Those 'Forever' Things - June 2010

(reprinted with permission of Orange County Jewish Life Magazine)


Those of us who saw the film, The Sixth Sense, in a movie theater will most certainly recall the moment that everyone seated gasped in unison. The little boy, Cole (played by a very young Haley Joel Osment), utters a terrifying whisper to child psychologist Malcolm Crowe (Bruce Willis with hair):

“I see dead people.”

So the thing is, while others were choking on popcorn and grabbing their chests in horror, I stifled a yawn. A little boy seeing dead people seemed to be a fairly evolved version of my own connection with those who no longer walk among us, and the only thing I felt was, perhaps, a tinge of jealousy.

Lest you think that I’m losing (or have already lost) my mind, it is imperative that you understand that I do NOT see dead people nor do I TALK to dead people. How arrogant do you think I am?

Nevertheless, dead people talk to me. Not aloud, mind you, but rather via splendid recollections of times that were memorable and generally joyous. I feel their thoughts, accept frequent kudos for jobs well done, and listen to sage advice gleaned from lives well lived and reflected upon from a vantage point that I can only – at present – imagine.

That is why I cannot throw away letters. Perhaps there is something about my Jewish DNA that reveres the written word with such intensity that I’ve been known to grow dewy-eyed at the mere glimpse of someone’s discarded shopping list in the bottom of my cart. I cannot help thinking, “Is the woman who wrote this list making a welcome home party for her son who must be in the army?” “Did she buy the brisket, because it is her husband’s favorite dish, and she has serious things to discuss with him?” “Why is he purchasing skim milk? Did his doctor tell him to watch the cholesterol?”

I recently “heard” my father chortle when he saw me organizing a stack of decades-old correspondence and tying them up in a heavy-duty trash bag for storage in the patio shed. Never mind that Daddy passed away in October 2003. Clear as day I heard him ask through the laughter, “Remember when I moved you back to New York after your sophomore year in college?”

Without Daddy’s gentle prodding I may not have recalled what was then, for me, a mortifying but ultimately funny experience. It seems that because all of our student-abodes were infested with creepy-crawly things, it was suggested that I pack all of my clothing in heavy duty garbage bags, so that the Boston cockroaches would not breed back in my parent’s pristine Long Island colonial. Seventy-two hours was the recommended waiting period between closing the bags and opening them up again.
A very much alive Daddy methodically loaded the U-Haul while my sister and I ran up and down the four flights of the shabby Beacon Hill brownstone. We wanted to do this move within one day, and there was little chit chat. It was early afternoon when we piled into the sedan and exited the city via the Charles River Highway.
Arriving home quite late, we left the car and attached trailer in the circular driveway, everyone falling exhausted into bed. And although all of my worldly possessions would be unavailable to me for the next three days (fumigation!), I located an old pair of jeans and Grateful Dead t-shirt that belonged to my younger brother.

The truck was due back at the depot, so the next morning I arose early in order to toss the black plastic bags along one wall of the two-car garage. Swinging open the hinged metal doors, I almost passed out from the putrid stench that hit me in the face. Nostrils stinging, I fought the urge to vomit.

Apparently, all my father had seen outside of the building were the black trash bags that he innocently assumed contained clothing. Who could blame him for not discriminating and tossing in four additional bags of community garbage that had been sitting within a few feet of the van? The entire truckload had baked along the highway the day before and in the morning summer heat in order to stink up the entire beach front neighborhood in a manner that is nearly unimaginable.

For years we ribbed Daddy about this and would often point out bags of waiting rubbish for him to rescue.

Thirty five years have passed since the U-Haul incident, but it remains vividly available, nested between other allusions to incidents past. The collection inside the waterproof garbage bag contains precious writing from people who have made the greatest impact on my life. The representative forms differ: fading faxes, old greeting cards, funny notes scribbled on the backs of paper menus. So many of them are from my father who, thankfully, found that new-fangled e-mail craze cumbersome. His notes, in particular, are rife with irreplaceable observations, anecdotes, admonitions, and endless expressions of love and admiration for the woman I had become.

I dream that my children, too, will inherit the gift of “hearing” dead people. No joke: I sincerely believe that the spirit, love, and humor of those who remain closest do not require that they “be here” in physical form. Whenever I set a beautiful table, I hear Aunt Matty admire my style and wonder aloud just how I can manage so many guests! Morey stands behind my shoulder as I write each and every article, commenting on style and encouraging me to improve my craft. My father’s message rarely changes: The children should help around the house more, start saving and be a credit to the Jewish people.

This bag has traveled with me across state lines and, in recent decades, across several continents. It unfailingly serves as a major reminder of the project that I’ve vowed to complete in time for my children and grandchildren to enjoy. Because, even though my perception of time is distorted, I plan to copy over each and every page in that bag, resulting in a mega document designed to be fun, heartrending, illustrative, and rife with poignant glimpses into the hearts and spirits of special men and women whom I will forever hold dear.

Uh-Oh! I FORGOT to Put on Deodorant!!!

YUK OF THE DAY DEPARTMENT:

Your horoscope for June 21, 2010

"Are you single, Andrea? If so, you might meet someone new and exciting today, and you could get the impression that this is the perfect partner for you. Be cautious! This wonderful new person may have money problems, and could be very jealous and possessive. Move ahead if it feels right, but move ahead with caution, and don't let yourself be swept off your feet until you're certain that this person is OK - even if it's just for now."

How did they know my name? And if they know that much, why don't they know that I already went out with this guy?

Hummm. Something fishy is going on. . . .

Friday morning. In the 'How Deep Can I Get' Department, I just want to state for the record that my hair still looks great. . . . .

Spent a small fortune yesterday afternoon at the Yaniv Levy Salon. And it was worth it. Because when I walked out, I didn't look like anyone I actually know but I did, indeed, like the woman who looked back at me in the mirror. She was confident, intelligent, athletic, and sported a wee twinkle in her eye. Downright adorable. No wonder Hollywood stars travel with their hairdressers, even when they don't look like Warren Beatty!

It was a long week with a lot of bumps, surprises, heart flips, and shared joy:

Awakened to the sad news that yesterday my last surviving uncle, my father's youngest brother, drowned in the pool of his Florida condominium. it is at times like this that the physical distance between me and my loved ones is something that cannot be 'explained away' at a Nefesh b'Nefesh seminar. It is the one thing - the ONLY thing in my opinion - that never, ever gets better after moving home to Israel.

Had the zchut of attending a magnificent wedding celebration last night in the beautiful setting of 'Sequoia,' in Maale HaHamisha. Elisheva Corn (daughter of Devorah & Ben) married Ezra Hahn of Toronto. Except for the drone of the muezzin from a nearby Arab village during the chupah, one almost would have believed that they were in America. Devorah (Phyllis) called me this morning before i could get to her and we 'hugged' over the phone. (No man would write a blog like this. 'Phone hugs'? Even I'm cringing . . . .) Everyone at the wedding looked beautiful: the wedding gown was breathtaking and worth every shekel. my daughter Talia looked – as she often does – weepingly beautiful. (I find it curious that she hasn't returned, yet, the diamond earrings she borrowed.)

Just learned that Werner Loval, husband of my friend Pamela (who I met several years ago in Jerusalem's Sam Orbaum Scrabble Club) has published he memoirs. the book launch was last week and on Sunday it will be on sale at Steimatzkys. Look for it: it's called We Were Europeans and shares the tale of growing up in the most tumultuous time and region of our modern history. That book had better be wonderful (as I'm pretty certain it will be) because that title is so filled with promise and beauty that I'm already crying.

Johannesburg grandson Shmuel Dovid Karpes lost his first tooth. This is actually 'a cheat' because he lost two others by falling off a South African security gate a little more than a year ago, but this was a legitimate 'rite of passage.' We talked a little bit this morning about the World Cup, flags from different countries, vuvezela horns (deafening symbols of an embarrassing non-culture), the weather in J'Burg (freezing), and what might possibly be wrong with Abba's car.

For those of you who faithfully listen to the show, you may have noticed a little blip in my usual smooth delivery during the show this past Wednesday. It seems that scheduled guest Sherri Miller and I misunderstood one another and she didn't realize that she was supposed to be in the studio at 1 that day. Instead, I reached her during the first musical break, muttering under my breath, "Where the hell are you???" and she answered, "I'm at a meeting in Tel Aviv. Why?" So what you were hearing in place of regular programming was almost an hour of 'winging it' with perspiration soaking through my clothing down to the waist and Adam Mallerman at the controls, yukking it up, having a grand ole time listening to my free-associations for the remainder of the program. Surprisingly (Not? Maybe?), 'Chana' wrote in with a thumbs-up: "Don't have any more guests. The show was great when it was just you!" My response? 'AARGHHHHH!" Stay tuned because Sherri is scheduled to actually HONOR HER COMMITMENT next week . . . . 

Enough for now. crazed for coffee. Planning an easy, cozy, relaxed Shabbos. Nate's away, Ariel's in school, Talia will eat with a friend tonight, and Tehilah and I will have an early dinner and spend any/all time studying for her history bagrut. I've been meaning to try the Rambam shul for a long time and now that I know my friends Naomi and Alex daven there, I may just get brave tomorrow a.m. and actually try something new. Was invited for a seudah shlishit in German Colony, tomorrow evening at 7:00. And – how personal are these blog things supposed to get? – I actually have a date with a male person on Saturday night, motzei shabbos. As with everything else, we'll see.

Shabbat Shalom. Spread the peace. . . . . .

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