A Final Farewell

The year 2012 will be remembered for a lot of fond farewells.  We said goodbye to many who defined my generation, from astronaut Neil Armstrong to actor Larry Hagman to singer Whitney Houston to ground-breaker Sherman Helmsley to comedienne Phyllis Diller to author Gore Vidal.  It is also time for me to say goodbye.  I have no plans to leave this world, but I do plan to sign off this space, suspending Mommadods’ Blogarhythmz on this, the 366^th blog in 366 days. 

This has been a journey I have enjoyed immensely.  I consider it a personal accomplishment that I set out to attain a goal and here it is, all tied up in a bow.  If I sound like I am patting myself on the back, I suppose I am.  There were days when I questioned my resolve and others when I questioned my sanity.  For those out there that think blogging is easy, it is.  There are tools and templates that can set you up in the blogging business in a matter of minutes.  Anyone can be a blogger. 

The hard part is being a writer.  As a writer, I confront myself and my demons on a daily basis.  There are visions and snipets and emotions all tied up inside me, and it is a harsh task to bring them out in coherent thoughts.  Blogging is a parity of writing.  With  my entries, I was looking to explore myself and my voice more deeply, choosing substance over cyberspeak.  I wanted to create something lasting for my children, and something revealing for myself.  I also wanted to write in complete sentences.  That so many of you participated in my quest is unexpected and humbling.

One of my close friends asked me at the beginning of the year why I was doing this.  Was it therapeutic? A challenge?  A means of self-expression?  Or all of the above?  I really cannot point to a single motivating factor.  I like projects and challenges; there was something neat about having a finite amount of time to write about an infinite number of things.  But there is clearly more.  I have always been defined to the point of being typecast:  pianist, cook, speaker, Hahvahd grad.  I enjoyed undertaking something that was completely unexpected.  We get so few opportunities in life to reinvent ourselves.  Who is to say that even at this advanced age I cannot become a writer?  Or an artist?  Or an activist?  I want to prove that life still offers all the opportunities it did when I was making critical choices back in college.  Just because I took one road in my twenties does not mean that I cannot double back and try another.  

One of the unexpected things that I learned about myself during this year is the extent to which I have strong feelings about what is going on in this world.   The phases of my life up until now have been largely self-absorbing—focused on skill building, education, practicing.  I realize now that I have grown impatient with party politics, disgusted by environmental exploitation, and just plain disappointed in the way people deal with one another.   My future projects will be more outward focused, targeted at making a difference, albeit in small pockets of the universe.

A word of advice to those of you who would set yourselves up for a public challenge:  be realistic.  I confess I was hasty when I announced that I would write what amounts to a daily column every day for a year.  Every.  Day.  For.  A.  Year.  Even statisticians are allowed a margin of error.  I had to keep writing, even while on many vacations, or celebrating my second honeymoon, or when my children came home to visit, or during the holidays, or when I was flat out sick in bed.  To miss even one day would have meant automatic failure.  Remember that the first rule of engagement is to define your objective.  I needed to go with something simple, like “eliminate the target” instead of something monumental like “war on terrorism.”  But my tactics were a bit more forgiving.  As long as I wrote every single day it did not matter what I wrote.  Not every writer creates art every day.  So thank you, readers, for enduring the occasional Shakespearean sonnet.  They were good relaxation techniques for my writerhead.  Sometimes it is easier to say in iambic pentameter that which eludes us in prose.

I feel a need to point out that my stories are not intended as textbooks or encyclopedias.   I have written from my own point of view, including personal stories from my own life.   It is important as a writer to search for honesty and truth, learning to show, rather than to tell.   My stories have been exercises in various ideas, styles, topics, genres—whatever I felt I needed to try at the moment.  Some were personal.  Some were editorial.  Your scrutiny is part of the exercise and most of you have been very kind.

I have been surprised by how many people have asked what I planned for my final blog.  There is no magic here.  I had a job to do and now it has come to an end.   If I had one final wish it would be that I could write so compellingly about the importance of love, tolerance, and acceptance that everyone would pull their heels out of the dirt and start working together to achieve social justice, world peace, and human harmony.   I fear for us all in a world where everyone is intractable and extreme.   We can all use a little less “me” and a lot more “us.” 

But for those of you who prefer a little magic, I’ll simply “Puck” off:

 

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,

That you have but slumber'd here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles do not reprehend.

If you pardon, we will mend.

The Bloggy Awards

As this blog-a-day challenge winds to a close, I thought it would be fun to honor some of the dedicated readers who have been loyal companions on this this long journey as well as some of the memorable moments along the way. 

The first award goes to Jack Grippo, a beloved high school math teacher to me and to so many others.  His untimely passing during this blog year was the inspiration for the blog:  “If You Don’t Know Math, You Don’t Know Jack.”  Thanks to a surprising shout out and share from Sue Eder on a NMB thread, this blog received the greatest number of hits by far.  I am glad that so many people shared my love for this quirky little man.  I am proud to have given voice to our collective respect and adoration for a man who dedicated himself to inspiring kids to accept math into their lives.

The “best sport” award goes to my mother-in-law, Arlene, who inspired the blog “Mother-In-Law Diplomacy.”  Her good sense of humor allowed me to call her out for a meal that is etched in my memory—but not my taste buds—for all time.  She is kind enough to know that I would never laugh “at” her, and therefore enjoyed laughing along at something that was really the stuff of which good comedy is made.  Truth, as they say, is better than fiction.

The “exploding raspberry” award goes to the blog “It’s Not Easy Getting Clean,” in which I lampooned myself for my own inability to confront my housekeeper about her lazy cleaning habits.  Even as I write this blog, she is five hours late showing up to clean on her designated day.  This blog hit a sour note, apparently failing to register its tongue-and-cheek voice among many readers who took exception to everything from my management skills to my treatment of a human being as an employee.  (One person went so far as to suggest that I must elevate this woman’s humanity by coddling her and then hiring someone else to do the actual work so that she could be relieved of such a burden.  I vote for the solution where she actually does what she is paid to do—like all of the rest of us.) 

The “Broken Heart” award goes to the blog “A Final Bow for Eddie Alberts,” written about a close family friend whose musical genius was an important part of my life.  His untimely and unexpected death moved me deeply.  I was thankful to be able to use this blog to communicate to his family what he meant to me.

The “Mommadods Cheering Squad” award goes to a group of incredible women who have not only read most of these blogs, they let me know by hitting Like or leaving comments regularly.  This includes both Janes, Donna, Christie, Gigi, Susan, and Patti.   Without feedback, blog writing leaves a writer feeling like the proverbially tree that falls in the woods.  Their participation and constant dialog let me know that my voice is making a sound.  Truly, I cannot begin to express what their support has meant to me.  (I'll include you, Jim, if you don't mind the image of your shaking pom-poms with a team of women.)

There were several awards that were not chosen to be broadcast on the live show.  They were awarded in a private ceremony at an earlier date.  These include the “Get Your Own Blog” award, the “You Can’t Criticize What You Haven’t Read” award, and the “It’s My Life, Not Yours” award.

For my special “In Memoriam” feature, I want to recognize some beautiful people who passed through my life but have not lived to read about it.  My dear father and my amazing grandparents left me with rich and colorful memories.  For many of the tales involving them, I am not the author, merely the storyteller.

A few final awards.  The “I May Not Always Be Right, But I’ll Always Be Writing” award is given in honor of my children.  Their presence in my life enriches every moment.  Nothing fascinates me more than watching them develop into adulthood.  I am proud of their values, their accomplishments, and their constant love.  I am grateful that they have let me tell their stories along with my own, and in particular, to reveal struggles that may inspire others.  You are my heroes.

And finally, the “Thanks for Keeping the Bed Warm” award goes to my devoted husband, who was not consulted before I jumped into this endeavor at 11:40pm last New Year’s Eve.  He has endured this long year with grace and courage, one day at a time.  He has allowed me to poke fun at everything from the way he acts to the way he dresses without so much as a stern countenance.   His support for all I do is rare and greatly treasured. 

We are almost out of time, folks.  Cue the music.  Roll the credits.

The Sins of the Mother

Although the theme is a biblical one, it was while reading Ibsen’s play Ghosts that I first learned the concept of “the sins of the father are visited upon the sons.”  At the time, I related the idea to my own father, and the many of his physical and behavior traits that were already ingrained in me.  Now, as a parent of young adults, I see my own weaknesses and characteristics mocking me in the actions of my children.  We do our best for our kids, but there is just no hiding from our family baggage.

When my son was born, I wanted to give him a life beyond anything of which I had dreamed.  I was in love with being a mother, getting caught in the trappings of a baby’s world.  Everything “baby” shouted out at me; nothing was too good for him.  It was a pleasure to be able to spoil him.  I loved to surprise him with things, living for that adorable glint in his eye when he beheld a new toy.  I did not suspect there was a downside, that my son would grow conditioned by impulse.  He became seasoned by my doses of instant gratification, causing us to struggle in later years to learn long-term planning and short-term budget management. 

My daughter was a surprise little girl in a male-dominated family.  I wanted her to have a happy, girlie life.  Whereas I was always made aware of my physical shortcomings (too ugly, too fat, too frizzy, too unlady-like), I wanted my daughter to feel comfortable in her own skin, empowered by her womanhood.  She was always told she was beautiful.  She was allowed to try her hand at anything with unflinching support.  And she was never compared (favorably or unfavorably) to her very different older brother.  Despite my efforts to wage a pre-emptive strike against my own latent traits in her, she would be forced to reckon with a genetic predisposition to hips, a hair-trigger temper, and a mind that is not wired for mainstream thinking.  It still takes me aback when she lobs some of the same sharp rejoinders at me that I once hurled at my own father.

I always used to laugh when Bill Cosby talked about raising children—before I had any of my own.  He would say that the only people certain about how to raise children are the ones who never had any.  Having strict and unrelenting parents, I was hell-bent on doing better for my kids by being the opposite of my parents.  Unfortunately, the more I tried to resist the instincts and impulses that were drummed into me, the more I am certain that I emulated them.  I suppose we can never apologize enough to our children for being the parents we felt compelled to be.  At the very least, I have always tried to do one thing that my parents never did.  I was never afraid to apologize when I was wrong.  I always wanted my children to realize that although we are parents, we are still human beings.  It is more important to me that they understand my passion for protecting their interests than it is to be right.

I will always fear that I have failed my children in some important way.  I am not a good teacher, even of things that I am good at doing myself.  I am not a good wallflower, having the tendency to become involved in the dialogue of my kids own interests.  I make my opinions and tastes abundantly clear, which, no doubt, has shaped those of my children before they have had the opportunity to decide many things for themselves.  As Cosby said, “Parenting will always create bizarre behavior. . .and I’m not talking about the kids.”

So much of parenting serves expedience.  I agree with Cosby when he said, “parenting is not about justice; it’s about peace and quiet.”  As parents, we get tired.  It is a load that we never get to put down.  I used to think that my kids would out-grow my need to worry about them, yet it seems that the older they get, the greater my fears.  The world is a frightening place.  It’s not that I distrust them.  I lack the confidence in my own parenting skills to believe that I have equipped them well for the unknown journey  ahead.

I hope one day my kids will forgive me for my improvisational style of parenting.  I hope that I have exposed them to enough human failings that their experience as my kids will somehow translate into valuable lessons for their own lives.  While I may have botched every test of parenthood, at least my children have never doubted my love for them.  They know that their mother’s love is one thing in this life they can always count on. 

How do I know this with such confidence?  Because they reassure me all the time.

The New Bucket List

I’ve always been a big “Bucket Lister.”  Recently, however, I realize that my bucket list is way out of date.  I have been so busy juggling what is on my plate that I have neglected to dream on for the future.  Many items that had previously been key motivators for me (return to piano and give a public performance, take my daughter to Greece, become a writer, perform Chopin’s b-minor Sonata) have found their way off the list and into my life’s story.   There are two things you can do when this happens.  You can live with the knowledge that your bucket list is exhausted (and the psychological consequences thereof), or you can add more things to the list. 

I choose the latter.  There is no point in dwelling on the possibility that the best years are behind.  It is simply time to fill up the life ahead with more dreams and goals.  I choose to interpret the fact that I have achieved so many of my goals as a life well-lived (rather than as a life mostly spent).  This latter phase of my life reflects an adjustment in my circumstances.  For example, I no longer live to see my children installed in the colleges of their choosing.  Instead, I hope to see them accomplished in their professional goals, situated in loving, lasting relationships, and developing an independence and fulfillment of their own.  I also hope to live to hold my grandchildren—and while that seems to imply some urgency, I am really in no hurry given my children’s current stages in life.

It is probably no surprise to anyone who knows me that most of my dreams and wishes involve my children.  But a bucket list should be personal and selfish—otherwise, what is the point?  So given the proximity to New Year’s Day, (and we all know what happened when I made resolutions LAST New Year,) I have decided to renovate my Bucket List.   And a word to my husband:  you are welcome to join me on any or all of these journeys.

1)       I want to visit Alaska.  For some reason, Alaska is always on our vacation short list but never becomes a planned destination.  My husband is from the Pacific Northwest, so perhaps Alaska is not as exotic a destination for him as it is for me.  I love mountains and glaciers.  I love taking real “discover America” trips.  I want to see bears and caribou and the Aurora Borealis.  I love eating salmon and halibut.  I prefer cold destinations with snow to beaches and tropical climes.  I want to visit Alaska while I still have the stamina (and the joints) to enjoy it.

2)       I want to prepare and perform an all-Chopin recital.  Chopin is a pianist’s composer, but many of his pieces are over-done and even shunned by audiences.  Still, there is much richness in the lesser-played pieces of his vast collection of compositions.  For me, playing Chopin is story-telling.  His pieces capture the fragility of his failing health, the vulnerability of his circumstances as an expatriate, and the reflection of the larger-than-life characters that inhabited his life (Georges Sand and Franz Liszt among them).  To do them justice requires great physical strength and broad emotional availability.  It is hard live in that space (for the time it takes to accomplish the task) without being profoundly altered by it.

3)      I want to renovate a loft space as a general contractor.  My husband and I have always lived in old homes, so I have come to enjoy tearing down walls and renovating them room by room.  We are reaching the point where our home is too large and impractical for our current circumstances.  We have been talking about going sleek and urban.  I would love to find some up-and-coming industrial space that I can design for our specific needs (gourmet kitchen, recital parlor, library, master retreat—and I suppose some space for when the kids visit).  I derive particular joy from sourcing fixtures, knobs, and reclaimed materials while parlaying the savings into top quality kitchen appliances.

4)      I want to see The Last Supper, Leonardo daVinci’s masterpiece in tempera and gesso, before it fades from the walls of the humble convent of Santa Maria della Grazie in Milan. 

5)      I want to complete the novel that I sketched out three years ago.  It now has a different form than I originally planned—the result of a year spent writing daily.  I would like to find the time and the focus to embark on such a large-scale project. 

6)      I want to go to art school.  I have studied lots of things in my life, but my first love was always art.  Long before I became accomplished at music, I wanted to be an artist.  Today, I tinker with lots of crafts, loving to make things “with my hands.”  If I have one regret, it is that I never took art lessons.  I have always felt that I possess the soul of an artist, but I have always been lacking the essential skills.  I would love to experience the discipline of drawing classes, honing my eye, my sense of form, and the conviction of my (shaky) line. 

7)      I want to start some sort of a company that harnesses the creative power of my closest friends—brilliant 50-something women with a wide variety of backgrounds, interests, and experiences.  Together, we have the bench strength of any Fortune 100 company.  We ought to be able to combine the best of us into something that will bring value to some segment of the world.

There is more where this list comes from, but it is a start.  This ought to keep me busy for at least another twenty years.

The Tale of Phil and Ida

Eighty-one years ago today, my grandparents, Phil and Ida, were married in New York.  During the past year, I have told lots of stories about these two wonderful people.  To meet them, they could seem ordinary.  They were not famous, or eye-catching, or particularly gifted with any skill.  What was remarkable about them was the way they lived—with a deep love and respect for one another and a commitment to the family that they built.  When my grandmother eventually lost her faculties in her eighties, requiring her relocation to a nursing home, my grandfather died of a broken heart.  He could not face each new day without the love of his life by his side.  She found her way home to him, just three months later.

My grandparents did not have an easy life.  They worked hard—my grandfather as a dentist (and in Florida as a registered pharmacist) and my grandmother as a teacher.  In addition to their own three children, my grandparents were like guardians over their own extended families, taking proprietary care of every niece and nephew as if they were their own children.  My grandfather would give anyone the shirt off his back if they needed it; my grandmother would set a place at her table for anyone in need of a hot meal.

I have told many tales about the special moments that my grandmother and grandfather created for me in my life, but these pale by comparison to what they meant to each other.  To see them together was to understand what love is.  My grandparents were the model on which my husband and I based our own marriage—a commitment to the spirit of sacred vows “to love and to cherish.”  There was something about the way my grandparents related to each other.  My grandmother could anticipate my grandfather’s needs down to his next bite or next change of clothing.  My grandfather would worry that my grandmother had spent too many days burdened with the mundane without being made to feel like a queen.  He would succumb to spontaneous bouts of the magnanimous, buying her frivolous jewelry for no reason except that the mood struck him. 

Ida and Phil were adorable together.  After fifty years together you could still catch them referring to each other as “my love.”  My grandfather thought that he had captured the greatest treasure on Earth the day he exchanged vows with his beloved—a young girl of twenty he waited nearly seven years to marry.  There was not a day that they took for granted, and not a day spent angry or cross.   But the greatest gift was their sense of humor.  They never took life or each other too seriously.  The day after my grandfather turned 70, he said, “I worked all day, and made love all night.”  To which my grandmother added, “That’s because it takes you all night!”

I love to keep my grandparents alive, making them a part of every holiday celebration.  I set the table with my grandmother’s wedding silver—a humble, once-modern set of silver plate that is more precious to me than any sterling could be.  I remember how she taught me to set a table, and then to count the forks and knives after the meal.  The flavors that wafted from her tiny kitchen as she prepared a soulful meal could make you weep.  I keep her recipe box in my kitchen, each card written in her practiced teacher’s hand.  I fix her recipes—traditional foods for the holidays—to fill my home with their essence.  I want my children to know something of how it felt to be enveloped in the love of my grandparents’ home. 

Today, when people say, “They just don’t make’em like they used to,” most people think of cars or furniture or other material “things.”  I think of my grandparents, and the marriage that they forged together that lasted sixty-one years, until they were parted by death.  Every year on their anniversary, my grandfather would kiss my grandmother affectionately and say, for everyone to hear, “it seems like just yesterday.”  It was not hyperbole.  He really, really meant it. 

Tonight, my husband and I will open a bottle of wine and drink to their love for each other and for the love they showed to us.  It was no surprise that when I brought home a red-headed Oregonian, my grandparents welcomed him with open arms.  My grandfather asked me, “Do you love him?”  “Yes,” I replied.  “Well,” he said, “then we love him, too.”

With them, it was always just that simple.

'Twas the Day After Christmas

‘Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the House
Representatives clamored to return to their spouse,
The motions were outlined with meticulous care
In hopes that a mandate soon would be there;

The voters from states painted all blue and red
Had visions that compromise values would spread;
And many unemployed, and others in debt,
Had just cast their votes to ensure an upset.

When on the West Lawn their arose such a clatter,
The nation tuned in to see what was the matter.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
The Speaker and President switched into high gear.

With photo op clenched, the scene was sublime,
As political deal-making commenced just in time,
Whether to raise taxes or allow a tax riff,
Concessions could not avoid Fiscal Cliff.

Now Boehner! Now, Portman!  Mulvaney and Dent!
We need to find revenue to cover what’s spent,
Keep digging your heels while we all hit the wall!
A return to recession will damage us all!

With House back in session we need a lifeboat,
When all of a sudden they cancelled the vote,
What point is a roll-call, said Boehner as boss,
When the motion is certain to tally a loss?

Now here we all sit--a political mess,
While elected officials declare a recess,
Our lives left suspended in a weird state of flux,
A fate yet determined by a set of lame ducks.

Post-Yuletide, we wait while the Reps are recalled,
To try to find center in a process that’s stalled,
What are the chances this time we’ll succeed
If elected officials don’t step up and lead?

It’s time to get working, to loosen the stricture,
See beyond tomorrow and focus the big picture,
The object is to move in a positive direction,
Not to campaign for the coming election.

So before our Constitution runs out of steam,
Let’s all reignite the American dream,
Democracy must be more than a shiny façade,
To remain indivisible, one nation under G-d.

It's back to the Chamber, we all have a stake,
We expect to see the fallout of some give-and-take,
A good compromise is not cause for regret,
If we take a strong stand against National Debt.

On behalf of us all, keep acrimony at bay,
As Americans, we are born expecting to pay,
Let's fire up the presses, and Twitter, and faxes,
There is nothing that’s certain except death and taxes!

All I Want for Christmas

I am not big on observing Christmas, but in the secular sense I can appreciate the spirit of goodwill and family that are part of the Christmas tradition.  I have done my best to show appreciation to my family and friends during the holiday season.  Although it may be a bit self-absorbed, I have taken the time this year to write a wish list of my own for Santa:

1)      Please bring my children the confidence and determination to pursue their dreams with wonderment, creativity, and purpose.

2)      Please grant my friends and family good health and happiness in the coming year.

3)      Please bring my husband a victory for the Oregon Ducks in the Fiesta bowl, redeeming them from their single transgression against Stanford this year.

4)      Please make my daughter invincible on the hard streets of Philadelphia as she ambles from place to place at all hours (much to her mother’s chagrin).

5)      Please protect the century oaks that spread their boughs across my rooftops from the extremes of weather so I do not have to sacrifice their majesty for our safety.

6)      Please help my son to make good decisions (and be financial responsible) as he transitions from the protective college campus to the real world.

7)      Please get my husband to spend less time working and more time enjoying the fruits of his labors.

8)      Please bring me more time with close friends whose company enriches my life.

9)      Please help me find the focus to go back to practicing the piano.

10)   Please teach me to let go of worries and stresses about which I can do nothing.

Best wishes for the Holiday Season to all of Mommadods Nation.