The 5 Kafer Race

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything new, but just yesterday my niece asked if I was going to blog.  Her question wasn’t completely out of the blue.  After all, we were both holding trophies in our hands. 

We had just finished running a 5K race along with my 58-year-old brother, another niece’s boyfriend and a few hundred other joggers.  It was a lot hotter and more humid than the weatherman had predicted, and even before I had run a step, I was beginning to sweat.  Not a good sign, I remember thinking. I am going to wilt in this heat.

Looking around, I couldn’t help but notice the horde of teenagers, all members of a middle school cross country team.  Most of the adult racers looked taut and fit and young, not a wobbly thigh in the crowd. Although several of the men looked to be about my age or older, I only noticed two women with gray hair or weathered skin. What am I doing here?

Suddenly, a shot sounded, and the crowd began to move. The two 20-somethings in our group took off running.  My brother hung back with me for a few steps, and then he, too, was gone.

I wasn’t exactly alone, surrounded as I was by so many other runners. Still I felt like I was the only one huffing and puffing, and I worried that they could all hear the sound of my heart pounding.  The first mile mark was a good 10 miles away, and when I finally, finally reached it, I thought, Oy, 2.1 more to go.

It was then I saw a man running a few steps ahead of me. He wasn’t exactly flying along either, and I pushed myself to catch up.  We ran alongside each other a while and started to talk. Funny, how much easier running felt as we talked.  I told him ours was a family run, and my brother had printed up t-shirts emblazoned with the slogan: 5 Kafer Run.  “Oh,” he said, “is that your mother behind us?”

I felt a sudden boost of energy, a flood of joy.  Do the math. He couldn’t possibly think I was 60.  And so we ran the rest of the race together. (Abandon such a brilliant and perceptive man? Never!)

So often the races we talk about are metaphorical that it’s pretty exhilarating to run with a real finish line and to go home with a real trophy.  My niece came in 2^nd for women 20-29, and I placed 3^rd among women 60 and over. I know for a fact that there were more than three women in my division because as I walked off with my trophy, a gray haired woman demanded to see my ID.  “How old are you?” she screamed. As sweet as the victory was, the accusation of foul play was even sweeter.

When you start a blog called “60 days to 60,” and then you turn 60, it feels like an end of sorts.  Or maybe that’s just how turning 60 feels.  But yesterday, I won a trophy in a 5K race. And if I was still 59, I would have gone home empty-handed.

Testing, Testing ... 1, 2, 4

           The other night, I dreamt that I was sitting in my high school gym, hunched over a desk with a number two pencil. I was trying desperately to finish some very important test, but all the numbers kept moving around on the page and the words looked like gibberish. 

            Yep, it’s that testing time of year.

            Today, my third graders began taking a series of standardized tests. When I look at the results in the fall, I know some of the scores will be surprise me.  Undoubtedly, there will be a few students who I thought had mastered the math curriculum or were reading way above grade level. And yet, their scores didn’t show that at all.

            I’ll have to remind myself what I saw today when I looked through the tests and watched the children fill in the circles.

            First, the reading passages can be very simplistic and the questions, tricky.   For instance, in one of our prep packets, there was a poem about a girl who likes to sit and read in her favorite chair. As she reads about faraway lands, she sees “moving pictures” in her head. The children are asked to define those “moving pictures.” Are they thoughts? Movies? Dreams? The correct answer is thoughts.  But do we really see thoughts? What’s wrong with calling them mental “movies?” Besides, wouldn’t the best answer be “images?”

            A second passage tells of a little boy who doesn’t listen to his mother and is captured by a giant. He manages to escape by tricking the giant’s wife.  One question asks how he feels at the end, and the correct answer is happy because the story says he “lived happily ever after.” But couldn’t he also feel a little scared? After all, he did just escape from the giant. Or even worried since he did disobey his mother.

            And that’s just the reading.

            Then there are the suffixes and prefixes that must be identified.  Okay, most third graders don’t need reading glasses, but even so they have to look very carefully to decide which letters are underlined.   There are the references to holidays they’ve never heard of. Or my favorite research question: Where would you go to find information on whales? The internet, obviously. The correct answer is an encyclopedia. 

            You’d think the math would be more straightforward.  But in one math the kids are shown a portion of a grocery receipt with the total cut off.  They’re asked which operation they would use to find out the change from a $20.  Well, there’s no total on the receipt, so they’d have to add. But the correct answer is subtraction, because that’s how you’re supposed to make change from a $20.  Unless, of course, you add the coins up.

            Then there’s the fact that testing doesn’t always bring out the best in everyone.  Some children race through the packets, making careless mistakes.  Others get stuck on a difficult problem and don’t manage to finish.  And some just find themselves looking out the window on a rainy day, wishing they were somewhere else.

            So what do they really mean?

A Normal Heart

            Last week, I lost a friend of 42 years. 

            We met in college when Nixon was president, the Vietnam War was still raging, and answering machines along with laptops, i-pads and cellphones were all figments of the future. We were teenagers then, younger than our own children are today, and we had no idea of what shape our lives would take – of who and what we would become.

            For most of the past 42 years, Elyce and I lived in different cities, a few hundred miles apart at least. But we talked and emailed often, sharing the details along with the gist of our lives and offering each other what comfort and support we could.

            Even during her last awful illness, Elyce didn’t want to talk just about her own pains and woes. No, she also wanted to hear about me, too. And if anything, she seemed a little embarrassed by all the attention and concern. She never let her disease define her.  Instead she took control and learned as much as she could; fought as hard as she could; and lived as fully – and as meaningfully – as she could. 

            She just wanted to live a “normal” life.  But I don’t think “normal” is the right word to describe someone who was beloved not just by her family and friends but by the medical staff that cared for her. 

            As her husband said at her funeral over the weekend, hospital hardened nurses and doctors – even surgeons! – were moved to tears by Elyce.

            How did she find the strength to carry on? According to one of her three daughters, Elyce said:  “Well, I wake up every morning and say, ‘Okay, I’m still alive!’”

            And live she did, without wasting time sweating the small stuff or wallowing in self-pity.  And though it all, she kept her gentle, witty sense of humor, finding ample reasons to laugh. In April, her hospital bed doubled as a seder table, and her youngest daughter asked, “Why is this night different from all other nights.”  Why indeed!

            On another occasion, her daughter called, scared and teary over her own health scare. Her mother coaxed and soothed, and then finally said, “Come on, sweetie. Try to pull it together.  I’ve got to go glue on my eyebrows now.”

            Just last month, I mentioned that a dear friend was dying a few months short of her own 60^th birthday. I think I made the point that making it to 60 – and beyond – is hardly something to bemoan, but a gift to enjoy.

            Well, I realize now that I was wrong. Not about the gift of 60, but about my friend. Yes, Elyce had exhausted all chemotherapy options and her condition was indeed terminal. But even so Elyce wasn’t dying so much as living, living until the very end with courage and determination, love and dignity.

            As her friend, I feel lucky to have known her and so very sad to have lost her.

What's The Story, Grandpa?

           I don’t know much about my grandfather’s early years except this:

            Abraham Lilienthal was born in New York City in 1884 or thereabouts. (His records were lost in a fire, so he was never certain of the year.)  His parents had immigrated here, one from Minsk and the other from Pinsk. (Don't ask me which.)  His father owned a factory at one point, but then lost it all.  Grandpa was an excellent student, and as he passed his two older brothers in school, first one, then the other dropped out. He went on to graduate not only high school, but college and then law school.

            Grandpa was a garrulous man and loved to tell stories about his life. But the only stories I remember all took place after he was grown up and married to my grandmother.

            And that’s a problem for me now.

            Because not so long ago, my aunt was sorting through some boxes in her basement when she came across a medal that my grandfather had won for a “Prize Short Story” in February 1914.

            The medal is a small piece of silver, roughly the size of a silver dollar, and on the front are the initials, RSS NY.  If you Google RSS, you come up with Rational Response Squad, Radiation Research Society, Racing Rules of Sailing, Reconfigurable Radio Systems or my favorite, Really Right Stuff.  None of these – or the dozens of others – can possibly be the organization that awarded the prize.

            But even if I could decipher that acronym, I'm sure it wouldn't lead me to a copy of Grandpa's winning short story.

            What could he have written about?

            World War I started in 1914, but later in the year. (Not that my grandfather fought in it.)

  According to historyorb.com, the following all happened in 1913:

•         The Hudson (the first sedan) was introduced at the Auto Show

•          Jim Thorpe was signed by the New York Giants

•          In Manhattan, Grand Central Terminal and the Woolworth Building both opened

•       Civil War veterans from the Confederacy and the Union got together for the Great      Reunion of 1913

•         Arabs attacked the Jewish community of Rechovot in Palestine, and the Hebrew language was taught in schools for the first time.
•           President Wilson said the United States would never attack another country
•         Charlie Chaplin began his film career, earning a whopping $150 a week

            But what are the chances that a 19-year-old boy wrote about any of those events?  More likely he wrote about falling in or out of love or coming of age in the early 1900s when there were still pushcarts and gas lamps and no TVs or even radios.

            What I wouldn’t give to read that story now!

            Which brings me to a confession: My grandfather  told me once that he used to write short stories. 

            “I’ve got my stories all stored away in a box. And if you want them, they’re yours.  I’ll give them to you to do with what you want,” he told me once.

            At the time, I must’ve smiled or given one of those noncommittal teenage grunts. Obviously, I didn’t show enough enthusiasm for Grandpa to bother getting that box down from the shelf in his hall closet or to bother telling me what his stories were all about.

            But Grandpa, I'd sure like to read those stories now!

Blogging Again ... From the Far Side of 60

            You’d probably be surprised at how long  I can sit on the proverbial fence. In fact, I’ve gotten so good at balancing there that I’ve begun to think the fence is quite a comfortable spot to perch. Certainly, you can’t beat the view of both sides below.

            Okay, maybe you think l'm just indecisive.  And I’ve got to agree you’ve got a good point. Though on the other hand …or are we up to the third hand yet?

            So why am I talking about indecision?

            As you might have heard, I turned 60 last week.  Right on schedule, exactly 60 years after I was born, a mere 60 days after I started this blog.  For those on the other side of 60, rest assured that it feels a lot like 59. Or 29, for that matter.  

            I spent the week trying to decide on a new name for this blog. Many of you sent in suggestions, and I thank you all for your creativity, effort and thoughtfulness. I liked the names, really I did. But I couldn’t decide which, if any, to use. Quite honestly, none of them seemed quite as catchy as “60 days to 60.” But as much as I like that title, I think it has outlived its usefulness.

            Since I couldn’t decide on a new name, I ended up doing nothing blog-related at all. Which really wasn’t terrible.

            Life went on. I went to work. I even dragged myself to the gym (in spite of my wrist accessory; the latest model of which is a removable splint). I tended to a husband with a very bad cold (a subject for another day). And yes, I found time to play a few extra games of Words with Friends.

            But by the end of the week, I felt a little aimless and out of sorts. Like I needed something more, something more fulfilling to do. I found myself thinking about the posts I hadn’t got around to writing … about husbands with head colds … or the medal my grandfather won for a short story in 1914 … or looking for work after 60.

            I signed onto my blog a few times, and I noticed, somewhat guiltily, that many of you had been on it, too. So even though I couldn't decide on a name, I did decide on this: I want to keep on blogging.

            I’ve got a very dear friend who’s as indecisive as I am.  She had a tough time deciding to tie the knot to the very wonderful man she ended up marrying because they had unresolved issues. So how did she make the plunge? Well, eventually she came to the conclusion that they’d always have issues, but that they were committed to working on them together.

            So I’m back to blogging.  No name yet.  But we’ll work on that together, won’t we?

            Here are some of the suggestions you sent in.  Let me know if you think there’s a winner among them.

            1.  And then some

            2.  Beyond 60: The Best is Yet to Come

            3.  The Next 60

            4.  The Second 60

            5.  To 120

            6.  From the Far Side of 60

            7.  60 with a hint of meatballs

            8. And now what?

Name the Blog Contest (Seriously)

            I had an appointment today with my new orthopedist, the one who set my wrist at the emergency room two weeks ago. As I was filling out the usual forms, I suddenly found myself stumped by a little three letter word with a blank space next to it: “age_____.” 

            Hmmmm… At 60 minus three days, could I still say I’m 59?

            More to the point, did I even want to?

            I feel I like I’ve been on the verge of 60 forever. Yes, I know, it’s only been 57 days, but it’s been a long 57 days. I guess that’s what happens when you write a blog called “60 days to 60.”  Not that I’m complaining, especially not about this blog. If anything, I’ve come to think of this blog as a 60^th birthday present I’ve given myself.  I’ve been surprised at how much I’ve enjoyed writing these posts (well, most of them anyway). And I’ve been even more surprised and gratified by your reaction. I thank all of you for your kind, appreciative words and for coming along with me on this 60-day journey.

            But now what?

            The only reason I started this blog is because I came up with the name. “60 days to 60” struck me as such a catchy title, and I figured that if I didn’t use it right away, I couldn’t use it at all. And so I did.

            But I can’t keep blogging about the 60 days to 60 once I turn 60.  It just doesn’t make sense.  

            So this is where you come in.

            I need a new name. The old name just doesn’t work anymore, and I haven’t been able to think of a new one.

            What should I call the sequel to 60 days to 60?  You tell me! Please….

            Send your best suggestions to this blog or email them kaferkathy@gmail.com.

            Best entry wins a (slighted used) CD: The Ultimate Rock & Roll 60s Collection. Featuring Martha & The Vandellas, Neil Sedaka, Ricky Nelson, The Supremes and the Beach Boys.

            Oh by the way, the orthopedist said my wrist is healing nicely. He took off the hard cast and gave me a splint.

            Now get to work.

The Gift of 60

            After 54 days of this blogging business (yes, only 6 days left to 60!), I’ve got a confession that might surprise you. You ready? Here goes: I don’t have what you’d call a straight-forward and unambiguous relationship with the truth.

            No, I really am turning 60 and not 59 or 39.  And yes, I really did break my wrist and get those flat tires and throw away my husband’s favorite Adirondack twig chair and dispose of a dead mouse.  Every word of every post I’ve written has been the truth. And yet, in a sense, they’ve also been based on a lie. Because as much as I’ve been blogging and obsessing about turning 60, I really fine with it.

            I’m sorry, but did you think I was, maybe, just a tad depressed? Perhaps a little sad about these wrinkles? Distressed that I’m 10 years closer to 80 than 30?

            Well, I hate to disillusion you, but I’m really not upset at all.

            As I write this, a dear friend is dying, a few months shy of her 60^th birthday.  I just heard of the untimely death of a father of young children at my school.  And I saw a notice in my school inbox about a Mishnah study session in memory of a second young father who died over the summer. 

            These three tragedies remind me of my own mother, who died 43 years ago. She was 45, which at the time didn’t seem all that young to me.  At my sederim last week, I realized mom would have been closer in age to her 33-year-old grandson than her children.  There were so many of us she never lived to meet – a son- and daughter-in-law, six grandchildren, and a great-grandson. I wasn’t thinking so much of missing her – though even now, there is that, too – but of all the years and simchas  and joys she missed out on.

            All of which is why in spite of my blog – or maybe because of it – I’ve come to realize that 60 is nothing to bemoan, but a gift that I intend to enjoy.