A Shacket, Anyone?

The Cohen siblings – there are 8 of us (4 plus spouses) – have a tradition of giving each other gifts for our birthdays. The process for each person usually starts with this question: “Anything specific you want for your birthday?” The answer could be a particular item, a gift card, or a “surprise me!” response that falls within our budget.  

One of my brothers has a birthday coming up in November, so I asked him the annual question and he said he’d like a “shacket.” He asked if I know what that is, to which I replied that I think I do but please explain. I was a bit confused because I had only heard that term once before, in a women’s clothing store, last year. He said the one he wants looks like a shirt but it’s heavier, it’s button down, he’d wear it as a second layer over a lighter shirt, it has pockets with flaps on the chest, and he wants it in navy blue.

As he described it, I started to picture myself as a teen wearing this exact item – my beloved “CPO.” I wore it every day and don’t recall when or why I retired it. Perhaps I wanted to disassociate with a wartime item given my overall anti-war stance – even though I was proud that my dad served in WWII – and this jacket debuted then as part of the uniform given to U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officers (CPOs) in the early 1940s.

Or maybe it was simpler than that: the jacket was always kind of itchy (it was at least part wool), so maybe I became more finicky as time went on. I also think that in my later teenage years, I probably developed the desire to wear more fashionable clothing.

A few years ago, when the downtown Philly I. Goldberg Amy & Navy store – where I had purchased my CPO – was set to close, I began to feel desperate to find another one. I wasn’t sure why this sudden need for nostalgia became so pressing, especially when I’d never want to relive some of those turbulent teenage years. That’s the funny thing about yesteryear – it isn’t always positive; it’s often negative – yet I often find myself longing for items that take me back there anyway.

I guess that CPO I adored back then was what we’d call a shacket today, and I will get a kick out of it when I see my brother wearing today’s version.  

I might even decide to get one myself.

 

 

 

 

 

O Say Can You See?

Life sure is better when you can actually see what you are trying to look at.    

I’ve gone from bragging in my younger years about how great my vision was to needing multiple types of eyewear to meet the typical goings-on in a day.  

My saga started about 15 years ago when I had to wear “readers,” or magnifying glasses, at work. I picked up the lowest strength (1.0) and, for a year or so, all was right with the world. But then it wasn’t, so I went up to a 1.50...then 1.75...then 2.0, and now I think I’m wearing a 3.50, with all the strengths scattered about the house because I have been too lazy to replace the older readers with the newer ones.

I noticed an additional issue a few years ago when I was driving at night and found myself struggling to see the signs on the road. I was in a tizzy about this, thinking I’m starting to fall prey to old age, and I put off the trip to the optometrist because I was too stubborn to admit it was time for the next step.

Finally, I went, and she said in a kind-of-nice but stern way that my eyesight isn’t going to improve on its own and may continue to deteriorate but this is all normal as we age 😊...Hmmm...Was this supposed to make me feel better? It took another 6 months to get the prescription filled and only 30 seconds of wearing my new eyeglasses to realize what an idiot I was to hold off for so long.

And then several months ago, I found myself squinting once again to read the signs a distance away, this time during the day while wearing my regular sunglasses. As I stewed over this for a few weeks, I noticed that the lenses on my sunglasses were impossible to clean, adding to my inability to see. I went to Sunglass Hut to try to replace them, but that little trip didn’t work out as I had hoped, so I decided to check out my options at Lens Crafters, where my eyecare insurance plan would cover some of the costs.   

Within minutes I ordered a new pair of prescription glasses and then moved on to the sunglass portion of the visit. The sales guy assumed I’d order prescription sunglasses since I had just ordered other prescription glasses, but I let him know that IMO this would be overkill. Inside he was probably saying to himself that I’m out of touch with reality, but he patiently talked it through with me, explaining that regular sunglasses would not help me to see clearly, and wearing my prescription glasses would not protect me from the sun. I started to feel embarrassed when I realized what a no brainer prescription sunglasses were.    

So now hundreds of dollars later I have prescription glasses, prescription sunglasses, and readers. I could have chosen to get bifocals – distance and reading glasses in one so that I wouldn’t have to switch all day long – but I chickened out because I didn’t know anyone who wore them that I could talk to and was afraid of not liking them.   

While I’m pleased with myself that I finally stepped up to act like a responsible adult with appropriate eyewear when driving, I’m still somewhat frustrated that I need so many eyeglasses with me, wherever I go. I also carry an extra pair of readers just in case I misplace one, since I cannot function without being able to read, even if we are talking about menus.

Because of all these glasses and their sturdy cases, I have no choice but to carry a handbag that can accommodate them, which often leads to shoulder and back discomfort due to the weight of these items plus a substantially sized purse. Sometimes I wish I could just wear a fanny pack but there’s absolutely no way this can work with 4 pair of eyeglasses unless I’m taking a walk outside and the only pair I need are the sunglasses I have on.   

Last week, my girlfriend and I went to the magnificent Grounds For Sculpture, a 42-acre sculpture park in New Jersey. When she got out of the car, she was wearing a fanny pack. “Where are all your glasses?” I asked, incredulous that she and I looked like we were dressed for different experiences.

She pointed to the pair on her face and said that everything she needs is right there: they are “transition” lenses, meaning bifocals and sunglasses that can be worn inside and outside, all in one nice tidy package.

Next time I go back to Lens Crafters, I’m taking her with me.

 

 

 

 

Beth

There once was a lovely woman named Beth Strum, who left the world way too soon.

We met 20 years ago, when we participated in a local Jewish group for mothers and middle school daughters. It was designed to enhance dialogue between moms and their girls during difficult teenage years and to keep the values of and connection to Judaism strong.   

While we stayed in contact for the most part since then, our friendship began to grow some 5 years ago when we began to get into the nitty gritty of our lives which, for us, meant our families, relationships, politics, shows we liked and most exciting to me was that I learned we were equally passionate about my favorite hobby...writing.

Beth was a natural poet and over time began to share much of her writing with me, often about the students she worked with in school and one about getting her young son (now grown) to clean his room. We talked about how to turn this poem titled “Toys with Wings” into a book with illustrations that he could enjoy as a keepsake and could also pass on to his children when the time came. Her poetry oozed with adoration for all the people she loved.

As time went on, she wanted to write for a broader audience to stimulate meaningful conversation with family and friends about current and historical events and the role of religion in our lives. She liked the idea of blogging – sound familiar? – and asked me to help her get started. She also began to write for a friend who had created a start-up women-oriented website/app that she later invited me to join as well.  

One day while chatting about each of us being the “baby” of 4 siblings (although she was a twin) and other commonalities we had recently discovered, I threw out an interest of mine that I was sure we did not share, because I had never met anyone else who wanted to do it. I told her I had just signed up to be a hospice volunteer.

I was shocked when Beth said that she had been talking with her neighbor, a hospice volunteer supervisor, about registering for training sessions and that she, too, was eager to get started.   

And once again, ironically, with all the hospice organizations around, this supervisor was the same woman who brought me onboard. So, in addition to writing for the same website/app and blogging, we were also going to visit hospice patients with the same goals in mind: we wanted people who were dying and who felt alone to freely speak about their feelings and/or memories, or just have company in their last days.

When I started volunteering, Beth always wanted to hear about my interactions with the patients. Although I relished conversing with those who wanted to engage, there was one gentleman who had been difficult to read. His eyes were always glued to CNN, and he never turned to look at me, nor did he ever respond to anything I said. Unfortunately, I took these actions somewhat personally and asked my supervisor whether she knew if he really wanted company and, if not, perhaps I should respect what I interpreted as his desire for peace and quiet and therefore not stop in anymore. The last thing I’d want is to irk the guy.

But then she explained that he had the devastating diagnosis of ALS - Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis – a progressive neurogenerative disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. He was, at that point, unable to respond in any way. He could not turn his head, lift his arms, sit up, stand, walk, eat, speak, nod his head, or write.

Although I had not known anyone personally who had been stricken with this, I had heard of ALS and had seen the disease portrayed in movies, one of which centered around baseball player Lou Gehrig. I also developed a better understanding of it when the 2014 Ice Bucket Challenges took over social media, thereby raising widespread awareness and funding for scientific advances and expanded care for people living with ALS.

My supervisor asked me to continue to visit and to say hello to him at the foot of his bed so he could see me right away but off to the side a bit so as not to block the TV. She explained that his hearing and mind were sharp, so I should tell him I’ve come to see him and that I then acknowledge the photos of his family and pets that were hanging on the wall. She also told me not to ever verbalize thoughts about him to a caregiver or anyone else within an earshot since he would have been able to hear everything.     

When I told Beth, who was also a therapist, about him and how inept I felt, she told me in her soft and gentle but firm manner that even though he was unable to look toward me or speak that I should continue to visit, be sure to smile at him when I am in front of him, and she also suggested that I touch his arm periodically so he could actually feel my presence. Beth always gave good advice.

It was during this period of our communicating multiple times a day due to our growing list of shared interests that she mentioned her concern that something was wrong with her. She said she had been feeling unsteady on her feet and fell a couple of times in recent weeks. When I tried in my normal manner to minimize this situation so she wouldn’t worry – while also stating she should contact her doctor – she mentioned that a couple of people had also told her that her speech sounded garbled.

I asked her whether she had been wearing new shoes, whether the surfaces were level where she had been walking, whether she was having troubles with her teeth and so on. There was nothing explainable about what she was experiencing.

We mostly “talked” on Facebook messenger which meant that I couldn’t see or hear her voice, although she did call me later in the day to talk further about her concerns, and we met for lunch that next week. It was clear that her speech and gait had changed.  

It turned out, once she finally got in to see a neurologist which took way too long, that Beth had ALS.

For a few months, she continued to share with me her emotions about life, ALS and dying via Facebook messenger. It was unimaginable and so very sad beyond words to be so close to someone so vital and loving and young who was acutely aware of everything going on, including the fact that she wasn’t going to be around much longer.

As her decline worsened and she was not able to speak clearly, she brought up (through texting) how frustrating it was to be able to hear – although she was also grateful for it – but not respond...making her feel, at times, invisible and irrelevant.

Beth let me visit her once at home before she was bedridden, when she was using a walker. Since she no longer could utilize on her voice, she sat on her sofa and pointed at the space next to her so I would sit there. I smiled at her as much as I could and sat close with my hand on her arm, the very gestures she had suggested for me when visiting the man with ALS.

As we sat together, she tried to start an exchange of thoughts through texting on her phone/iPad. She became frustrated because it took so much time and effort to try to get her point across given that she was unable to touch the correct letters, fix typos and, therefore, contribute to and advance the conversation as she would have liked, as she had done hundreds of times before her body had betrayed her.

After our visit, there were a few weeks when she wanted to converse and would text messages like this: Grandbaby today? or News? Or Blog? Or whatever the subject was that she wanted to hear about - with a question mark. I’d then respond with a few sentences, and she’d reply, for as long as she could: “TY.”

Once communication became infrequent, I would have really appreciated her guidance on how to be a good friend and how to provide comfort and companionship as she became incapacitated, but at that point, I was on my own.

Beth passed away two years ago. It has taken me this long to be able to write about her.

Rosh Hashanah 2022

Last week, my friend returned from a 3-week trip to Israel, where she’s visited many times over the years. She had gone to attend the Bat Mitzvah of her niece and decided to extend her stay, travel a bit, and hope to connect with family and friends.

I had texted her when I thought she’d have come back to make sure all was well. “Returned early in the a.m. yesterday exhausted and exhilarated,” she replied. She had me at “exhilarated.” I was eager to hear the juicy deets, so we made a plan to get together. 

Surely I could imagine why the trip would’ve been exhausting with all the airline travel, jet lag and moving from one destination to the next, so when we sat down for lunch, I was all ears about the other stuff she’d elaborate on when we were face-to-face. I thought she’d say something about the captivating nature of attending a Bat Mitzvah in Israel or about a friend she hadn’t seen in decades or of her memories of the years she spent living there, any or all of which would’ve explained her smile.  

Her response, however, was this: “I had no expectations.”

This left me with a “What?!?!?” type of reaction, but then she elaborated. Because she had no expectations, she was grateful for and moved by everything she experienced: for every family member/friend who took his/her time to spend with her, for every conversation, for every kindness, for every moment.

She found joy in all gestures big and small, went with the flow, and greatly appreciated the present.  

That’s not to say she wasn’t disappointed at times; she knew when planning the trip that there would be bumps in the road and there were, mostly due to COVID, which prevented her from seeing several people. But instead of letting that rattle her, she channeled her energy toward feeling lucky to have seen those she did.

This discussion was especially meaningful given that tonight is the start of Rosh Hashanah – the Jewish New Year – with the holiest day of the year, Yom Kippur, next week. This 10-day time span creates the perfect opportunity for me to reflect on the past year and mistakes I have made, focus on being a better person, and adjust how we approach each day going forward.     

My girlfriend’s story has helped to inspire me to work on shifting my expectations of what I think people and things should be to instead enjoying the beauty and value of what actually is in the here and now.

 

Laurence

One month out, I’m still thinking about a man named Laurence who I met this summer while David and I vacationed in Maine.

He is one of the two proprietors of The Trellis House B&B, where we stayed in Ogunquit. He has the perfect personality for this role: warm and welcoming, eager to please, focused on our dietary preferences for breakfast and, with a very natural, relaxed vibe, made us feel that his home was our home.     

It was one of the hottest days on record when we arrived. David and I had already walked around town for a couple of hours because we were so early, and we were drenched, exhausted, and miserable – we looked like angry, wet rats. I was also in a wicked mood because I had lost my favorite visor earlier in the day and had become further aggravated when David said not to worry about it because I could buy one there - but, to be fair to him, he did help me retrace my steps and identified the store I left without the visor on my head.

Laurence saw what a hot mess we were, and he immediately offered us drinks. When he went into the kitchen, I walked around the living room checking everything out and found a framed wedding picture with him in it.  

I was and wasn’t surprised that the photo was of two men.

I could feel their joy emanating through the glass, and I found myself kvelling over this union, like I was their mother or their sister, so proud and happy that these two gentlemen found one another.

I was looking forward to meeting Glen, Laurence’s husband. Since we hadn’t seen him that first day, I had assumed that Laurence was the face of the B&B and that Glen handled the behind-the-scenes responsibilities. The next morning, however, Glen greeted us for breakfast and was just as perky as his counterpart had been the day before.  

Later on, we went to the Inn’s Happy Hour. It was as if we and the other two couples – one a man and woman, second marriage; the other a lesbian couple who were dating but not living together yet – were their longtime friends, as conversation and laughter flowed among us.

Either due to the reporter in me or because I’m so nosy, I took advantage of the opportunity to talk with Laurence about how he got to where he is today.

Soon I learned their “story,” which they must’ve shared hundreds of times over the eight years they’ve owned Trellis House: Laurence left Human Resources in corporate America to fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming a B&B owner, while Glen, also well-established in the working world, joined Laurence a year or so later.

They started with one building in Ogunquit and expanded to form a B&B complex of three, along with the growth of their very classy brand that has elevated Trellis House to the winner of Trip Advisor’s Certificate of Excellence in 2021 and one of the Top 25 B&Bs/Inns in the United States, for four consecutive years. The B&B was also featured on the Price as Right as a destination vacation.

A group of people stopped by during Happy Hour. Laurence was so excited to see them, like a little boy who was reunited with longtime friends and family. One woman told him how good he looked and then he told her he had lost some weight. Glen must’ve seen me glued to this dynamic while everyone else was minding their own business and then mentioned to me that Laurence had been down in the dumps but he’s much better now. I could feel the love and concern he had for his partner.

Trellis House is worthy of the awards it has garnered. It is an absolutely lovely place to be. Our room was tastefully decorated, comfortable, and relaxing; we could sit on our private balcony and see a glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean; breakfast was delicious; Happy Hour was fun; proximity to town is within walking distance; and to top it all off, they have a dog named Bentley wandering around whose hair looked and felt like Shea Doggy’s.

While I appreciated all these fabulous selling points and was delighted to hear about what may have been a fairytale dream-come-true for Laurence/Glen, I’m not so naïve as to think their lives have played out without obstacles...like the ones that defy human rights, such as being free to be who you are and love who you want.

We had a wonderful week in Maine as we always do, I found my visor and, and thanks to Instagram, I can relive The Trellis House experience anytime at all.

Go Zoey Go!

Our granddaughter Zoey is 2 years old. I just realized typing this that I am 60 years older than she is (Oy)!  That’s a lifetime of flashbacks for me as a mom and many of them are still very, very clear.    

On a recent visit to Florida to see two of our girls – my daughter Allison and her daughter Zoey – Allison enthusiastically mentioned that I would be going with them to Zoey’s new swimming class. This is the first time she’d be going in on her own; the last one was for parents too.    

I was feeling anxious just knowing I would be witnessing this; I pictured Zoey crying “No, Mommy, No,” and this made me hesitant to want to watch. To prepare Allison for what I thought might be a realistic outcome, I informed her that Zoey might not be willing to venture into the pool by herself.

Allison, however, assured me that she had been talking to Zoey about this for a couple of days leading up to it and that Zoey does well when she understands what’s going to happen. In addition, she had just moved up to a new day care class without tears (other than when she was pushed off a chair by one of the older kids and hit her head) on her first day, so there was no reason to think this would be any different.

No reason?!?! Memories of my kids shrieking when doing all kinds of things that forced them (and me) to grapple with their independence came racing back to me, even though I too had explained next steps...or did I not?

When it was time for Zoey to enter the pool, I could see her arms wrapped around Allison’s neck. I saw Allison try to put Zoey down – I have variations of this memory x 3 – and it looked like Zoey was digging her feet into her mommy’s torso, holding on for dear life.

Anticipating what I was afraid might transpire, I started to cry. Yes, real tears. I was so nervous for them, and then I became embarrassed for myself. Why was I tearing up? Watching the kiddies without all the responsibility of being a parent is supposed to be one of the greatest perks of being a grandparent.

As I sat in the sea of parents smiling and waving to their happy kids in the water without them, I was hoping that no one had noticed that very likely the oldest person there in the swim school at the time had fallen apart.

And then I saw the unthinkable, in a matter of minutes...Zoey reached for the arms of the teacher and within seconds was playing in the water. She spent the next 20 minutes splashing around under the protective care of her instructor...all the while smiling and waving to us. 

Was her willingness to enter the water solo after Allison’s explanation a result of her genetic make-up, or is it how she’s being raised by her parents?

Who knows...but I was surely impressed with Zoey’s bravery...wish some of that would rub off on me!

 

 

Father's Day 2022

When I see my son and sons-in-law shower their babies – our grandchildren – with love and affection, I feel so warm and fuzzy inside.

It’s a beautiful thing to see our daughters and daughter-in-law also display such delight; I can still feel the thrill I felt around my babies, even though it’s been decades since giving birth.

But, for some reason, watching a dad immersed in the magic of his little one stops me in my tracks.   

There’s just something about seeing a grown man envelop a tiny baby in his massive hands, talk several octaves above his own or so tenderly kiss the delicious cheeks of his toddler that I find...captivating.

Creating bonds with our young may feel like the most natural thing in the world, yet one of the more challenging to maintain seems to be between fathers and daughters.

While starting off as a love fest between daddy and baby daughter, this relationship becomes more complex as she begins to mature and starts to develop a mind of her own.

I’m surely no expert on this, but it has always fascinated me given the changing role of men and women in society. Back in the 1960s when I was a wee tot, my dad was responsible for supporting the family and my mom, who also worked, handled the care of 2 boys and 2 girls and many other aspects of our lives.  

Since my mom was at home more often than my dad and spent eons of time and energy relating to me, I naturally began to gravitate more to her. Add to that the physical and emotional tumult of my life when puberty set in and I got my period, needed to shave and wear a bra, I’d never have thought to go to my dad. It would have been too embarrassing to even talk to him about any one of these things even though I was forced to when he caught me one day using his razor. 

It was my mom who took me shopping (until I could go with my friends); it was my mom I went to when I wanted to talk about my girlfriends and boyfriends (and husbands). She gave me her heart and wisdom, and I always knew my feelings were safe with her.

There wasn’t much to talk about with my dad; we lived on different planets, without a bridge linking them. I remember being so excited in high school that I had a boyfriend who smoked cigars; I thought this might ignite conversation and interest with my cigar-smoking dad but let’s just say...he wasn’t impressed.    

For the most part, I didn’t think much about the individual roles of mom and dad until I became a mom. That’s when I realized how unprepared I was as a new parent wanting to raise happy, confident, kind and well-rounded kids. How would this be accomplished? I had no clue, so I started reading everything and talking to everyone.

It became clear in my quest for information that both emotionally healthy moms AND dads have the potential to benefit their kids in infinite ways.

In today’s families, with two working parents and shared duties to keep the household running smoothly, both parents have the opportunity to participate in child rearing. This means that the child can learn from and experience the best and most unique qualities of mom AND dad on a regular basis.   

Studies have shown that while both parents have important roles to play, the relationship dad has with his daughter can be life-defining, impacting her self-esteem, body image, behavior, relationships, academics and so on. A daughter also benefits greatly by learning about her dad and being exposed to his work, hobbies and perspectives, as well as her mom’s.  

In addition, and so importantly, dads are likely their daughters’ first and most influential role model, setting the standard for expectations on how men should treat women and what strong, healthy relationships look like.

In short – after a very long blog post – I have high hopes for these men in my life to give our grandchildren the very best they can, along with these amazing moms I get to call my daughters.