Being Jewish

When I was growing up in a blue collar area in Connecticut, right off "the thruway" (ie, I-95), I lived in a close knit neighborhood where people tended to stay for years. As matter of fact, I can still go back to that same neighborhood 30 years later and find one or two people I knew as a child, although they are in their sunset years now.

We lived on a dead end street, a great place for young families. As kids, we often played in the street, without any fear of traffic. The neighbors all knew each other, and each other's kids. Our house was smack dab in the middle of the street, at the "T" intersection of two dead-end streets. Kids took a shortcut through our yard to get to yet another dead-end street behind our house. Nobody minded kids taking a shortcut through your yard in those days. Well, except for the old couple across the street with the six foot tall evergreen hedge; we wouldn't dare try to get a ball back if it got accidentally thrown over that particular hedge.

I attended the public school, two blocks away, from kindergarten through third grade. Then, our parish school opened, so my dad sent all of his school age children to Catholic school, at great expense, since he had five children to educate. At the Catholic school, we wore uniforms, blue and green plaid jumpers over white shirts for girls and grey pants and navy blazers for boys. We got out of school an hour earlier than the public schools, and had different vacation schedules. We got out two of school weeks earlier in the summer, and had the day after Halloween off (yea! All Saints Day), which was great because we could sleep in after trick-or-treating the night before.

More than anything, I wanted to be like all of the other neighborhood kids. I wanted to wear my own dresses to school, not ugly uniforms. Most of the neighborhood kids, whose families tended toward the Protestant variety of Christianity, went to Sunday school. Our whole family went to Mass on Sunday mornings; religious education was just another subject to study during the school day.

But I just wanted to fit in. I wanted to go to Sunday school. I didn't want to be seen as special or different from the other kids in the neighborhood, which is the way the one Catholic family in the neighborhood (ours) was viewed by some of my friends.

And that is why have never understood why my (very few) Jewish schoolmates seemed so happy to be different, to be off from public school for special Jewish holidays, to go to Temple on Saturdays while the rest of us slept in and watched cartoons on TV. I figured there must be something really special about being Jewish that they would not want to believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. When I was six, in my childish attempt to make sense of this, I came up with the conclusion that Catholics believed in God, Jews didn't believe in God, and Protestants didn't know what to believe.

Fifty years later, I still don't understand why my Jewish friends love "being Jewish". Maybe one of them can clue me in.

Peace to All

Christmas Eve is almost upon us. And, I have done nothing to get into the holiday spirit. No tree, no cards, no gifts.

Christmas has never been one of my favorite holidays, thanks to the commercialization that we enjoy here in the US. I am not religious, and not into ostentatious decorations or spending more money than I can afford buying gifts. I would prefer Christmas be celebrated simply as a holiday about "Peace" and "Goodwill Among Men", the message preached by the man whose birth is remembered by many on December 25th.

But, the "youngsters" in our family, now teenagers, still expect festively wrapped packages, replete with shiny bows and ribbons, under the tree on Christmas morning, even though their belief in Santa was abandoned long ago. Fortunately for me, living 3,000 miles away, money or gift cards are very acceptable alternatives for teenagers.

This year I am starting a new tradition. The teens' presents will be New Year's Day gifts instead, given in celebration of the start of a new year, and winged across the country by an angelic cherub instead of a fat old man in a red velvet suit. And I will be very happily celebrating Peace and Goodwill Among Men on Christmas Day, in the company of good friends of various religious beliefs.

If Only

The photos were taken when I was almost thirteen and wearing a two piece bathing suit for the first time. My usually pale skin looks tanned next to the light blue of my suit in the photos taken of my siblings and myself splashing in the waves of the Atlantic ocean off the Rhode Island coast in early summer. "A typical family on summer vacation" the photos say, two parents, five kids, having fun running around at the beach.

Except, we were anything but typical that summer. That was the summer my mother died of breast cancer. But you can't tell that from the photos.

One last holiday with the family, before she went into the hospital for the last time. Her cousin lent us their family beach house for a week. And then, she went away, and we children never saw her again.

My mother looks pretty normal in the photos, a mother of five kids in her mid thirties in a 1960s style bathing suit. But I could tell something was very wrong. In the evenings, at the beach house, after the younger children were in bed, she would take very strong pain medications, which made it seem to me like she was drunk. All I wanted was a normal family vacation. And so, I acted out. I got in trouble, and was punished for it. This I remember very clearly. But I didn't care. I wanted my parents to act like parents, normal parents of a normal family. And this woozy mother didn't fit in at all with my vision of the way things were supposed to be.

We human beings have a very strong tendency to ignore what we do not want to see, to pretend things are normal even when they are not. "If only" we didn't eventually have to face the harsh reality of life (and death). "If only".

Big Brother

My wallet was stolen way back in....June. In Paris, as I was exiting the subway. Not only did they steal my wallet, but my brand new camera and my old cell phone. The camera I could easily replace but I liked my old cell phone, even if it didn't play movies. It was functional, plus it had all my friends and family's phone numbers stored it in.

But worst of all, of course, was losing the wallet. Cash - gone. Credit and bank card - gone. California driver's license - gone. Luckily I had stashed my passport someplace else, or I might still be in France trying to get out of the country.

As soon as I got back to my friend's flat, I canceled the credit and bank cards and cell phone account, and spent several hours on the phone the next day trying to get replacement cards, which was not quite so easy, not to mention that the effort it took wasted half a day of vacation time. But it all worked out, except for the hassle and my financial loss. I finished my trip through several European countries and arrived back in California without significant incident several weeks later.

But guess what detail I postponed indefinitely? Yep, the trip to the DMV. Past visits must have left me traumatized from having to wait indefinitely. Despite three traffic tickets in the past two years (not one of them really my fault, I swear), I continued to drive, without a license in my physical possession for...over three months. (I rationalized this as OK because I do have a valid license, I just didn't keep a copy of it on me for a short period of time.) I did sign up online for an appointment - the system gave me an appointment 30 days out! By the time the computer generated appointment week arrived, I had a conflict in my schedule, so I set up a second online appointment - again 30 days out. All I can say is that the appointment system didn't work for me.

But, alas, this is not a tale of woe. It actually has a happy ending. With Thanksgiving around the corner, and me planning to spend it on the East Coast, the thought occurred to me that I might need to rent a car...for which I would need that hard copy of my driver's license. So, yesterday I hopped on the computer to see which DMV office was closest to my house. And, much to my surprise, I found that the California DMV has actually incorporated some 21st century technology. Each office posted current wait times online, both for appointments and walk-ins! Stunned, I located an office with a low wait time not too far from my house, and 20 minutes after walking in the door, I had my temporary driver's license.

However, California drivers, be forewarned. As of early October, California began issuing a "new" type of driver's license, one with enhanced security features, to make hard copy licenses more difficult to counterfeit. Having had my own license stolen, I'm all for that. But, these new security features include one I'm not so sure that I am happy about - you now also need to get fingerprinted to get a California driver's license.

I'm in the system now. And I am sure Big Brother will be watching.

Thanksgiving

Fall comes late in northern California. Its the first week in November before the leaves turn colors, the temperature drops, and the sky clouds up with winter rain. Halloween has come and gone, and if you are not a retailer, you begin to think about Thanksgiving. Even our chorus director, in his way of getting us all to know one another, asked the chorus members about their Thanksgiving plans last Monday evening. (He is hosting a Macedonian thanksgiving dinner at his house this year.)

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. Its simple - eat, drink, give thanks, and be merry -- what could be better than that? Spending time with family and friends. Four days off work in a row (unless you are in the retail business.) Football and shopping for some. Deer hunting for others.

My son did not have a chance to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family in Connecticut. Sean and I always visited my family in the summer, when the weather was not both cold AND rainy, and there was usually someplace I could take a restless child for a few hours, like the beach or the park. But the year Sean turned 17, he wanted to go back east for Thanksgiving to spend it with "family". Unfortunately, Sean never got that chance. I went back east by myself that November, and silently cried during the entire five hour plane ride east.

Now this year, my youngest niece, not quite sixteen, would like to have Thanksgiving at a friend's house, rather than with our extended family. While I understand her desire to do something different occasionally, and her boredom spending the whole day with her aunts and uncles, I can't stop thinking that my son would have given anything to spend just one Thanksgiving with "family".

In the Back Row

Last night I went to hear one of my favorite bluegrass bands, "Blue Highway", at our local bluegrass hot-spot. Blue Highway is highly professional band; they have been nominated for two Grammy awards in recent years, and their dobro player is a twelve time national champion. All of the five members of the band have been together for the past 16 years, a rarity in the musical world. And, they can sing. All five of them. Together. In harmony. Wondrous harmony.

Redwood Bluegrass Associates, a group of bluegrass lovin' volunteers, arranges for bluegrass (and newgrass-gospel-country and sometimes jazz) related music once a month at a church in Mountain View, CA. Sometimes local bands play; sometimes groups come from Nashville. (And West Virginia-Kentucky-Virgina-Tennessee-Arkansas...) Some bands are youngsters just getting started, and some bands are well-known old-hands, at least in the bluegrass world.

Me, I came by myself, hoping to run into a friend or two as I often do. But, no one I knew was there last night, so I sat by myself, about two-thirds back in the church hall. Blue Highway was as good as ever musically speaking. And their jokes actually a bit better than I recall. But I was having a harder time than I usually do understanding the words to the songs. This I found quite vexing, and it was not the first time.

A few weeks ago, encouraged by a friend, I went to a political rally to support the Democratic candidate for governor of our great state of California, Jerry Brown. After hours of standing and waiting, my arches gave out and I opted for a seat in the back of the cavernous gym, in the handicapped section. After a near riot by the masses over seating, my friends finally ended up in the bleacher seats about midway back. When the speakers finally arrived (Gavin Newsome, Bill Clinton, and Jerry Brown), I found I could only understand what they were saying if I also watched their lips...on the BIG screen monitors. (I was too far back to even SEE their lips, even with my bifocals on, without the help of the large screens.) At the time, I blamed it on the "muddy" sound in the cavernous gym and my placement in the very back of it. My friends heard everything just fine.

My dad, who just turned 85, cannot "hear" you unless he can also see your face. I fear I may not be far behind.

Home Is Where the Heart Is

I have lived in California for over 30 years, over half of my life, having spent the first 25 years growing up in Connecticut. Somewhere during that time, California became "home" to me, the "home" I would long to return to after a long vacation or after visiting friends and family "back East".

Thirty years is a long time to live in one place. But I remember exactly when California first felt like home to me. I had been living in California for about three years. I had just returned from a trip to the East Coast and was so glad to see the golden brown hills of northern California, dotted with dark green oak trees, and the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean, foaming white waves crashing against the seemingly endless shore. Glad to return to our small, rented wooden cottage just south of Stanford University, to a mild temperature winter, and relaxed and accepting California attitudes.

And yet, there was a time, years later, when I thought about returning to Connecticut -- I would return after my son had graduated from high school, in order to spend more time with my five siblings and parents. But life has a way of not always turning out the way you expect. My son never graduated from high school, and when he was killed in his senior year of high school, I realized that California was where I truly belonged, where I truly felt at home. And California is where I have stayed.

Don't get me wrong - in my very worst of times, my family has always been there to support me, immediately and without question. And I would not hesitate to move back East if there were a family crisis, either theirs or mine. My siblings and I have an incredibly tight bond. I might not always have the luxury of living in California, which I love so well, but I am blessed with a loving family, which is something that not everyone experiences.

And while I'd hate to choose between the two, if it came down to that, I know I would move back East. I might be homesick for California for a long time, and I would definitely come back to visit every once in a while, but I know deep down inside that my love for my family trumps all, even my beloved California.