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.       

Walk on the Wrong Side

            Thanks to the new accessory immobilizing my left wrist, I’ve avoided the gym this week.  Yes, I could probably get on the treadmill or the stationery bike.  But after the umpteenth well-meaning “What happened to you?” I might well be tempted to use my cast as a weapon.  Besides I’d probably feel compelled to prove that in spite of my cast I’m still a fit and athletic 60 minus 8 days. Which means I’d end up overdoing it and that would lead to profuse sweating (itch itch!) and/or a new injury (ouch, ouch!).

            So instead I joined my local chapter of The Women Who Walk. It’s not an actual dues-paying club, although it does seem that way on the mornings that I drive off to work. For some reason, The Women Who Walk walk not on the sidewalks but right down the middle of the street.  Typically, they powerwalk in twos or threes or fours, pumping arms vigorously and striding forcefully as if to drive home the seriousness of their exercise. Obviously, I try to avoid them (do I have a choice?), and as I’m rushing off to work, I often think the women are saying: We own these streets; you just use them to get to work.

            Well this week, the streets have been mine. 

            Every morning, I’ve taken my dog for a nice long walk. Yes, he’s the very same dog who caused me to fall in the first place. But as it turns out we both need to take a walk in the morning, and this week, we’ve often ended up at the park. The playground is always empty, and instead, there are lots of dogs and their owners.  And unlike the tiger moms and dads who no doubt bring their children later in the day, the dog owners are a mellow bunch.  We’re quick to acknowledge our dogs’ flaws. For instance, Casey is skittish and doesn’t mingle with the other dogs. Yet no one has recommended therapy or drugs or improving my own dog-parenting skills. I’ve met a few other dogs who are rambunctious or even aggressive, but I haven’t heard anyone talk of Ritalin or military obedience schools.  There’s no competition between us, and no one seems to be reveling in their dogs’ accomplishments (or lack thereof.)

            All in all, I’ve logged at least a dozen miles walking this week. As fast as I’ve walked, it hasn’t felt like exercise so much as a chance to see spring unfold close-up and to walk with different friends and catch up on their lives. I don’t think I’d be happy as a full-time Woman Who Walks, but one of the many things I love about being a teacher are the many vacations.  Some vacations I like to spend in faraway places and others, I love to spend at home, checking out alternate lives.  

The Magic of Her Snip

            For about 15 years now, there’s been a certain person in my life who knows me very well and who always lifts my spirits, no matter how low they might have fallen. We’ve been through a lot together, and yet the other day, just when I should have been seeing this special person, I saw someone else instead.

            I’m talking about my hairdresser.

            It wasn’t my choice to seek solace and style elsewhere. A loyal client, I followed Ellie when she closed her own beauty parlor and went to work at another salon. Although I may not be the chattiest person in her chair (after all, I always bring a book), we’ve still managed to get to know one another well over the years. But when I called to make an appointment the other day, I was told Ellie had left. And try as I might, I couldn’t find out where.

            I’m not the kind of woman who’s always searching for hair satisfaction and changes hairdressers with the latest whim or Groupon. In fact, I had just barely recovered from cutting off a relationship with Ellie’s predecessor, Pat. I had gone to Pat’s welcoming chair soon after surgery, when the idea of washing and drying my own hair had felt much too daunting.  Afterwards she pampered my thinning hair and battered vanity during a bout of chemotherapy.  Such kind and personal treatment so clearly merited my loyalty, and I was a happy, faithful client until … well, until I wasn’t.  Somewhere along the way, Pat lost the magic of her snip. Hair cut after hair cut left me feeling (and looking) dowdy. And yet, I stuck with her. How could I do otherwise?

            Then one day, I was heading to Pat’s salon, thinking about how disappointed I had been with my last haircut. Suddenly, a drunk driver crashed into me. I wasn’t hurt, just shook up.  I realized then that it was my own hair on the chopping block; I could take my business elsewhere.

            What is it with us and the people who touch our hair? We know these relationships are far from exclusive and have, at their roots, cash, credit or debit cards. Is it the intimate touch that makes us feel so connected? After all, who but a lover or parent caresses our hair? Or is it that we (literally) let our hair down with our hairdressers and let them see us as we really are?

            Obviously it’s nothing new … After all, Shirley Polykoff rose to advertising fame with the 1958 slogan … “Does she … or doesn’t she?  Only her hairdresser knows for sure.”

            She knows that and a whole lot more.  Just ask her -- if you can find her. 

           

Happy Passover

            In view of the fact that we’ll be asking a lot of questions at our Seders tonight, I thought I’d ask (and answer) some of the questions that I’ve heard since I started this blog 45 days ago.    

            Q: When’s the party?

            KK:  What party?

            Q:  Come on, you’ve been blogging about turning 60 so you've got to  be having a big birthday party.

            KK: No, sorry. No party.

            Q:  You mean  I’m just not invited, right?

            KK:  No. I mean I'm not having a party.

            Q: Why not?

            KK:  First of all, I don’t have the time.  What with writing this blog, teaching, breaking my wrist, and did I mention Passover starts tonight?

            Q:  Come on, how much work can it be to plan a party?

            KK: Too much. Especially since I don't really want one to begin with.

            Q: So you’re writing a blog about turning 60, but you’re not having a party.

            KK: That’s not a question!

            Q: It just seems weird. Why are you writing this blog anyway?

            KK:  Now that’s a question!

            Q: And the answer is…?

            KK:  It seemed like a good idea, and I’ve been having a lot of fun doing it.

            Q: So are you going to continue the blog after your birthday?

            KK:  I don’t know. What do you think?

            Q:  I thought I was asking the questions.

            KK: I thought so, too.

A New Wrist Accessory

            On Monday, there was an article on the front page of the sports section about a certain 60-year-old runner named Kathy Martin, who came to the sport late in life and has been setting all sorts of world records.  She gets up at 7 every morning and runs up to 12 miles a day as part of an arduous training schedule, designed by her trainer husband.

            I bet you know where this is going, right?  I, too, run, and after reading about that other Kathy this Kathy thought, “Gee, she’s older than me since I’m only 60 minus 17 days. Maybe my running days aren’t over.  I’m going to push myself to run farther and faster.”

            So today, my first day of Passover vacation, I was going to buy new running shoes. And even with all the holiday preparations and the holiday itself looming, I was still going to carve out some time to run.  Tomorrow and Friday, I’d just wake up early and hit the road. Obviously, I’d even get a post out of my new routine, building to the idea that some limits don’t really exist – except in our minds.  I’d even convince myself that 60 can be the beginning of something new and exciting.

            Well, I guess I can still write that post.  Just not today.  Because before I could get to the Sports Authority this morning, I took my dog for a walk.  I’ve mentioned him before, haven’t I? He’s a cocker spaniel who’s spooked by loud noises, baby carriages, bicycles, elevators and just about everything except else his shadow.  Typically, Casey is a quick and easy dog to walk since he has no interest in chasing squirrels or socializing with others of his kind.  But this morning, a car started up suddenly, and Casey darted in front of me, sending me sprawling. 

            It’s funny how quickly a 60 year-old (minus 17 days) athlete can become an old lady lying on the sidewalk.  Two nice young men helped me up. I hobbled home and made my way to the emergency room, icing my wrist all the while.  I told the triage nurse my pain was only a 2 or 3, since I was pretty sure I had only bruised my wrist. Turns out I was wrong.  I’ve got a break, but a clean and simple one. The doctor didn’t even think I needed a cast until he heard I was 59, and then he said, “We better immobilize it. You know, just to be sure.”

            I’m sure the other Kathy has had her share of injuries, too, but I bet she’s never typed a blog with a broken wrist.

Treasured Trash

            The biggest lie I ever told my husband had to do with a chair.

            No, it wasn’t a fancy chair that I bought and secretly spent more on than I told him.  And no, nothing unseemly ever happened in the chair that I kept hidden from him.

             It was just a chair.

            We had bought the chair at an antique store back when “antique” was just another word for second-hand junk.  According to the person who sold it to us, the chair was an Adirondack Twig chair, and it was old and kind of rustic looking.

            After a number of years, some of the twigs broke, and the chair became a little wobbly.  It didn’t really fit in with our décor either, and so eventually it wound up in our garage.  That was when the neighborhood cats found their own use for it, and so in addition to being wobbly and broken, it positively reeked.

            I declared it trash and wanted to toss it.

            But to my husband, it was still a treasure. “It’s an Adirondack Twig chair,” he insisted.  “It’s very valuable.”

            “Tell that to the cats,” I said.

            Well, one day when my husband was out of town on business, I decided to take matters into my own paws.  On bulk pick-up day, I dragged the foul-smelling and broken chair to the sidewalk, and that was the last I ever saw of it.          

            It was almost a year before my husband noticed the chair was no longer in our garage.  And even then, I didn’t confess right away that I had trashed his treasure.

            “Oh,” I said, “it was so valuable.  I guess someone must have taken it.”

            I thought of this incident because a friend told me the other day that she had just rescued some treasures. These were things left behind by old tenants or simply thrown in her building’s storage room and forgotten. Amidst the molding junk, my friend found a few things that she secretly schlepped up to her roof garden.

            “My husband wasn’t home,” she said. “Otherwise he would have had a fit. But it’s okay – cause he’ll never know. He doesn’t go up to the garden.”

            I told her my story, and I could tell she was a little shocked that I had trashed a perfectly good chair. And I’m sure she could see me thinking, what could you possibly want with that stuff?

            But since we weren’t talking to our spouses but to each other, there was no real friction.  Funny, isn’t it, how we’re so much more tolerant of differences in people we’re not related to?  Okay, so maybe in some marriages, both spouses are pack rats or trashers, but more often, we decided, opposites attract.

            So I guess in the final analysis it’s okay if we trash each other’s treasures – as long as we treasure each other.

Fair is Fair

          I have a theory that you become the age of the kids you teach. Not completely, of course, but in some very clear identifiable way.  So when I was teaching 13-year-olds, for instance, I’d find myself feeling moody and mopey for no particular reason.  And now that I’m spending a lot of time with 8 and 9-year-olds, I often hear myself scream: “It’s not fair.”

            And seriously, it’s not fair!

            I’m talking about the $1.5 million book deal that Greg Smith just signed.

            Who, might you ask, is Greg Smith and why should you care?

            Greg is the investment banker who left Goldman Sachs and wrote a piece for the New York Times about Goldman’s disdain for its clients. As it turns out, Greg and I have a great deal in common. Minus, of course, one $1.5 million book deal.

            Greg spent the past 12 years working for one employer.  I’ve also spent the past 12 years working for one employer.

            He wrote one piece for the Times.  I’ve written more than one piece for the Times (a few years ago, but you can google them if you want), and I’ve written a couple of dozen posts for this blog.

            Greg won a bronze medal for table tennis at the Maccabiah Games.  I used to be pretty good at table tennis, and if the table in our basement wasn’t sagging in the middle (and I didn’t wear progressive lenses), I’m sure I could still score a few points against any teenager on my block.

            Okay, I’m not really in 3^rd grade, so I’m not blind to the differences between Greg and me: Greg not only worked for Goldman Sachs, he is promising  to write a kiss-and-tell memoir about the firm; I, on the other hand, have been working at a Jewish day school for which I have tremendous affection and regard, and for the right price, I'd be happy to write a kiss-and-kiss memoir.  

            So fair is fair.  I’ll take less than $1.5 million. 

            Let the bidding wars begin!

The Chocolate Diet

         Excuse me a second while I unwrap a chocolate kiss.
        I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now. How could you have missed it?  Chocolate – yes  chocolate – has been linked with weight loss.  But not in the usual manner.  No, according to a new study, people who ate chocolate regularly were actually thinner than non-chocolate eaters. Yes, thinner not heavier.

            Don’t you love it??

            Not exercise. Not carrots. Not low-fat, low-carb, low-calorie. The secret to losing weight is eating chocolate.

            Well, why not?  Just because we’ve always believed the converse of that doesn’t mean it can’t be true.  After all, a lot of things we used to believe were good for us have been proven to be dangerous.

            “Nothing like a little sunshine to clear up your complexion,” my mother used to say. And I’m sure she got her information on good authority – if not from a friend of a friend who was a doctor, then direct from my grandmother.  Certainly, it worked like a charm. Darned if those rays didn’t clear my zits right up.

            As for skin cancer – who even knew to worry about it? As it turned out, we had plenty of time to worry later.

            Then there was my skinny cousin, whose mother felt she needed fattening up. My cousin wasn’t actually skeletal, but her mother felt extra pounds were needed as a cushion to fend off disease.  So she routinely whipped up milkshakes thickened with raw egg and served them to my cousin.

            I wouldn’t have minded the milkshake part, but even then, I would never have eaten a raw egg. But not because I was worried about salmonella. I wouldn’t eat cooked eggs either.

            Likewise no one gave a second thought to cholesterol as we downed our chopped liver. In fact, I’m not even sure anyone knew what cholesterol was.

            So it seems perfectly plausible to me that one day, our grandkids will be saying to each other, “Can you believe for so long they didn’t recognize the value of chocolate? Instead, they ate all those carrots and vegetables – that’s why they got so fat! Had they only known.”

            But now we do.  And so I'm going to have another chocolate kiss.

My Olympic Winners

          The 2012 OIympics are going to be held in London this summer, and I saw a recent article about the preparations and excitement already afoot. There wasn’t anything about the athletes themselves, but we know those stories will come. Once the games start, we’ll be all caught up in the excitement.  Amazing, isn’t it, just how much can depend on being one millisecond faster or a teeny bit more dazzling?

            But if you want to know the truth, part of me is going to be thinking – these young athletes have trained their whole lives for this day.  This is what they do. Many people show extraordinary bravery and endurance and strength in other ways.  Why aren’t they standing up on a pedestal, hearing the National Anthem and having a medal is draped around their neck? Where are their awards?

            Right here.

            I’d like to recognize some of the truly extraordinary performances I’ve seen (names withheld to protect the innocent.)

            1. For facing bad (make that the worst) medical news. The competition is tough for this one, but the gold medal goes to a friend who has been battling a fatal illness not only with determination and fortitude, but without losing her ability to remain actively engaged in the lives of her family and friends.  

            2. For parenting a troubled child. Again there are a few contenders, but the winner is a woman who recognized that her son needed help with addiction issues and managed to get him into rehab even though he is over 21.

            3. For coping with the death of a spouse.  One gold medal goes to a friend whose husband of more than 40 years died after a quick, degenerative illness, and she has managed to find the strength to carry on. A second medal goes to a young woman I see raising her children while she copes with her own loss.

            4.  For watching a parent fade away with Alzheimer’s disease. There are far too many friends who could easily win this one hands down. What was I thinking? The competition is so tough that I’m going to have to call in outside judges.  Medals still pending.

            5. For dealing with adversity.  A gold medal goes to a friend who’s legally blind and yet manages to see more than all of us.  She’s a docent at several museums, cooks, entertains and does everything except drive a car.

            6.  For aging gracefully.  The gold medal goes to a relative in her 80s who lives alone, goes to work every day and is sharp and funny and full of life.  Instead of complaining about aches and pains, she tells her doctors she doesn’t have time for appointments.

            This is just a preliminary list, not meant to be all inclusive.  After all, the other Olympics has a whole committee, not to mention a multimillion dollar budget to do things like this.  And I can’t even sing the National Anthem on key to my winners. 

            

Stand Your Ground

          Reading about the Trayvon Martin killing in Florida brings back my own stand-your-ground memories.

            Many years ago, when I was young and willowy, I drove a VW Beetle that was ancient even then.  During a very short time, I had three flat tires, each while I was alone behind the wheel.

            The first flat happened in the middle of the day when I was driving on a highway outside of Baltimore. Suddenly, an old pick-up truck stopped a few yards ahead. Two tough-looking guys jumped down and came running toward me.  I could see their tattoos and a pack of cigarettes tucked under a shirt sleeve, greaser style.  One guy was waving a large tire iron.

            I was terrified.

            But with no cellphone and no weapon, I had no choice but to stand my ground.  Besides where was I going on three tires?  As it turned out, the men only wanted to help. And with that “weapon” of theirs, they got the job done in minutes.

            The second flat came on another stretch of highway while I was on another reporting  assignment. This time a well-dressed man pulled over in a nice clean car, and I felt only gratitude as he fixed my flat. But once the job was done, he walked behind his car and opened the trunk: Oh my god, I thought, he’s got a gun. 

            Instead he took out a roll of paper towels and a bottle of hand cleanser.

            Obviously, I'm lucky that both flats didn't result in any personal trauma. But I also feel lucky that in my fear I didn’t inflict any harm.  For me, standing my ground meant taking a deep breath – not taking aim.  Had a Stand Your Ground law been in effect I could have harmed people whose only crime was wanting to help.

            Travyon Martin’s killer should not be shielded by such a terrible law. Florida’s Stand Your Ground statute creates an environment of vigilantism that makes people think danger lurks at every encounter.  Even when the danger comes from a young black man in a hoodie with a pack of skittles and a can of iced tea in his pocket.  It’s not even clear that Travyon wasn’t the one who felt threatened, younger, smaller and unarmed as he was.

            Oh, about that third flat... It was on a busy city street, and by then I knew just what to do. Still when a male pedestrian stopped, I was ready to hand over the tire wrench. Instead he offered step-by-step instructions and watched as my hands got dirty and my pantyhose ripped.  What a guy.

Rumpled Readers from My Past

Today is my 24^th post, and I have to admit I'm surprised that I've been so prolific. After all, it’s been a long time since I’ve written on such a regular basis. Did I say a “long time?” Actually it’s been 30 years since I last worked for a daily newspaper.

 It was 1982 when I left the Baltimore News American to move with my husband to New York. The paper didn’t actually fold until a few years later, but by 1982, there had already been a round of layoffs and the future of the paper looked bleak.

Of course, it hadn’t always been that way. A few years earlier, a new management team had been brought in to revamp the paper, and I was one of the young, eager reporters they hired.  Our newsroom was a newsy, lively place with reporters chattering away on the phone (and to each other), teletype machines clanging with  wire service updates, and even a few typewriters clack-clack-clacking (even with the new computers, some of the older reporters still preferred to type their first drafts.)  A thick cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air, and I bet (though I never knew for sure) some bottles of the hard stuff were stashed in desks around the room.

My husband quickly learned that when I said “everybody loved my article,” that didn’t mean the phones were ringing off the hook. It meant that my co-workers liked the piece. Yes, there were letters of praise, but not many. Complaints were more frequent and always ended with “and another thing – your writing stinks!” What I found harder to brush off were the complaints from people I had interviewed.  Public figures only objected if I got the facts wrong, and I tried hard to be accurate. But ordinary people would get upset about the strangest things. One woman was offended that her plaid couch made its way into an article. Others seemed to think that what they told me was private even though they knew I was a reporter and was taking copious notes. But the most upsetting complaint was when I wrote about a charming old man, a Yiddish poet who had escaped from Poland during World War II only to land up in a Russian gulag. I thought he was wonderful -- his poems were beautiful, and his spirit and determination were inspiring.  I wrote what I thought was a glowing piece, full of admiration and respect.  But it turned out I hurt his feelings. Why did I have to call him “rumpled?”  Because he was.

So even though I’m having a good time writing these posts, I don’t expect to get my old job back.