Unfortunate Accident

I was gleeful on Friday morning. We had a brand new grandson. Jackie seemed tired but good. Baby Hal was healthy and Aron would recover from his cold and sore throat. David and I were there to help as needed. We had decided to stroll the city a little bit before we went over to NYU Medical Center's 13th floor maternity unit. I was joking with my husband as I tripped over a raised manhole cover in the street. While I fell to the pavement, I remember knowing that I did something to my ankle. But maybe it was just a sprain and hopefully the traffic light would remain red. "Maybe I can walk it off." I thought. I hobbled back to our car.

We drove to NYU Emergency. On Christmas Eve day it was eerily quiet there. I was taken in a wheelchair to see a triage nurse. Soon the patchwork of New York City life crowded in around us. A young man flanked by two police officers came in under arrest on a domestic violence charge. He needed to be sedated. His wife was hysterical because she didn't want his name published, "It will kill his 12 year-old son!" She pleaded. Ambulances arrived with a Chasidic rabbi and his wife who preferred to be addressed as "Rebbetzin". Both were carried in on stretchers. They were complaining about stomach pains. A young woman wandered in clutching her hand that was wrapped in a dishcloth. She had sliced her skin while preparing a holiday fruit bowl.

My ankle continued to throb, The resident who examined me thought it could be a sprain, a grade 3 sprain but still a sprain. I was wheeled into radiology. The technician manipulated my leg for many different views. The verdict didn't take long, I had fractured my ankle. While I was waiting for an air splint and crutches, I texted Jackie. It seemed ridiculous. She was upstairs recovering from labor followed by a c section and her mother-in-law was downstairs being measured for crutches, She encouraged me to come up to her hospital room and keep her company.

She was pumping milk while Hal was being treated under the lights for jaundice. In between naps we talked about babies, breastfeeding, swaddling and layers of clothing, Meanwhile Aron was at home trying to get rid of his cough and David was helping him complete the finishing touches in the nursery. A nurse brought Jackie and me cups of tea and plates of cookies. It looked like Hal would be staying for Christmas so his treatment could be completed and Jackie was entitled to a fourth night in the hospital.

The next day, David and I helped bring all of them home. I crutched up two flights but couldn't do much to settle them in. "It's comforting just to have you here." Jackie told me. She rested a sleeping Hal in my lap. He smelled like fresh air and felt so soft.

The sixth worst blizzard in New York history blanketed the city on Sunday and Monday. I was stuck indoors as I could not negotiate deep snow and icy pathways. I had hoped to cook and do laundry for the new family. But Jackie points out that she can have food delivered to their door and send out their laundry. I was reassuringly with her for those first precious days.

Hal's Birthday

Dear Hal,

Before dawn on the day you were born, I was awake and standing at my bedroom window watching the light cast by the lunar eclipse. It was also the winter solstice. Little did I know that your daddy would be phoning later in the day to tell me it was time for you to come. Your mommy and daddy were already at the hospital. I immediately called Grandpa and asked him to hustle home. We would soon be driving to New York. I didn't even have to pack my suitcase. I was so excited to welcome you that I had been ready for weeks. First I checked with Uncle Steve and Aunt Jean to find out if we could stay with them. With their usual open arms, they insisted that we visit.

Tuesday, December 21st was gorgeously sunny with bright blue skies. The sun had already set when Grandpa and I arrived at NYU Medical Center at 6:30 p.m. You came into the world at 6:57 p.m. You weighed 7 pounds, 10 ounces and were 22 inches long. Your daddy was thrilled to come into the waiting room and tell Grandpa and me about you. We went into the recovery room to see you and your mommy. Your mommy was a little tired but still her beautiful self. She was cuddling you, skin to skin. Your daddy was rubbing your head and your soft cheeks. He told us your name, Hal Akiva, a great name for a wonderful boy. You had lots of dark brown hair. Your deep blue eyes were wide open as you looked around, taking in your new world. How alert you were. I cannot wait to hug you again.

My love always,
Grandma

Patti

If we are lucky, we have special friendships during our lives. Today I lost a dear friend. I am flooded with memories of snowshoe hikes, car rides and the companion standing by my side who would squeeze my hand when my son emerged through the fog at the top of an alarmingly steep precipice. I did the same for her. Patti and I first met as ski racing moms. The more we waited patiently on icy slopes, the more we realized that we shared a lot. With husbands who have loved us for decades, we each mothered three children. We vented about careless teenagers, unwashed dishes, piles of smelly work out clothes and our kids’ friends who spent too many nights sleeping in our spare beds. Yet through it all, we knew how fortunate we were. We were happy that we were able to provide cozy homes and enjoyed taking care of the kids. I had my regular spot in the Cambridge Chronicle and she had her decorating business, but we were content making a pot of stew or baking a batch of cookies. We thought it was an adventure to have two feet of freshly fallen snow at our doorsteps and extra bodies sitting around our dining tables.

I think of last December when my husband, David and I had dinner with Patti and her husband, Chris. We toasted the holidays and her doctor's exuberant news that her tumor was shrinking. I try to erase from my mind the image of how thin she had become. Her scarves and silk jackets camouflaged her struggle. She always had her sparkly, eye-popping smile and her sense of style. “Chris has been so loving,” she whispered.

Next weekend when the ski team congregates for Patti’s memorial service, some of them will stay at our house. It feels strange that I can’t review the cast of characters with her or the provisions needed to stock the kitchen. It is one of the things that she and I liked to do best, watching out for our own and other people’s children.

Stylishly Older

There it was snuck in toward the end of a business article on Boston.com, the concept that the Talbot’s core customer is “… the 60-year-old woman who is much more stylish than she used to be…” Right away, I pictured a little old lady with her hair pulled back in a bun, wearing sensible laced shoes and a cameo pin sitting primly on her white blouse. But then I faced the numbers and realized that I am almost that 60-year-old woman. Actually I have one year and barely a few months left, yet so many of my friends and relatives have already passed this milestone, that it’s easy to feel that I’m part of their club.

Grandma Sarah warned me that life rushes by. Decades ago I thought that life stretched endlessly in front of me. Back then I was so busy raising three children, moving here and there, volunteering for community and global causes, making couple time, hosting holidays, birthdays and anniversaries, working hard at being an afternoon carpool queen, chasing a dog and cooking and cleaning in between grasping writing moments that the years did whiz by because I didn’t have time to think straight.

Yesterday I was at my grandson Simon’s school, waiting for kindergarten dismissal. I spotted a vaguely familiar woman wandering around in the crowd of nannies, mommies and a few dads. “Janet, is that you?” My daughter Jess had been a classmate of Janet’s oldest daughter. Janet’s hair that had once been long and auburn was bobbed and highlighted. She had on more make up than I remembered but she looked fit and trim and still exuded her warm smile. She gave me a hug and suggested that we have coffee soon.

It never occurred to me to stop being stylish, to quit spicing up my outfits with scarves and beads. Will I ever not want to manicure my nails, coif my hair and coordinate my boots with my bags? I’d like to think that I’ll always be trendy without looking like what my sister and I used to refer to as a “dead teenager,” a person with graying hair and skintight jeans and a studded leather jacket.

Some mornings I wake up with an achy back and a clicking left knee but mostly I feel younger than I know I look. Janet and I are clearly the grandmas; nobody would mistake us for the moms. “Can you believe we’re doing this again!” She exclaimed. It honestly doesn’t feel like twenty years have passed by. There have been graduations, weddings and now there is another baby on the way, the first little Epstein of this generation. I can stand in that schoolyard and blink and there is my son, Aron huddling with a group of his friends. His brother, Jason is hanging from the high bars and calling to me "Mom, can we stay here late today?”

Thinking about him

Nowadays there is a ream of ultrasound photos showing little feet, a round head and a lovely nose. I think about him as I pick out a newborn one-piece suit, a blanket, a stuffed animal and a book. Such fun to wonder about him and remember his father when he was just emerging with thick black curls.

It was a full house....

People ask me what it was like. It was a happy kind of chaos. An airplane taxied under my bed while a dinosaur lounged in the driveway. The backyard was full of every type of ball: tennis, whiffle, baseball, basketball. During the winter, a stroller was sometimes parked by the back door. Just as they had promised, a moving truck pulled up to our house on June 10th at 9:00 a.m. The men hoisted boxes of books, toys, clothes and papers. They took apart the queen-sized bed, and carted away the changing table and the nursing chair. By the afternoon, all that remained were the dust bunnies, a multi-colored dragon and a basil plant.

My daughter, son-in-law, two toddler grandsons and their eighty-pound mutt, Fiona moved in with my husband, David and me last June. David described it as being invaded. It did turn our lives upside down. Our dinner hour became 6:00 p.m. as two child seats were pulled up to the table. Jess was pregnant with their third child. It was the moment to renovate their antique Victorian. It was time for modern wiring, heating and lead-free paint. Removing one wall always gives way to another. The initial estimate of six months stretched into twelve. I couldn’t imagine not opening my home to my family. Who would want her grandchildren living amidst construction particles and rubble? Friends said: “Well, they could rent!”

David and I didn’t want them wasting their money on rent while we were living in a house that could accommodate them. Our cabinets became stuffed with wooden blocks, Lego sets and Playmobil people. It seemed that every other week, Fiona sliced a paw, strained a leg or broke a nail while racing after scurrying squirrels. This led to vet visits, bandages, one hapless and limp squirrel on the front walk and Fiona almost always wearing a “lampshade” around her head so she couldn’t scratch off her dressings.

Our third grandchild was due in December. Thanksgiving weekend was busy with celebrating my daughter-in-law Jackie’s birthday and mine. Our immediate family of ten plus one more dog crammed into our house on aero beds. Another four relatives joined us for a festive Thanksgiving meal. We enjoyed a Celtics game and a Nutcracker performance. Sunday night I was on my feet until 11:00 p.m. putting through loads of sheets, towels and tablecloths. When I finally got into bed around midnight, I could hear Jess pacing back and forth above me. Her water had broken. Her husband, Shane knocked on my bedroom door. It was time to go to the hospital. Witnessing the birth of my first grandchild, Simon had left me speechless while Asher barreled into the world so quickly that I barely had time to collect my thoughts. Miriam created a fourth generation of women in our family. She made her debut in a mellow way. Her face showed no sign of a struggle. When I held her, my eyes filled with tears as I hugged her close and thought about the strength of all the females who had come before her.

Now at six months old, she greets me with a smile and melts into my embrace. For a year, we got to live the way families used to dwell in triple-deckers. There was always another set of arms, another lap for snuggling and an extra set of eyes to read a story. Each morning, we woke to tiny footsteps and muffled whispers. “Don’t bother Grandma until she’s had her coffee.” Grandpa opened our bedroom door and Simon reached his warm arms around his neck. In the spring, Simon turned five and changed seemingly overnight from a preschooler to a little boy with a sense of fun. Asher celebrated his third birthday and decided he was wearing Lightning McQueen underwear. One evening during dinner, Shane innocently flushed the toilet for Asher. This spawned a toddler-sized fit that no amount of Swedish fish candy could remedy. Jess turned to me and asked: “You don’t have any small treats, by chance?” The only item remaining in my gift stash was a $40 Tyrannosaurus Rex. When Simon spotted it, his eyed widened: “I think I have to make a poop too, Grandma.”

There were once a portable crib and a diaper pail in the dining room along with paint and tile samples. Art projects piled high on the kitchen counter and juice boxes and quack ‘n bites spilled from the pantry. I feel a little bit the way I did when our children went away to college. Gone are the scattered sweaty tee shirts and wet towels. The order and silence are palpable. While they were living with us, we were impressed with how patient Jess and Shane are as parents. They can ignore towers of dirty dishes and mountains of laundry while they play with their kids. I have a constant, unnecessary need to wipe and fold.

My life as I knew it is back. I have stretches of time to myself. I can gaze out the window next to my desk and marvel at the impatiens flourishing under the dogwood tree. I can contemplate preparing a romantic dinner for two and in the evening while I undress; I can leave my door ajar. I can schedule meetings in the dining room and entertain adults on the patio. Nobody is playing Candyland in my study, running greasy fingers along the wall or driving a fire truck into the baseboard. I am also not holding Miriam while my daughter boils pasta, sitting with Asher while he inhales his asthma medication, picking up Simon at school or drying off the boys after their bath. It is just as I figured. I already miss them.

MV A.M.

Oaks and shad swaying
near jogging footsteps
Catbirds purring
A small plane humming
A lawnmower buzzing
David rapping
with a hammer
repairing a screen
Charli was insistent
one morning...

Birthday Wishes

When you’re sixteen, you’re still a child, unformed and open to possibility. Somehow, I knew my own mind and was certain that this boy at eighteen with hair that was thick on top and sideburns growing, a folk guitar, corduroy straight-legged jeans, and a contemplative look on his face was the only guy for me. I was drawn in, fascinated, and figured that I’d find a way to talk with him. His mother’s cross-country teen tour was the perfect opportunity. He boarded the bus and sat down behind me.

We’ve had years in Medford, three babies in Wayland, Stratton time, Vineyard magic, Cambridge urban dwelling, a third son, two more daughters, two grandsons and a granddaughter. My grandma Sarah used to say that it all rushes by in a dream. Yes, it does. But how lucky you are to have your family and dear friends celebrate with you. I’m wishing you more wonderful times with your many dreams that have already come true.

Green

My parents tell me that green has always been my preferred color. From when I was small, I asked for my favorite “geen”. I wanted the green cup, a green sweater and a green dress. Back in the ‘50’s, parents labeled their kids. It was easy for them to keep me happily in green. My sister became the blue child. The first time I had my own apartment, I bought several houseplants at the supermarket: ivies, pothos and palms. I quickly realized that I had a green thumb. The plants flourished. I purchased potting soil and larger pots. For my twenty-second birthday, my husband created a treasure hunt of twenty-two plants. One was in the oven, a few were in the bathtub, another was on top of the toilet and three were in the bed. I still have the jade plant and a shoot of dracaena from that early fleet.

I have designed my study with sage drapes, an olive chair and ottoman with a hunter green, terra cotta and ochre area rug. The living room walls are painted spring rain and the dining room table is emerald. Verdigris accents are on the patio and in the kitchen. Cheering for the Celtics is perfect for me. They exude green. I can wear my scarves and shawls ranging from pale seafoam to deep lake, and accessorize further with sandals, earrings and clutches. It is the Playoffs, the perfect moment to immerse ourselves in green!

She was a child

She was a child, really
with long blond hair
and a fist raised
Laced up work boots
faded patched jeans
and a tie-dyed tee shirt
1-2-3-4
We don’t want your
f----ing war

A boyfriend with a mustache
and curly brown hair
scraggling around his ears
Carrying a camera to record
the police in helmeted riot gear
wielding their batons

Not seeing then that
they were different
because they had choices
and a safety net behind them.

Grandma Bessie

My grandmother, Bessie met her husband, Isaac when she was a child. Together they left their Lithuanian shtetl, Ushpol when they were teenagers. Ushpol was 180 miles north of Vilna. I try to imagine what it was like for them to leave their parents, grandparents and multiple siblings. I think about Bessie’s guts. She was such a small woman with a bun carefully pinned on top of her head. I remember wondering if I could ever measure up. When I was eighteen, I’d take the subway to her apartment and listen to her stories over cups of milk tea. She drank her tea with a cube of sugar dissolving between her teeth.

From the shtetl, Bessie and Isaac went to Baden Baden, Germany where they hand-rolled cigarettes to make enough money to sail steerage on the SS Friesland from Hamburg. I guess they were there for a while. By the time they set sail, they had a toddler daughter, Mary and were expecting another baby, Ben.

Cousins in Boston welcomed them in the summer of 1906. I didn’t realize then that I should have asked her how she felt during those early days when she was home alone with Mary trying to teach herself English in a strange land while her husband worked at a tobacco store. With Isaac’s experience rolling cigarettes in Germany, picking up the same business in Chelsea, Massachusetts made a lot of sense. Meanwhile Bessie figured out English words by scanning the American newspapers. She taught her husband how to read and speak their new language. I marvel at her intelligence and her resourcefulness and wonder if she was lonely. Did she have neighbors and relatives who could empathize with her challenges?

In her nineties, Bessie’s memory understandably became confused. She mixed up fleeing the pogroms and the fiery torches that could decimate a village with the great Chelsea fire of 1908. Both were terrifying events in her family’s history. The pogroms prompted her to leave Ushpol while the Chelsea conflagration destroyed her home and sent her family to a different part of Boston, the West End.

While expanding their family to include five children, Bessie and Isaac migrated from the West End to the North End to Revere to Malden to Charlestown. Isaac was always looking for work as a merchant. When cigarettes could be rolled by machine, he began to measure yard goods in fabric stores. Eventually Bessie worked by Isaac’s side in several variety stores. Over the years, her children have joked that she was more of a professional woman than a housekeeper. Yet I can picture her presiding over her Seder table made up of multiple folding tables attached to her dining room table. This giant table began at her kitchen door and extended to the sills of her living room windows. It was covered with white lace cloths that were pieced together.

Pregnant with my first son, Aron, I recall eating candied carrots while sitting across from Bessie at her kitchen table. It was an autumn afternoon and the waning sun beamed shadows on her curtains. Always retaining her Yiddish accent, she exclaimed: “You have a golden a belly!” She spoke with a sparkle in her eyes and a smile that lit up her whole face. I can feel my shoes brushing her linoleum as I lean back in my chair and listen to her stories that were often sprinkled with her political views and her firm belief that we should always vote and never take that right for granted.

Old Friends

When I opened my mail, a photo fell out. My friend sent it along with a note: memories of a lovely time. All four of us are smiling. Ivy and I are wearing sunglasses as we’re always conscious of the wrinkles around our eyes and don’t want to strain too much. We’ve removed our beach hats and puffed up our wavy hair. Our husbands have kept their caps on and are squinting at the camera.

We had hiked at sunset to the top of a steep hill on Peter Island. At the summit, we collapsed onto Adirondack chairs that someone had painted fabulously bright colors: red, royal blue, turquoise and yellow. My favorite was the yellow as the whole world was yellow at that time of day. The sun created a golden glow on the nearby clapboard cottage, the ochre earth and us.

Ahead of us on the trail, a honeymooning couple wandered. They ambled arm in arm and stopped every once in awhile to kiss or giggle quietly. Once they stood very close and put their hands into each other’s pockets. My husband, David walked ahead with his friend, Howard. They compared their camera lenses and wondered about the focus and clarity of their images. Ivy and I chatted behind them about our children, our homes and our aching feet.

The young man and woman offered to snap a picture of us. We were spread out on the four seats, so Ivy and I decided to sit on our husbands’ laps. “So this is what a long marriage looks like…” the bride commented.

Like us, Ivy and Howard have been married for decades. We met at a co-op nursery school when our sons were four years old. We’ve celebrated birthdays, bar mitzvahs and weddings. We’ve also cried at funerals. Their little boys stayed with us after Howard’s sister passed away tragically. When Howard’s father died, we were out-of-state. I remember Ivy insisting: “I know you’re in Vermont…please don’t rush back.” We packed up our car and were at the Temple in time for the service.

There is a comfort in a long friendship as there is ease in the conversation. Our history is shared. On this particularly cold January afternoon, it warms me to look at the four of us relaxing into a sultry, island sunset. Our closeness feels cozy like a well-worn afghan, a collection of good short stories and a fire in the fireplace.