Lessons Learned

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Preface: The Day Before Day One

Thirteen years as a publisher of an upscale lifestyle publication provided endless opportunities to revel in the learning curve of life.  From community leaders to people in the arts, these brave souls let strangers and friends into their secret closet via profiles and biographies.  And, I thought to myself, I have a little time on my hands… maybe I should do the same.  After all, what’s the worse that can happen, I learn something???

After over 35 years away from my home state of Massachusetts and more directly, my family’s home, I have been here for a sizable stint this year, which is nearing its end.  The return has been strange for many reasons.  Perhaps the most intense being that it seems that everyone here is stuck in the 70’s-80s,  Actually, add the 50s and 60s to that, minus the hippies and beatniks. How is it that every little nick-knack, from fingernail brushes to home accessories like teeny objects made in summer camp, still hold watch throughout the house? And they do hold watch. They aren’t used. They just sit there like monuments of a life past, waiting to morph into slimy human-eating monsters. Something tells me that it is a good thing that I will be returning to PA very soon. (Full disclosure: I love my parents.)

It’s like nothing has changed except they got older. Stuck in a Twilight Zone meets the Outer Limits, everyone got older, body-wise, but they all remained or have become child-like.  And, may I add, not the nicest children.  Usually when people get older, they get nicer.  This movie’s cast of characters are the most pedestrian brood I have ever been around.  Worse yet, stuck here and held against my will by a whole bunch of Billy Mumy’s is not the homecoming I anticipated.  Frightening, but so far without sharp objects flying, it is still alien to me.

Fifty-six years old and still watching cartoons, my brother has spent the bulk of his play money on his toys. Mountains of old vhs tapes, books and dvds control almost all open spaces in his downstairs domain. His fulltime “reality” is fixing computers, but his “unreality” is spent writing a plethora of fantasy science fiction and making make-believe items for his make-believe world that he has been in since the 70s. Ah, the Society of Creative Anachronisms. According to his philosophy, the Renaissance Faires that abound in the summer aren’t the “real” thing, but their two-week event near Pittsburgh is totally authentic. Are you kidding me? That’s like saying that fantasy is real and reality is not.

Of course, in this world of robots, aliens, knights in plastic armor and duct tape, televisions are on wherever there is one. In one room, during weekdays it’s CNBC, from eight in the morning till the bell rings at the close of market day. Otherwise, it’s mostly crime dramas with a little pinch of Julia thrown in on the weekend. Behind Door Number Two it’s fantasy, cartoons, science fiction and computer games. And throughout his knightly domain are hundreds or thousands of dust collecting unused libraries of “things” filled with proof that he totally blew wads of cash that could buy something major. But who can blame a guy who ran home after his master’s degree (archeology/geology so fits) and never left. No rent for a lifetime and a house to keep someday?  Enter Monty Hall Mansion. The jury is out as to whether he got a grand prize or got zonked, though I am sure he sees it, at the very least, as an Ed McMahon moment. And in a recent disagreement abour his choice of (or lack of) decor, “I got here first” was his retort. No sh-t, Sherlock, you are two years older.

Let’s get back to Outer Limits again. I thought to take a closer look at my own situation, watching all the episodes of Alfred Hitchcock, Outer Limits and Twilight Zone on hulu.com may lead me to a faster way out of here.  Either that or I morph into one of the “pod people” never to return to normalcy. Screw hulu. I don’t want to even visit at this point. I am already in an episode of an endless spine-tingling fantasy sci-fi thriller and I dislike that genre.

It does make me ponder about the reality versus the perceived reality in life. How is it that for some people it is normal to be abnormal, while for others, it’s the opposite assessment. Says who?  Perhaps the litmus test is whether you can find the escape hatch in under one minute, blindfolded. Sounds like a new challenge for Minute to Win It called One Blind House Mouse.

All I know is my brother’s friends are of the same ilk, speak the same secret language and I have no bloody idea what they are talking about. Does this make me abnormal?

If everyone lives in their own “reality” one would think that we would have an on/off switch for shooting away arrows of drama and weirdness. That way, if someone else thrives on their rants, loves the controlling and obsessive behavior that fill each day, you can just change channels.  Pfft. Gone.

CHAPTER 1: Patience, Patients, Parents

If the beach for me is only 5 minutes away, and my mother is vehement that it is 15-20 minutes away, is it worth arguing about? Perspective is only in the eye of the beholder.

Part of the problem, as I am perfectly aware of my need for selfless perspective, is that this is their life, their home. Dad is almost 90 and Mom is in her 80s. Some of the screaming occurs because Dad doesn’t hear well, which used to work in the older days when Mom and I wanted to make particular comments just between us goyls. However, now it is like the starting bell of a tournament that historically has only had one winner since the 50s.  The head of this domain was always Mom. No question. Now, it has shifted, so award-winning is shared. This whole house is like a giant serving platter filled with wants. However, because levity rules on my island, I escape to the cave. Some days, the battles never stop. Humor is my only defense. I swear they used to appreciate a funny outlook, but no more hoopla for this crew. Too bad, really. I have come up with some great lines. Although Mom has her own treasure chest of one liners, like “Stop yelling and shut up, that’s why all of your teeth are falling out.” Her best one ever was on my wedding day during the private words of wisdom before leaving the house for the ceremony. “Whatever you don’t like about someone only gets worse when they get older.” I retorted, “You mean he’s going to get shorter?” We laughed and laughed. I miss that laughter.

Food. Simple, right? No reason for disagreement there. Wrong. I swear it wasn’t always a starch, carb, processed food and cookie world here. Okay, there were always cookies, donuts and pastries.  But I remember real food. You know, the kind that actually grows in the ground, gets caught and brought to the table without a freezer. Except for eggs, buying organic foods are looked down on here. Costs too much. But that huge Sam’s Club container of cookies for $200 is a deal! And the Honey Nut Cheerios box you could bury an adult in is really a bit much since only one person eats them…but okay, I’m cool. I started using them to toss out onto a hidden area in the lawn for my border collie, Dylan I Can Do THAT! MacGregor to do his morning “Find” routine. He does good work.

Sorry, lost track. Sometimes I have to get out weapons to get visits from my healthy green friends. I admit being addicted to arugula (in this case appropriately named rocket…which I need to get outta here).  My beloved salad ingredients are colorful, good for you and versatile as all get out, but Dad just can’t justify the cost. God bless him, but he just doesn’t get it. I do, however, win the award on occasion (remember, we share). How do I convince him that eating healthy really does cost the same in the run for a long life? Patience.

CHAPTER 2: SIGH.  DID YOU HEAR THAT?

Sometimes, okay all the time, it sounds like a tiny choo choo train is running though the house with all the sighs that I hear. All three of them do that all day. Furled foreheads, sighs and screams and not what I call dinner conversation, so I eat in the kitchen. Oh…let me clarify. Except on lobster nights (I know what you are thinking, but they are under $5 per pound for culls so they fit in Dad’s budget), mom eats in her bedroom, as do the rest of the crew to appease her, since she is not doing as well as we would all like.  I, however, abstain from making stains by using that funny thing called the kitchen table. They don’t like that, but monkey man (my brother) loves it because he can hang out with them and yammer on and on about who knows what.

Sighs are not good signs.  I actually caught myself sighing last month, and immediately swore off for life. No way, Jose. Not me. Don’t turn me into one of them. Now I am most aware of anything that shows a sign of my becoming alien-like. Sitting down or standing up with a grunt is just not allowed.

Of course, the sighs are signs of frustration. For Dad it is the constant demands from Mom, the responsibility of the house and shopping – well everything. Mom is not able anymore, so Dad does it all. I always offer to help, but consistently get shot down. But here’s the interesting part. When I do something, I don’t march into the Queen’s room and announce every little thing I have done.  Everyone here does that. Besides, asking to help doesn’t work, so I just go at it.  So often, I have the pleasure of being accused of doing nothing. Doesn’t matter that I am always cleaning floors upstairs and down, or dusting, picking up after someone has been in the kitchen or after dinners. Mom swears I don’t do any of that so loudly that seagulls ten miles away can hear her. Okay, some of the cleaning is because my dog is shedding like a man going bald, but we’ll get back to him shortly.

But, then, some days she has my back. Just not often. Not to worry, I don’t take it personally. It is the aging process, and thinking otherwise is selfish and boring.

This brings us to the fundamental difference between men and women:

SCENE: Home after a Work Day

MAN: Man comes home, opens the door with a loud sigh and says,
“Hi, honey. I’m home. Boy, what a day! I am exhausted! I worked so hard, but I am going to go outside and paint the picket fence.”

He goes outside. He paints. He comes back in to announce that he has painted the picket fence.

“Now I am going to go in the garage and clean the brushes.”

Rather than just putting the brushes in the solution to soak, he stands there for 15 minutes slamming the brushes back and forward to clean them.

WOMAN: The woman comes home. She says nothing as she is smiling. While she is holding the baby, laundry is in the washer and dryer, she has food in and on the oven cooking while she is on the phone with someone from work about an important situation with a client. She reports nothing as she continues her chores.

LESSON LEARNED: Women can multi-task. Men do not. Women don’t complain and announce every thing they have accomplished. Men do. Enough said.

CHAPTER 3 : But I Digress / The Great Escape(s)

It’s funny how life changes for those who retire. Retirement isn’t written in my playbook, but then, I have been unemployed for so long that I sort of get it. The only difference is I am temporarily without fulltime employment with no money flowing, and retired people have pensions, medicare and casinos. At least they have the chance of making money.

Mom was always up on the times through the 60s and early 70s, but she didn’t play The Beatles. Tchaikovsky was more her liking. I look back on my childhood and distinctly remember the fights that commenced while we kids were dragged to Gilbert & Sullivan plays at Oberlin College Player’s Hyannis stage. The same thing when it came to classical concerts. Our fights became the event before the event. Funny thing, during the college years, I found that I began to appreciate the chamber and theater upbringing as well as jazz and blues, but the real set-in didn’t happen until a decade after sit-ins. To this day, looking way back, I take pride in the fact that I snuck into their bedroom to watch The Beatles on Ed Sullivan, while they were downstairs in the den. The rebel period was now officially on! Unfortunately, I couldn’t turn up the volume, because they both heard rather well in those days. Thank g-d they didn’t touch the tv when they came upstairs.

Blues. I just love ’em. There aren’t enough Jews who do good blues. Doesn’t make sense. Haven’t we been through enough to feel the pain?  Jazz on the other hand, swing jazz, in particular, was an important part of the musical portfolio. It was always a Tuesday night when Dad’s Jewish friends would come over to practice their hometown gig. Dad took the drums, someone sat at our very cool painted piano (decorated with drunk people with martinis at a party with x’s for eyes), while the band was completed with clarinet, sax, trumpet and guitar. Thank g-d no damn banjo.

It was sort of like Steve Martin in “The Jerk” – that kind of jazz. My toes would tap together two floors up just like he did when he said the opening line “I was born a poor black child.” Funniest opening line ever.

Sorry. Digressing again.

The lesson learned by hearing my Dad’s band of brothers was that obviously it was okay to be one hit wonders. Great song I occasionally remember, but I swear it is the only one they ever played.

One of the best things my parents did was push creative on us. Somehow, I was the only one who didn’t get the academic part. That is not to say that I was not smart. That is to say that I chose my informative years by choosing the “unreality” rather than the “reality.” And, as silly as it sounds, I am not so sure that was a bad thing. Besides, I got the creative which allows me to attack any task at hand except projects in math or science.

Chapter 4: What do you mean not everyone is Jewish?

Aah, the lessons learned when I was going to the old Betsy B. Winslow Elementary School in New Bedford. What a time. All I can remember about kindergarten is making butter and putting it on Ritz crackers. That must have been why I passed that year and eventually became such a serious foodie. First grade is also a blur but I remember Mrs. Ferguson, sorta…well, she had short hair and flat shoes. Nothing else about that year is rising through the clouds so outside of 1+1 it must have been an easy year.

Second Grade was huge. Freakin’ Mrs. Gregory. She kind of looked like the great grand dame of New York stage, the late Kitty Carlisle (I still can’t believe she passed). The difference was that Mrs. Gregory was the stern, while Kitty Carlisle was the port (at least it seemed she drank enough of something to be so happy). Mrs. Gregory made white paint look like a summer tan she was so white. I always checked to make sure her feet touched the ground.

I think amid the heads-under-the-desk thing and single lines holding hands to the school basement for air raid and fire drills was enough to scare the b’jesus out of any of us. Jews love to use the name Jesus, but they don’t believe in him. I always said he was a rather smart guy who got pissed when someone cheated at Canasta or Mahjong so he started his own religious cult. Could be. Wasn’t there. I had heard the name Jesus. Mom’s use of “Oh, Jesus” was common enough, but I really had no idea who Jesus was.

Then the real Jesus came to life. It was during my fifth year on earth when I found out that there were “other people.” Threw me a real loop.  “What do you mean you aren’t Jewish? What are you, then?” Yep, age five can change your life. The best was yet to come the following year during one of the marches to the school basement. Somehow a girl behind me said “Jesus” and I turned around and said, “Jesus was Jewish.”  I think this was the first verbal fight I had as a child. The issue was never resolved. Jesus Christ must have had his ears burning.

Outside of spelling, I wasn’t the smartest kid academically speaking. I am intelligent, however. Let’s face it, somehow that damn medicine ball must have hit me on the head during outdoor recess…or I was always thinking about Hamer’s Fish and Chips a block away from school. Those were the days. You could actually go home (or not) for lunch.  Some old friends were recently reminiscing about Hamer’s on Facebook. I asked what the batter was made of because to this day it is still the puffiest and crunchiest ever made on the planet. The response from Glenn was “Pancake batter, Lucky Strikes and body sweat.”  I think he was right on, except for the pancake batter. I am still hoping to find the secret recipe.

The rest of elementary school memories got screwed up by having to go to Hebrew School, my least favorite thing in the world. G-d I hated that.  Even worse than the dentist. I never really got it. School after school?  Wasn’t the first school punishment enough?  As far as I used to be concerned the Jewish religion was really just an excuse for eating. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a happy or sad occasion, or holiday…you eat like a chazzah at every event. This really brings us to the topic of Jewish food, to which I will sum it up and say that either your mother was an excellent cook or Pop Tarts were considered gourmet. I was lucky. Back then, we ate like kings, even with the donuts and all. Speaking of donuts, an old friend of mine once said, “A donut is the only thing you can eat that makes you feel like one.” But then, she can step on her food and eat it, according to a mutual friend.

Chapter 5: How many words can YOU make out of vegetable soup?

During the days of war protests, Woodstock and lovefests, politics became important enough to register as an Independent. Yes, I am a bit sarcastic. That didn’t last long. After the election, I realized I had to go with the party with the fewest letters associated to it. Left was much better than right, and screw the independent. Can’t sew that many letters on a quilt before you die. From that mistake on, I have been democrat all the way. Someday I would love to see all states allow all voters to vote however they want – not by party. That way the primaries save some time. Maybe even a little bit of money. I am no politician, but I do like money. I like it more when there is some LEFT.

Speaking of money, nothing was really expensive back then. At least it didn’t seem so. I never heard a peep about how much something cost then. Maybe I didn’t use Q-Tips enough, but I swear it just didn’t come up in conversation.  The things that seemed to matter were rights for women, politics and that damn war. Thank g-d for the music. How timely was that? It sure wasn’t country music that helped to change the political mindset. Now on the other hand…today country western music has a dual personality and effect. Still can’t go with it though. Too many letters.  Rock and folk only have four each.

I always say that if you really want a war to end, pack up a plane full of women who are pms-ing. Arm them with Hershey Chocolate Bars and send ‘em to war. Trust me, they will win and it won’t take long.  As I think back on studies at junior high and high school, I do remember bits and pieces. Not to make a pun about pieces, but I distinctly remember the distinctly disgusting smell of the frogs we had to dissect in Biology. The only way I got through it was that my teacher was cute, so it took my mind off of how I thought I hated science.  Maybe I just hated frogs.

This was the time when false fire alarms were in fashion, and the same for bomb scares. No one ever thought there was a bomb or fire…we were all in la la ville back then. People wouldn’t do that, would they?  The simple life soon began to fade. The terrible teens years were so conflicting. On the one hand, we got the comforts of home, but all we wanted was to run away. I remember once how my friends Judy and Leah and I sat on the bed and had a very serious discussion about heading west. I have no idea where or why, but I know we wanted to go. We had no car, but back then hitchhiking was seemingly okay. We really thought we were mature. Leah is the only one who made it to Washington state, but that was some many, many years later. I still want to go.

Mixed between the haze of “high” school and tennis tournaments, I rode in The Standard Times newspaper truck. I never see those anymore. Anyway, the point is that I am not even sure I had a real job with them, although I think so… All I remember is riding in the truck with members of the Black Panthers, who were really a great bunch of guys. They set me straight on the what’s what back then, so my opinions swayed to their side. Unfortunately, this is also when  our coffee manufacturing plant in the South End got bombed and burned down. No correlation, but the times, “they were a-changin’.” It was clearly riot time, and by no means a riot.

Music wise these years offered everything you could ask for from great coffeehouses to Sky Pilot. We were all a little sky pilot-y back then. The old sea shanty period was the best. Some of the words sung in the JCC coffeehouse still stick to this day (thanks to Hellerman and Minkoff’s “Come Away Melinda”):

Daddy daddy come and look
And see what I have found
A little way away from here
While digging in the ground    

Come away Melinda
Come in and close the door
It’s nothing but a picture book
They had before the war    

Daddy daddy come and see
Oh daddy come and look
There’s four or five Melinda girl
Inside this picture book    

Come away Melinda
Come in and close the door
There were lots of little girls like you
Before they had the war    

Daddy daddy come and see
Oh daddy hurry do
There’s someone in villages
Who’s all grown up like you    

Come away Melinda
Come in and close the door
That someone is a mother
Like you had before the war    

Daddy daddy come and see
Such things I’ve never seen
Happy faces all along
And all the ground is green    

Come away Melinda
Come in and close the door
It’s just the way it used to be
Before they had the war    

Daddy daddy come and see
And tell me if you can
Why can’t it be the way it was
Before the war began    

Come away Melinda
Come in and close the door
The answer lies in yesterday
Before they had the war     

First remembered version is by the Mamas and the Papas, and also Judy Collins, but Uriah Heep, years later? Yes. Those were the days, my friend. I thought they’d never end. We’d sing and dance forever and a day….

Lesson learned? Eat your beets. You may not like them as a child, but you will grow to love them later. To think about how much I hated steamers and lobster with caesar salad (yes, with anchovies) when I was thirteen… well, I can’t get enough of any of that now. Jesus, I hope that doesn’t mean I am going to like sci-fi/fantasy next.