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Viewing 10 - 18 out of 25 Blogs.
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I went to Catholic school. I was taught by the Sisters of Notre Dame and Jesuit priests. I was not the kind of kid who felt it necessary to make a connection with the teachers. I just kept my head down and stayed out of trouble. My ambition during the day at school was just to get through it. Even so, the nuns had a profound effect on me. You learned your lessons, did your homework and behaved in class because the nuns allowed no alternative. Today's teachers, even nuns, would have a heart attack if they were asked to teach classes of 60 students. In retrospect, I can understand their no nonsense attitudes. The end result was I got a great basic education which has stood me in good stead throughout my life.
Down life's road, I married a Jewish man. Although his religion certainly had rules, it was not governed daily by persons so uncompromising in their educational and religious beliefs. He did recognize that my parochial education had been superior to his public education. He advocated Catholic school for our children. When my friends who had shared this life gathered, he listened with rapt attention and some disbelief at our tales of slaps, knuckle raps, coatroom lockups, and bits of humiliation dealt out by women with extremely disciplined lives.
My husband and I were fans of tag sales and garage sales. One day we were passing a school with a charity tag sale sign. It appeared the school had been closed for business. We stopped for a quick look. Once inside, I knew immediately it had been a Catholic school. I could see the faded spots on the walls where the crosses had been. When we entered the sale room we discovered the sale was being conducted by nuns. They were not the modern day, more fashionable women wearing cute little head-dresses. These were the original heavily robed, full wimple, bead rattling nuns of my past. While perusing a table of wares, one of the sisters was walking around offering candy bars for $1.00. I am not a candy fan, so I gave her the dollar and refused the candy. She explained that I was entitled to a candy bar for my donation. I once again declined with a "No, thank you Sister". Her voice became authoritative and she said "TAKE THE CANDY". My husband's version of the story is that my hand flew up immediately and took a candy bar.
He looked at me wide-eyed and said "I've never seen you react like that!" He was literally stunned watching the encounter. He had a momentary glimpse into my history. My husband recounted this event numerous times. He drew parallels to his experience in the military. We sent our kids to public school.
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Sisters
Posted On 03/23/2015 10:02:42
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I seem to have reached the "Life in Review" stage. We all have strengths and weaknesses. As a kid, I believed my strengths were not up to family standards. On the other hand I understand the times and expectations regarding my life and family and realized my views were skewed. My folks each had an 8th grade education. It was their goal to see their girls went way beyond that point. My older sister was the bookworm. When it came to anything regarding school she was brilliant. She was always at the top of the class, skipped a grade and was deluged with glory from teachers. My parents were quite puffed up over her scholarly achievements. I did well enough in school, but I had better things to do than study. I was sort of a hell-bent athlete which was a skill set not encouraged for girls during the 50's. My folks cheered me on at meets but I always believed they would be happier with another scholar. Eventually, the athletics were left behind because that's what was expected.
I attended a business school after high school and embarked on a successful career. During the early '70's many businesses encouraged recreational sports among employees. I participated in most of them. I was respected for my athletic prowess as well as recognized in that venue for having leadership qualities. Athletic ability actually accelerated my progress in the business world. It was a surprise and an awakening. My abilities were different than my sister's but not less important. The wasted years of feeling second best melted away.
I stopped blaming my sister for being smarter than me. I came to depend on it. She was a fount of useful (and not so useful) knowledge. She had the capacity to read a Federal Tax Manual cover to cover, understand and retain, and use the information contained therein. I'd rather face a firing squad. She was able to teach my kids the kind of laser focus which achieved academic success and I was able to teach her kids to run at maximum speed, hit a ball. ski and roller skate. She would have rather had a root canal.
My sister was 11 years my senior. Because of the age difference, it took us a while to find our footing, but when we did we were inseparable. I had the honor of being the baby sister to my big sister. She was serious, I was the clown. She was super-smart, I had common sense. She was the thinker, I was the action taker. She was the wind beneath my wings and in exchange I taught her to fly. She used that knowledge to fly home five years ago. Today is one of the bad days. Thanks for listening.
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Stuff
Posted On 03/16/2015 06:26:39
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I have considered myself a ruthless non-collector all my life. I am a cut-throat declutterer. And yet...there it is...stuff. I have stuff. Where does the stuff come from? How does it multiply? How do I get rid of stuff? Recycling and rules about refuse have complicated the problem. Some of it was given to me or my family as gifts. Can I just dispose of someone's thoughtfulness? What about family heirlooms? Am I the keeper of family heirlooms until I die?
The next generation does not seem to have a connection to "things". My stepmother was my father's best friend's widow. I knew her all my life. We were always polite, but frankly she was not my favorite person.. However, she was Grandma Milly to my children and my sister's children. She had an affinity for my husband and gave him her family heirlooms for his birthday or Christmas. In a recent "clean out" I offered them to her grandchildren. They had history and were actually nice pieces, two crystal decanters, a letter opener and a set of bookends all dating back to WWI. They all said "no thanks" without hesitation. I finally gave them to her brother's daughter. She is a woman of my generation and will probably have the same problem passing them on. However, my conscience is clear.
"Anything you cannot relinquish when it has outlived its usefulness owns you." That phrase repeats in my head as I stare at a decorative cabinet full of "good china". I remember the family occasions when it was used. Nobody wants it. Things are so much less formal today the good china hasn't seen an outing in five years. The set, painstakingly purchased piece by piece over years has monetary value, but I don't have any use for formality anymore and I don't need things to remind me of my blessings. I have decided when I downsize, the china will be my everyday dishes as I choose not to live in a disposable world. Problem solved.
I was talking with my sister's daughter. She told me she got a tattoo in memory of mom and dad. A tattoo? Heck, that's gonna be a whole lot harder to get rid of than a few knick-knacks. Back to finding new homes for my stuff. It's like finding homes for kittens. You want to be rid of them, but you want them to be loved and handled with care. I dream of a home free of my dust collectors but I wouldn't mind being able to visit them once in a while.
Today starts Daylight Savings Time in New York. Although it is still quite cold, DST is the bellwether of better things to come. It's time to shed the winter lethargy and get back to living. The Northeast US has had a heck of a winter. I have had at least two feet of snow on the ground for eight weeks. The weather has been one arctic blast after another, but it is coming to an end. We will have another storm or two, but that extra hour of daylight lifts everyone spirits enough to get through it until the buds appear on the trees. Spring in the Northeast brings it's own set of problems. The melting snow will cause flooding, the roads damaged by winter will not be repaired fast enough and when they are the work crews will tie up traffic for hours. Craftsmen and handimen wlll be at a premium as people rush to take care of repairs and home improvements. However, the sun will get warmer, the first tendrils of grass will peek through, the crocuses will rear their heads and all will be well with the world. Farewell couch-potato clothes. Farewell snuggly slippers. Farewell cozy blankets. Farewell stale air. It is time for renewal and rebirth. Hello spring fever. Just can't wait to get outdoors. It's time for a trip to the garden center to buy some seeds to start indoors. I should revise that to its time for a trip to the garden center to over-buy seeds to start indoors. I'll need snow shoes to get to the garden center, but my attitude adjustment will keep me going. As soon as the snow melts enough to get out on the deck, we'll have a welcome spring cookout in down jackets and hoods. Now at least, I can fake it til I make it!
My mother took great pride in our modest apartment. It was always neat and orderly and immaculately clean. An old uncle passed away and my family came into a little extra money. He had passed with a penny insurance policy he had had for a gazillion years. It covered his funeral with a little left over. My father told my mother to spend it. He didn't want "blood money". My mother decided to replace our rather worn living room furniture. The furniture did not have to be new, but it had to be better. My mother picked out a living room ensemble and was waiting for my dad to put the seal of approval on it before purchase.
In the meantime, my father had a friend who was moving and selling his furniture. Without consulting my mother, he purchased his ugly bachelor furniture for a song. On the appointed day the "new" furniture was moved into our apartment. My mother was sorely disappointed and in a rare display let my father know she was not happy. My father stubbornly defended his action and since he was the breadwinner, he suffered under the illusion that he ruled the roost. My mother and her mother-in-law were good friends. Mom complained to Grandma Florence who was appalled at her son's action and disregard for his wife's feelings on the matter.
My father's mother was a tiny, fragile little woman. She claimed to be five feet tall, but she reached that towering height by wearing what were known as Cuban heels. She told my mother they would team up and do something drastic to make him pay attention. This was completely out of character for mild-mannered Mom. Grandma went to the roof of the apartment building and pulled down the fire ax. My grandmother and my mother chopped at the offending furniture until it was no longer usable.
Grandma stuck around until my father came home. My mother told him they would be going to get the furniture she wanted that evening. When my father saw the mess in the living room he roared like a lion. My dad was 6'2" tall, formidable in his policeman's uniform and spitting mad. His pixie sized mom drew herself up to her almost five feet and pointed her finger at his chest. She told him, in no uncertain terms, no son of her's would be so inconsiderate of his wife. And just like that, I watched that stubborn, mountain of a man melt as the error of his folly dawned on him. His answer was short and sweet. "Yes, mam".
Like all children, I hated when my parents were at odds. However, like every other disagreement they ever had, there was a happy ending. The four of us went out to buy the new furniture, ate dinner at the Chinese restaurant and went to the movies, afterall, there was no place to sit at home. It was better than a holiday.
My sister, my dad and I picked up the slack when Mom passed. I did the daily housekeeping, my Dad did the menu planning and heavy lifting, my sister had to resume the tasks my mom had taken on with her daughter. A few things were eliminated. Laundry was sent out for the most part and came back clean and folded. There were exceptions to the rule. My sister paid me to wash her nursing uniforms with the agreement that in addition to the fee, the pocket change was mine. Once a week I would roll the big old wringer machine to the sink, wash her uniforms, and hang them over the bathtub to "drip-dry". It was quite profitable for me.
On one occasion we had a serious snow storm and there was no way to get the laundry to the laundermat. So, in addition to the uniforms, I did the family laundry. My dad had retired from the police force and was working construction. He took the subway to work each day and felt it was necessary for his work clothes to be presentable. When mom was around, this meant everything was ironed, including the ever-present handkerchief.
I washed my Dad's work clothes and discovered one of his shirts still had black stains on the sleeves. I gave the shirt another run-through, but the black stains remained. Admitting defeat has never been one of my virtues. I took out our largest glass bowl, positioned the shirt so just the sleeves were in the bowl and covered them with (readers of my previous blog can guess) full strength Clorox and left it to soak. I busied myself with other household chores and ran to the stores to get dinner (I lived in the city, all the stores were a block away). When I returned with my purchases I went to check on the shirt. The sleeves were GONE! The Clorox was all murky and the cuff buttons lay at the bottom of the bowl. The sleeves had dissolved! We were at the dawn of the commercial use of rayon, dacron and polyester. My Dad had purchased the shirt himself for the first time in his married life. He thought that the non-wrinkling properties of a synthetic fiber would be good since no one would be ironing his work clothes. He did not foresee melting as a factor. His initial reaction was what you would expect, but fortunately, he wasn't too happy with the synthetic material. The practice of the day dictated he wear it until it was no longer wearable. My sister offered to hem the remainder of the sleeves and convert the shirt to short sleeves. In the end, he cut off the buttons and added them to the button box, and first time in his life disposed of salvageable clothing.
Those early synthetics did not allow your skin to breathe, they were extremely flammable and the remnants of that shirt probably still survive in a landfill somewhere. Although I was sorry to have ruined the shirt I was amazed at the result of my efforts. I can tell you this for sure..I got rid of those black stains!
PS: I wish I had a time-lapse video of those shirt sleeves disappearing.
For the first 18 years of my life, we lived a 16 family apartment building in Brooklyn, NY. Our apartment was two bedrooms but quite spacious as were most pre-war buildings. My only sister was 11+ years older than me. I was a mid-life surprise child or what was known as a change-of-life baby. One of the great disadvantages of having older birth parents is you lose them when you are quite young. My mom passed when I was 15. My mom's vocation was housewife. I lived in a spotlessly clean home with a place for everything and everything in its place. I ate wonderful meals that always seemed to take all day to prepare. My mother lost her father young and as the oldest female raising her 5 brothers and sisters fell to her while her mom went to work. My mom was determined that fate would not befall my sister or me. Therefore...we had no chores. I didn't make my own bed, wash the dishes, help with the dusting and my idea of vacuuming was to sit on the tophat vac while mom pushed it around. My jobs were to eat, sleep, play and study. I was really good at the first three.
Suddenly, Mom was gone and I had to pitch in. My sister was married and had a little girl by then, however she had moved home while her husband was stationed overseas. He was in Germany when the Berlin Wall went up. Because of the conflict, military families could not join their loved ones. My sister was an RN and worked full time. Keeping house fell to me. Uh oh! I figured most of it out. Fortunately putting things where they belonged was a habit ingrained in all of us, so the house was never unkempt.
My biggest challenge was cooking. My dad would leave the night's menu with me in the morning and I would purchase the food after school. For a few months I would come home, call my best friend's house and ask her mom what to do with the food. Mrs. Morgan would explain with infinite patience and then call to check on me. During one of those first phone calls Mrs. M told me to "scrub the potatoes". My mom used the word "scrub" when she used harsh chemicals. She "scrubbed" the floor, she "scrubbed the tub, she "scrubbed" the sink. So I "scrubbed" the potatoes with the product of the day ... Babo. Babo was the Ajax or Comet of the early 60's. My sister came home from work early one day while I was prepping dinner. She stood aghast watching me pour scrubbing cleanser on potatoes. She was yellling like a banshee about how I was going to poison the family. Since we were about 6 months into my cooking I explained no one had gotten sick yet! I guess I was good at rinsing. My sister told my father in her best outraged voice about the potatoes. My father laughed until he cried. He could barely catch his breath. His response was simple..."If you can do it better...you wash the potatoes."
The family ate a lot of pretty awful food during the learning curve. They never complained. My cooking improved and they actually began to enjoy meals again. I experimented with matchbook cover recipes, got new recipes from my friends' moms and eventually there was a new normal. I learned the difference between "wash" and "scrub" and stopped using Babo on the potatoes. It's a good thing big Sis never found out what I thought "blanch the vegetables" meant! Yikes!
Sometimes I think I live in a bubble. People whom I've never heard of won Academy Awards for movies I've never seen. The Kardashians are not on my radar. Celebrity gossip eludes me. The latest psychobabble is nonsense. However, I do keep up on current events and the financial markets, so imagine my surprise yesterday when I was asked for identification when depositing cash into my checking account. The teller went on to explain that cash transactions of any type require ID now and one can no longer deposit cash into another person's account at all. You can still deposit a check or money order into another person's account. He explained that although Chase is one of the first banks to institute this practice, it will be universal shortly. This new rule would have been a problem while my kids were in college. I went out of my way to get cash to deposit into their accounts so that the money would be immediately available. I bank online and on my phone. Most additions to my accounts are handled by direct deposit. I very rarely have a reason to go to a bricks and mortar bank. I thought I was so cool and tech savvy handling my virtual banking. In the meantime, one of the basic tenets of banking has been altered without my knowledge. I think this new safeguard is going to put a big crimp in my upstart money laundering business. I'm going back to my bubble now.
Son: Whatcha doin' Ma?
Me: (Over a mouthful of food) Eating dinner.
Son: Whatcha havin'?
Me: Hot dogs and knishes.
Son: Maaaaaaaa! You shouldn't be eating that stuff. You must learn to eat properly.
Me: Really? Do tell.
Someone tell me what planet he grew up on. Our family ate meat, fish, fruit, fresh vegetables, homemade soups and stews. hot cereal, skim milk, plenty of water. We grew two strong, healthy, active children into strong, healthy, active adults who are now the food police. My husband had juvenile diabetes. We were a sugar-free family long before it was the rule of the day and yet food was a celebration in our house. I liked the cleaned plates and compliments on dinner.
I didn't buy "organic" because there was no such thing. We were not gluten-free. What the heck is gluten anyway? My idea of eating clean was washing the fruit and vegetables thoroughly. In the summer we ate salad and vegetables grown outside the back door. The kids had peanut butter because not every living creature was allergic to peanuts. I confess we also ate the very sinful white bread.
When one becomes suddenly single, meals become more drudgery than celebration. No one wants to cook for themselves. I have never been a fan of take out and always considered pizza an "on the run" food. Suddenly food is only necessary to overcome hunger pangs. Cereal is a great solution. Then, just as suddenly, I missed the celebration of food. I began cooking for myself. Admittedly, the meals are a bit smaller in scale, but protein and vegetables are on a dinner plate with silverware and napkin. I admit to shortcuts. I purchase some sliced roast beef at the supermarket for open faced hot beef sandwiches with gravy. I cook and freeze my own instant meals. Most of the time I have a ritual meal but occasionally supermarket insanity strikes. I remember hot dogs, knishes, or mac n' cheese, or chili n' chips. So occasionally my ritual becomes a celebration of yumminess. I know going in I will get heartburn, but that's why Tums were invented. I know hot dogs are made from chicken beaks and cow snouts, but I don't care. The good Lord gave us taste buds for much more than tofu and celery. Tomorrow, I will go back to my ordinary meals...until the next celebration.
Somebody tell me where these preachy, food fad following, Paleo, vegan, organic, gluten free food nazis come up with the idea that I can't feed myself properly. I think we are all entitled to an occasional food detour. If I were to listen to the kids, I would live on dried out chicken cutlets and brussel sprouts.
Son: I'm coming over on Sunday. Will you make me some chicken and dumplings?
Me: Of course, sweetie....extra gluten?
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