselves is the monsignor, the Draytons’ good friend.

When my mom and I went to the movie theatre when it came out in 1967, I was just 7 years old; watching it again with her at home, maybe I was 10 or 15. I can recall her explaining to me the racial issues that plagued the country, and I knew that she and my dad as community leaders fought segregation in our neighborhood, in schools and everywhere they could, so it wasn’t a new topic for me, but it sure was one I didn’t understand. It made no sense to me why people would discriminate against one another simply because of the color of their skin. 

Watching Sidney Poitier movies was absolutely one of the best memories I have of spending time with my mom, and the fact that she was so moved by him made him inherently special to me, too.

2022!

 It’s 2022!

Woo Hoo!!!

But here’s the million-dollar question...What does the New Year really mean, given that we are still in the throes of COVID?

All bets are off now as to when this thing is going away – or, more aptly stated, when this pandemic will become an endemic – so I’ve decided to diss my New Year’s resolutions efforts of how I can be a better, more productive person and instead focus on how I can come out of this craziness relatively sane.   

I realize that I’m in survival mode, and as such I don’t need to push myself to write more, volunteer more, work more, organize more, exercise more, and so on...the status quo is good enough, for now.

In lieu of experience in this uncharted territory – mine or anyone else’s – to get me out of this seemingly endless funk, I’ve made the decision that it’s OK to bend my own rules, let go of my expectations for my behavior and accept that moving forward doesn’t always play out in the same way.

Here’s a sampling of my “I’m doing OK, even if I...” list:

...Eat dessert for breakfast

...Wear my PJs through dinnertime

...Facetime, talk or text the day away

...Endlessly scroll through Facebook, Instagram and email

...Surf the web for hours and hours, read celebrity gossip and all of Carolyn Hax’s advice columns, dating back to 1997

...Watch hundreds of crochet tutorials on fun new patterns to try and then make the same old square blanket

In other words, all this stuff I’d ordinarily be encouraging myself NOT to do before COVID put our lives on hold is now fair game, because these restrictions have made me see life differently.

However, once I feel free again to come and go as I want – without health concerns – I wonder if I’ll revert back to my old habits of trying to make every minute count.

My Mom's Yahrzeit

This past week, on the evening of December 22, David and I lit a yahrzeit candle for my mom.

This is a Jewish custom that takes place on the anniversary of the date of the loved one’s passing, when the mourner kindles a memorial candle that is to be lit for a 24-hour period, until it extinguishes on its own.

The date is based on the Hebrew lunisolar calendar, in which months are lunar but years are solar; on the Gregorian (or civilized) calendar, the date for the one and only Florence Cohen is January 10.

Without realizing why, I had channeled my inner Florence the night before the yahrzeit, when I had reached for the one pair of pajamas that always reminds me her. This set is flannel, has a matching top and bottom in a very colorful winter pattern (mine has snowflakes), and the top is short, boxy, is button down and has a collar.

On the morning of December 23, with the candle still burning, my daughter Allison called from work to ask a question about punctuation for a memo she was writing. The words she was writing were “members satisfaction,” and “members” in her correspondence was both plural and possessive.

She was pretty sure that the apostrophe would go after the “s” in “members,” but after debating it multiple times due to a co-worker’s questioning of it, she started to waver...should the apostrophe go before the “s?” Thus, the call for help.

For the minute or two that we talked about where to place the apostrophe, I became my mom. She, like I, had talked it through with our daughters and assuredly weighed in. In this case, using an apostrophe after the “s” (s’) at the end of a plural noun to show possession was definitely the way to go.

My mom was a master of the English language, and she was a stickler when it came to punctuation and grammar. I so appreciated that she could get me out of any kind of writing pickle I had created, but there were times she’d get carried away with the explanations and would lose me at “participle” and other verb tense rules that never fully sunk in.

The sense of déjà vu I experienced - with a twist, given that instead of my doing the asking, it was my daughter this time - on the date of my mom’s yahrzeit, was especially sweet.

I often wonder which memories of me my kids will hang on to.

Perhaps they’ll write a blog post about them one day.

King of Boxes

David and I are a couple of stashers: I have a plethora of note and greeting cards for every occasion, wrapping paper, gift bags and the like; he could open a packing store with all his boxes, peanuts, cushioning and other related shipping supplies.

He gets great joy in his box collection, as his boxes are always in motion and are tied to his favorite hobby of listening to music. Boxes come in and go out of our home with the equipment he has bought or sold, as well as the music itself, that he buys or trades.   

Every time he receives a package that doesn’t house equipment, he assesses the quality of the box to determine whether it’s a keeper. If it passes the test, he’ll most likely reuse it for music or something else. He has also bought boxes in various sizes to be sure he’s equipped for every possible scenario.   

Our attic and shed are filled with boxes, and sometimes I also see them lying around in other rooms waiting for him to determine whether they’ll make the cut – or go straight to recycling. There were many times, I must say, when I have wondered Who needs all these boxes, for goodness’ sake? 

I’ve become much more aware of all these goings-on since the pandemic started. I guess that’s what happens when you’re with someone 24/7, when everything is on display. It’s not like the old days when I had a life out of the house and didn’t always know what was happening in it.

I get my own deliveries from Fed Ex and UPS, as I do way more shopping online than I used to. I’ve taken a liking to testing out shoes from my favorite brands – FitFlop and Taos, which in large part are no longer found in stores – although I know my mom would cringe if she knew I was buying shoes online. She would, however, be happy to know that I’ve gone from stylish to supportive.

Since I cannot resist a good sale, I recently ordered FitFlop sandals and boots but, after trying them on, I decided to send them back; rather, to ask my resident box-meister to do it. I was a bit nervous about this though because, for whatever dumb reason, I tossed the original outer box, which was very large to accommodate the boots. This would mean he’d 1 – ask me where the box is so I’d have to admit I got rid of it before I knew about keeping the boots and then 2 – he’d have to dip into his coveted inventory for my return, and I wasn’t sure how he’d feel about that.

Although he did ask why I tossed the box when I told him I’d be returning the shoes, he seemed pleased for the return ($) and then he right away went into problem-solving mode for a solution. He ended up cutting apart 2 boxes to make 1. It was perfect.

I told him I’ll be a good sport and take my box to UPS so that he doesn’t have to 😊.

Now that I see how simple – and cost free with FitFlop – it is to order, try on, and return, I may do this more often! It’s even easier than driving a whole 5 minutes to DSW, which is more interested in selling kids’ shoes and J Lo stilettos than comfortable footwear for old ladies like me.

I always like when my stash helps him out with a card or for wrapping a gift, but his stash has a lot more potential for me than mine does for him.   

Being married to the King of Boxes is, for me, a match made in heaven.  

It's A Start

I am proud – and embarrassed – to say that this past week I donated blood to the American Red Cross for the first time!

It only took some 45 years to do it. When I was much younger, I was afraid of needles, and then when I got past that – somewhat – I was busy with kids, busy with work, busy with life.

A month ago, I took a walk with my girlfriend Bobbi who was telling me about her life: caring for her parents, her husband, working...all the things I’m not...and oh yes, giving blood in the upcoming week.

Eeeeek...No more excuses! I went online when I got home and made an appointment. I could not believe all the location choices, the one I chose being just 5 minutes from my house.

The outing took about one hour, starting with my answering questions along with a health screening to check my vitals, both done to verify that I’m in good health and would be an appropriate donor. The woman assigned to me checked my pulse, blood pressure, body temperature, and hemoglobin level.  Next time I donate, I can utilize their app for a quicker check-in, although each visit will still require a mini-physical.

The draw itself took about 10 minutes and collected about one unit of blood – one pint – and once it was complete, I was instructed to sit down for a few minutes and have a bag of cookies. Boy, that was a change, to be told to eat something sugary. I had Chips Ahoy and fruit punch...No guilt because I was doing what I was instructed to do. Besides, I needed refreshments to replenish some of the body’s fluids and nutrients and boost my energy level. 

In a month or so, I’ll be able to log on to the site and see the results of my blood tests, along with my blood type too that I should know but only vaguely think I remember. I learned that donated blood will be tested for Hepatitis B, Hepatitis C, HIV and other viruses/conditions before it is OK’d for a recipient.

I’m happy that I was able to do something that could help another person and potentially save a life, and all I had to do was lie down on a padded bench. Donations are essential for trauma patients and people undergoing a variety of situations including surgeries, transplants, chronic illnesses, blood disorders and cancer.

It’s also true that at any time, I could be the one needing blood, reliant on others to have donated, but it recently dawned on me: How can I expect it would be available for me, if I haven’t done my part to give it?

I texted my friend after my experience because I was so excited about it and wanted her to know she had inspired me. I also told her that I plan to donate as often as the Red Cross allows one to do it, which is every 8 weeks, or up to 6 times each year.

When I asked her how many times she had donated, she was thrilled to say that she had recently received notification that she is just one donation away from 6 gallons of blood, as she has donated 47 times!

I will never catch up to her (obviously), but I feel good to be part of the team!

The Silent Kind

I wish this wasn’t the case but, the longer I live, the more I learn about new medical issues, and much of the time I had never heard of them until a loved one or I experience them.

After several primary office visits and months of coughing – along with a handful of other symptoms that some might think are TMI to share – I landed in the office of an ENT at my doctor’s suggestion to unravel what had become the million-dollar question: Do I have Allergies? Reflux? Something else?  

The ENT and I discussed the situation and even though I had been dreading the diagnostic laryngoscopy procedure (that was to be done right there in the office) for no reason other than because I am a big baby, I was excited when she said that I’ll know if I have reflux before I leave the office.   

The scope took under 2 minutes, if that, and wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as I had anticipated. Fewer than 10 seconds later, she said “This is ‘Silent Reflux.’” I knew of reflux, but silent? Who knew there was such a thing?

Silent reflux or “LPR” for laryngopharyngeal reflux differs from the more common reflux known as GERD (gastroesophageal reflux) because traditional reflux symptoms such as heartburn and indigestion are NOT present, thereby making LPR a bit tricky to figure out.

With LPR, stomach acid travels up the esophagus and spills into the throat or voice box (pharynx/larynx). It is when these acids make contact with the food pipe and vocal cords that the irritation/discomfort/burning can occur. With GERD, on the other hand, the acid settles into the esophagus and poses different problems.

This is my understanding of Silent Reflux 101. I still have a lot to learn, but first...How do I pronounce what the L in LPR stands for...laryngopharyngeal?

lə-ˌriŋ-gō-ˌfar-ən-ˈjē-əl, -fə-ˈrin-j(ē-)əl – according to the Miriam-Webster dictionary.

Given this diagnosis, experts advise a change in dietary habits which includes the restriction of spicy, fried and fatty foods (NBD - no big deal); citrus fruits (NBD); tomatoes (ugh); chocolate (double ugh ☹); peppermint (NBD); cheese and garlic (ugh); and caffeinated and carbonated beverages are best taken off the table. In addition, I’ll be trying out a PPI (proton pump inhibitor) that will hopefully work as expected.

So where does this leave my obsession with Trader Joe’s dark chocolate covered almonds? And my love for tomatoes eaten right off the vine that David grows in our back yard? And cheese for my omelets? And that scrumptious hot green tea?

I’ve sure enjoyed all this stuff over the years, but I realize that as we get older, our bodies don’t work the way they used to. This unfortunately leads to new ailments that impact us in one way or another, requiring us to act. With this LPR finding, I realize I’ll have to make some changes but, all things considered, it could be worse.  

Like everything else – and the title for a recent blog post – it’s all relative.

Meow, Meow

Everyone knows that the male species does its own thing when it's good and ready – not a moment before – and “October” has been no exception.

To combat the pandemic blues last spring – in May 2020 – my dear old friend Bonnie and her younger daughter, Rachel, rescued three-year-old October, born in a litter with “April,” “May,” and “August."  

Longtime cat lovers, they were pretty excited to have a furry friend to keep them company and occupied, given all the hours they spent at home, alone together. Besides, Rachel wouldn’t be living with her mom forever, and my girlfriend liked the idea of having a companion for the long haul as well as rescuing one of the many animals in need of a loving caregiver.

When they brought October home, Bonnie and Rachel were chomping at the bit to cozy up with their new roommate. For his first few nights with the ladies, October was, as you might expect, rather shy, tentative, perhaps frightened. He spent most of his time hiding behind the clothes dryer or under the TV cart, where Bonnie placed a mirror on the floor so they could keep their eyes on him. She also picked up a pheromone diffuser for cats, hoping it would help to alleviate his stress.

While October warmed up to Rachel first, it wasn’t for at least a year that he began to pop in and out of Bonnie’s bedroom, heading straight for the windowsill or the door. He then started to stroll in and sniff around but not settle in; he continued to inch toward her while keeping a safe distance. 

Finally, after a year-and-a-half, I woke up to this text: 

“October spent the night in my bed!”

Bonnie has had some pretty special moments in her life, but I get the feeling that October's first show of affection and trust may have been one her most fulfilling ever.    

She has begun to climb into bed earlier on occasion in the hopes that he'll join her and the two of them can snuggle while watching TV. When he’s in the mood, he keeps her nice and warm, sleeping next to or on top of her or folded into her legs.

“I had more pep in my step this week,” she said, warning me when I ooed and aahed that while her little "love bug" is sooooo affectionate, it's only on his terms.