Thursday, March 31, 2011

Don't Stop Believing

I've been going through a bit of a writer's block for the last few days.

So today I'm going to let someone else do the driving.

I received this amazing email a few days ago from a close friend.

I'm choosing to believe that this incredible story is true.

I hope you do the same.

Believing doesn't cost anything.



The brand new Rabbi and his wife were newly assigned to their first congregation to reopen a Shul in suburban Brooklyn . They arrived in early February excited about their opportunities. When they saw their Shul, it was very run down and needed much work. They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service on Erev Purim.

They worked hard, repairing aged pews, plastering walls, painting, etc, and on 8th of the Adar (February 17th) they were ahead of schedule and just about finished. On February 19 a terrible snowstorm hit the area and lasted for two days. On the 21st, the Rabbi went over to the Shul.  His heart sank when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 20 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit, beginning about head high. The Rabbi cleaned up the mess on the floor, and not knowing what else to do but postpone the Erev Purim service, headed home.

On the way home, he noticed that a local business was having a flea market type sale for charity, so he stopped in. One of the items was a beautiful, handmade, ivory colored, crocheted tablecloth with exquisite work, fine colors and a Mogen David embroidered right in the center. It was just the right size to cover the hole in the front wall. He bought it and headed back to the Shul.

By this time it had started to snow. An older woman running from the opposite direction was trying to catch the bus. She missed it. The Rabbi invited her to wait in the warm Shul for the next bus 45 minutes later. She sat in a pew and paid no attention to the Rabbi while he got a ladder, hangers, etc., to put up the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The Rabbi could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area.

Then the Rabbi noticed the woman walking down the center aisle. Her face was like a sheet. "Rabbi, "she asked, "where did you get that tablecloth?" The Rabbi explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG were crocheted into it there. They were. These were the initials of the woman, and she had made this tablecloth 35 years before, in Poland . The woman could hardly believe it as the Rabbi told how he had just gotten "The Tablecloth".

The woman explained that before the war she and her husband were well-to-do people in Poland . When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave. Her husband was going to follow her the next week. He was captured, sent to a camp and never saw her husband or her home again. The Rabbi wanted to give her the tablecloth; but she made the Rabbi keep it for the Shul. The Rabbi insisted on driving her home. That was the least he could do. She lived on the other side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job.

What a wonderful service they had on Erev Purim . The Shul was almost full. The Service was great. At the end of the service, the Rabbi and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many said that they would return. One older man, whom the Rabbi recognized from the neighborhood continued to sit in one of the pews and stare, and the Rabbi wondered why he wasn't leaving. The man asked him where he got the tablecloth on the front wall because it was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when they lived in Poland before the war and how could there be two tablecloths so much alike? He told the Rabbi how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for her safety and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a camp. He never saw his wife or his home again all the 35 years between.

The Rabbi asked him if he would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island and to the same house where the Rabbi had taken the woman three days earlier. He helped the man climb the three flights of stairs to the woman's apartment, knocked on the door and he saw the greatest Erev Purim reunion he could ever imagine.

Based on a true story; God does work in mysterious ways!



Monday, March 28, 2011

There Goes the Neighborhood

We moved into our new home about a month ago.
It's not that far from where we used to live.
But it's not where we used to live.
Which is probably... 
definitely...
...a good thing.
Brand new area.
Brand new street.
And brand new start.
Now we loved where we use to live.
And we loved our old neighbors.
But like the ghosts of girlfriends past, that is the past.
The present is all about starting life all over again.
At least for me.
And so far, so good.
One of our first days here, we got a visit from one of our new neighbors.
They brought a Bundt Cake from the local bakery.
The next day, another neighbor said hello.
And they brought us...
Another Bundt Cake.
From that same local bakery.
It’s a good thing we like bakeries.
And it's a good thing we like Bundt Cakes.
Plus, it's the thought that counts.
And from my seat, them was some very nice thoughts.
The fat-fest continued this past weekend.
Saturday another neighbor brought something called a "Magic Cookie Bar”.
Homemade.
Allrecipes.com defines this magical mystery bar as:
“An old fashioned favorite. Chocolate chips, nuts and coconut are set in a caramelized layer on top of a graham cracker crust."
Considering my self-imposed diet, all I could do was sniff.
And that sniff still cost me 300 calories.
That was Saturday.
Sunday these diet saboteurs struck again.
This time it was another neighbor.

With brownies.
Also homemade.
With a thick fudge frosting.
Little did I know we had moved in with the Ace of Cakes.
But thankfully I stayed strong.
Do you know how delicious a peeled grapefruit is?
I do.
When we moved here, I had a pretty good idea we would like the neighborhood.
But you never know about the neighbors.
Well this was a great start.
One by one our neighbors have come by.
Bringing dessert.
And a bucket of new info on our new home.
Like the pack of coyotes we can hear from our back yard.
And the snow that doesn’t ever melt on our driveway.
Because we are facing the wrong direction.
You know, all the things the realtor forgot to mention.
But the good news is, we still love it here.
And we certainly like the people.
The people in our neighborhood seem to have a lot in common.
2.4 kids per house.
With a dog.
Or two.
A cedar fence.
Brown.
No white pickets here.
And I have a direct connection with the neighbor across the street.
As I was leaving the driveway the other day, he was taking out the trash.
I stopped to say hello.
And within seconds I got a scoop.
A scoop of info, not a scoop of trash.
He told me that he’s been home for the last two years.
Like me.
Following a company merger.
Like me.
And he’s had a hard time finding a new gig.
Like me.
Then he told me that he's embarrassed.

Embarrassed to admit that he really enjoys being at home.
He enjoys doing the laundry.
And the shopping.
And the cooking.
And taking the kids to school.
Just like me.
I could tell from his reaction.
And the smile on his face.
That he was very excited to have a brother in arm's reach.
Right across the street.
During the last few years of life without a job, I have felt a lot of emotions.
But I don’t remember feeling embarrassed for taking good care of my family.
And neither does he.
Anymore.







Friday, March 25, 2011

Fight On

My mom returned to her assisted living facility this week.
This came after a couple of weeks at a nursing home.
Which came after a couple of weeks in the hospital.
Thank you Medicare.
This revolving door is nothing new to mom.
She is bipolar.
And during her bipolar episodes -- which she has more frequently than any human deserves.
She becomes another person.
Sometimes it is “running, going, doing,” Mom.
Sometimes is “crawl into a hole” Mom.
The range is like when you spread your arms.
To show that the fish was "thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis big.”
Times nine million.
When these episodes happen, she usually needs a little help from the experts.
But even as she prepares to enter year #82.
She is still just taking it all in stride.
In fact, she has become quite good at dealing with whatever is on her plate.
And trying not to think too far ahead.
Definitely better than me.
Her most recent hospital visit was brought on by a lack of sleep.
Which turned into a depression.
Which caused her to shake.
Uncontrollably.
When I got the call that she was taken to the hospital, it was a call I had received before.
Many times before.
So many, I had grown numb to it.
Which is sad.
But unfortunately this trip was like no other.
During this latest trip, she said she had a bad tummy ache.
The nurses called it abdominal pain.
They did a series of tests to find the source of this abdominal pain.
And those tests showed....
...nothing.
At least nothing for the abdominal pain.
But they kept testing.
And eventually they found something.
Something not good.
The doctors called it a mass on my mom’s kidney.
My mom called it a cancerous tumor.
Either way.
Hearing this news scared me to ....
Well, you know.
The fear in my mother’s voice was unlike any I had heard before.
From her.
Or from anyone.
I usually try to break a stressful moment with humor.
But there was nothing funny here.
This was time for me to put on my grown up pants.
And in a hurry.
I have no experience dealing with this.
Thankfully.
So I relied on my heart.
And while I might’ve gone a little too cliche on her.
It felt right at the moment.
“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.”
“It won’t do any good to create a scenario that may not exist.”
“We need to find out all the facts first.”
I probably sounded more like Bill Clinton than her son.
But I kept searching for the magical sentence.
I don’t know if if I was doing more harm.
Or more good.
But at least I felt like she knew I was there.
Tumor is one of those words that only has one meaning.
Cancer is no different.
I don’t care what they call it.
It is scary.
Whether you are nearly 44.
Or nearly 82.

It is scary.

I told my mom I would talk to the doctors.
To find out more information.
Which I did.
And the information made me feel better.
A little better.
Of course the doctors were protective of every syllable. 
Their legal department wouldn’t have it any other way.
But the message was an optimistic one.
They said the mass was small.
“The size of two grapes.”
And they said they weren’t sure how long it had been there.
Meaning -- to me -- it might’ve been there for a long time.
And they said my mother was not the typical candidate for kidney cancer.
All good signs.
I think.
I had no idea what other questions to ask.
Other than “the” question.
Which I stayed away from.
But I kept asking questions.
And they kept giving answers.
And with every answer.

I felt better.
A little better.
I don’t know if freaking out is in the makeup of a doctor.
But none of the doctors I spoke with freaked out.
Which I took as another good sign.
They answered each question like they had answered it a thousand times.
Which they probably had.
At the end of these conversations.
I went back to my mom.
And brought her some more support.
And some more cliches.
Like dealing with this one day at a time.
Which is what we are going to do.




Wednesday, March 23, 2011

F Bombs and Hand Grenades

Father of the Year 2011.
That’s me.
Recently I took a giant step in that direction.
There we were, surfin’ the net.
My seven-year old daughter and I.
We decided to stop by YouTube.
Actually, I decided to stop there.
And not by accident.
You see, she loves to sing.
Anything.
And recently she’s been belting out “Grenade” by Bruno Mars.
Every time she belts.
I record.
Yada yada yada.
There is a video of her singing “Grenade” on YouTube.

Moments after we arrived at YouTube, I clicked on her video.
Her smile extended from ear to ear.
We watched it once with the family.
Then we watched it again.
And again.
Loving it more and more with each click.
Eventually my eyes started wandering.
And I noticed, on the right side of our screen, a column that said...
...If you liked “that” video, you’ll love “these” videos.
Or something like that.
How could we pass that up?
The suggestion at the top of that list was the real Grenade video.
By the real Bruno Mars.
Whose real name is Peter Gene Hernandez.
So I clicked on it.
My daughter loved Bruno’s video.
As did I.
I’m guessing they had a wee bigger budget than us.

Just a guess.
But for my money, I'll still take Isabella.
Any day of the week.
And yes, that’s her real name.
Now if you’ve successfully found my little 'ole blog.
I’m guessing you’ve successfully stopped at YouTube before.
Once or many times.
So you probably have a pretty good idea of how addicting it can be.
You can really get lost in there.
Kinda like Ikea.
You go for one flimsy Swedish desk.
And you end up with that desk.
A new bookcase.
A computer stand.
An EKTORP Sofa.
And one overinflated credit card bill.
Well YouTube is no different.
Minus the credit card bill.
We went to see one video.
An hour later, we were still there.
There was some girl singing “I kissed a lobster and I liked it.”
She had like 13 billion hits.
They’ve got babies burping.
And movie trailers.
And kids playing Guitar Hero.
The place is amazing.
Actually, its a maze.   
No ing.
A maze you can never leave.
While we were watching Mr. Mars, I noticed the new suggestions on the right side had changed.
This time at the top was the OFFICIAL video for that great song by Cee Lo Green.
If you listen to Radio Disney, you know the song as “Forget You”.
If you listen to Satellite Radio, you know the song as “F.U.”.
Well, let’s just say the OFFICIAL name of that song is neither.
True, it begins with an F.
And it’s followed by three letters.
And it rhymes with Duck.
This is where the father of the year part comes in.
My daughter saw the suggestion nearly as quickly I did.
And she saw “that word.”
Now most responsible parents would have distracted their seven-year old.
Turned off the computer.
And sprinted directly into therapy.
Me?
Not so much.
You see, we both love music.
We both love that song.
And we both have heard “that word” a thousand times.
Actually, I’ve said it.
She’s heard it.
Sorry.
Hey, it’s not my fault.
My parents introduced me to “that word” at a very young age too.
In fact, my mom told me a story about the first time I used it in a sentence.
At age four.
Allegedly, I asked my parents what my father’s name was in Hebrew.
And they replied.
Yitzhak.
“Oh,” I said.
“Yitzhak... as in F---?”
Yep.
That’s allegedly what I said.
Minus the “---” part.
I was really good at vocabulary.
Hey, I turned out just fine.
So when this OFFICIAL Cee Lo Green song came up, I figured... hey, it’s art.

And art is good.
Right?
How much harm could a little music video do?
So Isabella and I watched it.
And we danced.
And she giggled.
A few times.
At the right times.
And at the end of the song.
She smirked.
She told me she loved the video, but she didn't like the words he used.

"I just don't get why people write songs that have bad words in them," she said.

"Are they just trying to get arrested?"

I asked her if it was bad that I showed it to her.

"I won't tell anybody," she said.

Then she locked her mouth with an imaginary key.

And threw the key away.

Where do I pick up my award?


(If you want to see Isabella's video CLICK HERE.)