Becky’isms
You can’t put your head on someone else’s shoulders. This meant you cannot make other people think or act like you do.
The complaint department is on the 9th floor. This was specific to the building I grew up in which only had three floors.
People are people. I never really got this one but I think it was meant to help me accept anyone with two legs and opposable thumbs regardless of how distasteful I found them to be.
Bishop the Moil (my Yiddish transliteration) for “just wipe it off your face”, which meant suck it up and turn the other cheek all at once.
The door swings both ways. In other words: “if you don’t like it leave.” No one is holding you back.
My mother is definitely one great philosopher. I should have been taking notes. So many of the brilliant, funny sayings she threw like confetti over our daily lives have been lost over time. Funny, I have all her jewelry. She made sure to pass that along, but neither of us ever thought it would be her words I would have loved to have held onto. A string of plastic beads or even a diamond ring cannot hold the magic of her mind and the way she used phrases to steer us through life. “If you have nothing nice to say, shut up” was one of my favorites, a simple twist on an old line like lime in a martini.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
289 Days Until the Big Five-0
More thoughts on friends….
Am I being cynical or realistic? The other day I told my son there are only going to be a handful of people you will be able to count on, really count on, in your life. That adds up to 5 people. You will learn the following as you fly through life:
The Five People you can truly trust and rely on in this world are:
1. Yourself.
2. Your mother (in most cases, but unfortunately not all).
3. Your father (if you are lucky since most fathers are men and I tend to think it is rare
to find a nurturing man)
4 and 5 will most likely be a friend, not just any “friend” but that rare individual who you will share your soul with and who will want to protect your shared soul like the treasure it really is.
I feel awful telling my son this but I know it is true. That means outside of your immediate family you can expect to find another 2 people in this world who will be truly reliable trustworthy, and dependable. Everyone else is pretty much always going to put themselves first. It is just human nature. They don’t mean any harm by it so don’t take it personally when someone disappoints you, doesn’t call back or show up when they say they will, forgets to include you in plans or to think how one of their comments might make you feel. Just learn to trust and love your self. The old adage is true; “you are your own best friend.” There is a reason some of these sayings get passed down and around over time. They survive the test of time, the greatest test of all. This is also why I tell my children, a “real” friendship takes decades to grow. The rest of the friends are lovely plastic potted plants you can use to decorate your life, bur the rare one who roots run deep into the earth and get tangled up with yours at the core that is one you will need like water and oxygen.
Am I being cynical or realistic? The other day I told my son there are only going to be a handful of people you will be able to count on, really count on, in your life. That adds up to 5 people. You will learn the following as you fly through life:
The Five People you can truly trust and rely on in this world are:
1. Yourself.
2. Your mother (in most cases, but unfortunately not all).
3. Your father (if you are lucky since most fathers are men and I tend to think it is rare
to find a nurturing man)
4 and 5 will most likely be a friend, not just any “friend” but that rare individual who you will share your soul with and who will want to protect your shared soul like the treasure it really is.
I feel awful telling my son this but I know it is true. That means outside of your immediate family you can expect to find another 2 people in this world who will be truly reliable trustworthy, and dependable. Everyone else is pretty much always going to put themselves first. It is just human nature. They don’t mean any harm by it so don’t take it personally when someone disappoints you, doesn’t call back or show up when they say they will, forgets to include you in plans or to think how one of their comments might make you feel. Just learn to trust and love your self. The old adage is true; “you are your own best friend.” There is a reason some of these sayings get passed down and around over time. They survive the test of time, the greatest test of all. This is also why I tell my children, a “real” friendship takes decades to grow. The rest of the friends are lovely plastic potted plants you can use to decorate your life, bur the rare one who roots run deep into the earth and get tangled up with yours at the core that is one you will need like water and oxygen.
290 Days Until the Big Five-0
Why?
My bad…no way to start off the New Year by blowing off my blog postings for the first Five days of January. How much more time will I let slip between my fingertips before I accept the only way to be successful in any endeavor is to be disciplined, determined, patient and organized? I do believe it is the last of those four characteristics that is giving me a disproportionate amount of challenges. I know the winner of the “imaginary” races for success, accomplishment, material wealth, emotional health, physical fitness will all be won by the person who is most organized. I hate those people and I want to be one of them. Isn’t that how George Orwell ended his classic? Can I find someone to literally brainwash me into being organized? If one is organized then they become efficient and efficiency leads to success and success leads to happiness and happiness leads to more success. How do I get off the damn roller coaster I am riding and hop onto that Super Highway of Success? I really WANT to love Big Brother and live that “just do it” motto Nike introduced to the world so many decades ago.
Should I go to one of the thousands of self help books? Okay, if there are thousands of anything (e.g. diet books, organizational guides) then that must mean NONE of them really work. Oh I know, each person is different and that is what necessitates all these different approaches to successful dieting, and organizing but still something is a miss and I cannot quite put my finger on it. Perhaps that is because it is buried somewhere deep under a pile in my home. Are dieting and organizing the only two things people need help with? If you spend any time in a book store or on the internet, one would think so. Does this mean skinny and organized are the two main goals most in demand for the majority of individuals?
Okay, I counted 7 questions in this short little Post. I am very good at asking questions, perhaps I should make that my “book”, just a list of questions without answers for all those of us who would rather digress then “do it.”
My bad…no way to start off the New Year by blowing off my blog postings for the first Five days of January. How much more time will I let slip between my fingertips before I accept the only way to be successful in any endeavor is to be disciplined, determined, patient and organized? I do believe it is the last of those four characteristics that is giving me a disproportionate amount of challenges. I know the winner of the “imaginary” races for success, accomplishment, material wealth, emotional health, physical fitness will all be won by the person who is most organized. I hate those people and I want to be one of them. Isn’t that how George Orwell ended his classic? Can I find someone to literally brainwash me into being organized? If one is organized then they become efficient and efficiency leads to success and success leads to happiness and happiness leads to more success. How do I get off the damn roller coaster I am riding and hop onto that Super Highway of Success? I really WANT to love Big Brother and live that “just do it” motto Nike introduced to the world so many decades ago.
Should I go to one of the thousands of self help books? Okay, if there are thousands of anything (e.g. diet books, organizational guides) then that must mean NONE of them really work. Oh I know, each person is different and that is what necessitates all these different approaches to successful dieting, and organizing but still something is a miss and I cannot quite put my finger on it. Perhaps that is because it is buried somewhere deep under a pile in my home. Are dieting and organizing the only two things people need help with? If you spend any time in a book store or on the internet, one would think so. Does this mean skinny and organized are the two main goals most in demand for the majority of individuals?
Okay, I counted 7 questions in this short little Post. I am very good at asking questions, perhaps I should make that my “book”, just a list of questions without answers for all those of us who would rather digress then “do it.”
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
291 Days Until the Big Five-O
People Let Me tell you about My Best Friend
Remember the theme song from the old Television show “The Courtship of Eddie’s Father” with Bill Bixby and that adorable little boy with the black hair?? Whatever happened to him? Did he end up like so many childhood actors, drugged, depressed and looking for a second chance in Rehab or on some Cable Television show? I hope not.
The world really has changed from when I once sang along with that catchy tune…”People Let Me Tell you about my best friend” once a week. The song referred to a father and son, but my best friend is someone I met on the way to Kindergarten, which brings me to topic of this particular post.
Sharing a Soul…
I have decided we do not necessarily have “soul-mates” as much as we have “shared souls” wandering the world. The difference is critical, to me at least. A “soul-mate” infers finding that special ONE person you either marry or feel a connection to on a very deep level. Yet, I think our souls go way beyond being pieces of a big puzzle looking to fit in with 3 or 4 other pieces cut out so they interlock perfectly to form a bigger piece of the puzzle. I am beginning to think life is not a puzzle at all. We may never ever figure out the big picture. The goal is not to find the mate(s) for your soul, the goal is to find the souls sharing the same molecular structure so each soul can simply expand on its own. It remains a nebulous entity defying explanation, or visualization.
I share a soul with my mother, and my best friend. I am convinced we are all cut from the same nebulae in the heavenly invisible Quilt sewn by the force of nature most of us call G-D. As we have traveled through life together my best friend and I have not just “shared” experiences like living together in college or making phony phone calls all afternoon while in grammar school (and in college too). Yes, we laugh at all the same things (actually we are usually the only two people laughing). But somehow, even where our lives diverge:
Different Parents, and therefore different siblings.
We live in different suburbs now
She married young, and had children way before I ever even got married, let alone reproduced.
She is the oldest of 2 and I am the youngest of 3
She is good in math and I can barely add and subtract.
So how is it we both have had to deal with parents who were much older than everyone else’s parents while we were growing up. And our kids (hers are 21 and 19, mine are 11 and 13) seem so much alike and they run into so many of the same exact “issues” you would think they shared the same parents. We both have cousins with many challenges (mental, physical) even though mine our “first” cousins with no parents and hers are second or third cousins whose parents are still alive. We have sister-in-laws who are so identical to one another I am convinced they were separated at birth.
No matter how much our lives diverge over the last 4 and a half decades, they seem to converge even more. So what is that if it is not a shared soul? There are simply too many coincidences between us for it to be a coincidence that we met on the way to kindergarten, which it self was a strange coincidence. You see, my last name started with a K and hers with an S. We were not “supposed” to be going to kindergarten at the same time. Kids with last names starting with A to M were supposed to go in the morning for the first half of the year and then in the afternoon for the second half of the year while kids with last names starting with N to Z were on the opposite schedule. They started the year out going in the afternoon and then finished it by going in the morning. But my “best friend” had just moved into the neighborhood and when her parents registered her she was put with the A to M crowd even though she was an S because that group already had too many kids in it. So, there we were strolling down Rosemont at the same time every morning. We walked and talked, our mothers trailing behind us. We had no idea how profound that picture would become in both our lives, us, walking and talking, and our mothers always behind us, except now it seems more like we are pulling them along on the invisible Wagons we all carry loaded with life’s responsibilities, obligations and emotional treasures.
Remember the theme song from the old Television show “The Courtship of Eddie’s Father” with Bill Bixby and that adorable little boy with the black hair?? Whatever happened to him? Did he end up like so many childhood actors, drugged, depressed and looking for a second chance in Rehab or on some Cable Television show? I hope not.
The world really has changed from when I once sang along with that catchy tune…”People Let Me Tell you about my best friend” once a week. The song referred to a father and son, but my best friend is someone I met on the way to Kindergarten, which brings me to topic of this particular post.
Sharing a Soul…
I have decided we do not necessarily have “soul-mates” as much as we have “shared souls” wandering the world. The difference is critical, to me at least. A “soul-mate” infers finding that special ONE person you either marry or feel a connection to on a very deep level. Yet, I think our souls go way beyond being pieces of a big puzzle looking to fit in with 3 or 4 other pieces cut out so they interlock perfectly to form a bigger piece of the puzzle. I am beginning to think life is not a puzzle at all. We may never ever figure out the big picture. The goal is not to find the mate(s) for your soul, the goal is to find the souls sharing the same molecular structure so each soul can simply expand on its own. It remains a nebulous entity defying explanation, or visualization.
I share a soul with my mother, and my best friend. I am convinced we are all cut from the same nebulae in the heavenly invisible Quilt sewn by the force of nature most of us call G-D. As we have traveled through life together my best friend and I have not just “shared” experiences like living together in college or making phony phone calls all afternoon while in grammar school (and in college too). Yes, we laugh at all the same things (actually we are usually the only two people laughing). But somehow, even where our lives diverge:
Different Parents, and therefore different siblings.
We live in different suburbs now
She married young, and had children way before I ever even got married, let alone reproduced.
She is the oldest of 2 and I am the youngest of 3
She is good in math and I can barely add and subtract.
So how is it we both have had to deal with parents who were much older than everyone else’s parents while we were growing up. And our kids (hers are 21 and 19, mine are 11 and 13) seem so much alike and they run into so many of the same exact “issues” you would think they shared the same parents. We both have cousins with many challenges (mental, physical) even though mine our “first” cousins with no parents and hers are second or third cousins whose parents are still alive. We have sister-in-laws who are so identical to one another I am convinced they were separated at birth.
No matter how much our lives diverge over the last 4 and a half decades, they seem to converge even more. So what is that if it is not a shared soul? There are simply too many coincidences between us for it to be a coincidence that we met on the way to kindergarten, which it self was a strange coincidence. You see, my last name started with a K and hers with an S. We were not “supposed” to be going to kindergarten at the same time. Kids with last names starting with A to M were supposed to go in the morning for the first half of the year and then in the afternoon for the second half of the year while kids with last names starting with N to Z were on the opposite schedule. They started the year out going in the afternoon and then finished it by going in the morning. But my “best friend” had just moved into the neighborhood and when her parents registered her she was put with the A to M crowd even though she was an S because that group already had too many kids in it. So, there we were strolling down Rosemont at the same time every morning. We walked and talked, our mothers trailing behind us. We had no idea how profound that picture would become in both our lives, us, walking and talking, and our mothers always behind us, except now it seems more like we are pulling them along on the invisible Wagons we all carry loaded with life’s responsibilities, obligations and emotional treasures.
292 Days Until the Big Five-O
What to do?
The daily care and maintenance of elderly parents is a full time job. My best friend and I are on that part of life’s journey simultaneously. We rely on each other for advice, as sounding boards and as our very own resource system. Following is a sample of one of our exchanges via email. I have been very worry as of late because my usually sharp 90 year old mother has seemed confused a lot lately. I have changed all the names (not that you couldn’t figure out mine) to protect the innocent (if that is what you want to call them). I also took artistic license to edit, augment, and change whatever I felt like.
Robert Wrote:
How is your mother’s oxygenation level? I thought the first time she spent time in the Manor (sounds like a euphemism along the lines of 'Shalom, Baby') she needed oxygen. It may be a good sign that she recognizes she's confused. Did her dr. have a plan if the confusion didn't lessen with the anti-biotics?I got an email from Irwin forwarding a Facebook message from Lawrence M. Do you know who that is? He went to Boone, then went to Lane, where I knew him from some shared classes. He was a really weird guy - smart, attractive, but off social skills. I never saw him with a girl. He sat behind me in English junior year and I can only describe him as hostile and verbally abusive. He was prone to negative comments about girls - stupid, etc. - and proudly wore a hoodie most days that said 'male chauvanist pig' over an elaborate drawing of a violent looking pig. This was not popular clothing at the time, and at a school of 5000 teenagers, he was the only one I ever saw wearing something like this. Since it seemed like he really hated women, I was surprised to learn via Irwin that he married one. Of course, according to his story, he picked her up at the beach when he was 40 and she was 20, married her eight years later, and then had his first kid recently. He's a radiolotist, so he's not hurting financially, and she probably thought she hit the jackpot. Can you imagine having anything in common beyond physical attraction with someone that much younger than you? It's so funny how after all these years, this guy's life trajectory seems consistent with where he was going in high school. My mother needs anti-depressants but refuses to take them. She's having trouble with her eyesight.
I wrote back:
I was with Irwin when he sent that to you. I love the flow of your writing and how it ends so abruptly with “my mother needs antidepressants”. Thanks for the tip on the oxygen. I have to call the "Rabbi on Wheels" to see if they can take my mom to the dr. for a four thirty appt. Unfortunately the fucking place where she lives needs to find people who can drive their stupid van around for more than 6 hours three days a week. motherfuckers.
Get a load of my “to do” today:
Call my mentally challenged adult male cousin’s attorney so I can then say the right things when I call the SS Nurse about his disability qualifications.
Call the State of IL. SS Nurse (ominous acronym wouldn't you say?) to get my mentally challenged cousin who I have been helping way too much over the last 4 years so I can get him On Disability and OFF my fucking nerves.
Call Rabbi to see if his guy (hey, a new sit com idea for FOX: The Rabbi's Guy instead of the Family Guy – imagine the possibilities) can drive my mother who will be very hostile after being examined in her apartment for a hearing aid fit to the doctor to see what else we can do to bring her back to her Jolly Old Self.
Clean (a figure of speech in this instance) my house which is slowly turning into site soon to be given "disaster status" by the President of the United States no less - just ask him, go ahead I dare you. He doesn't seem to be too busy fixing the economy, putting people back to work, or living up to all those "words" he said were not just "words". Denise told me he is playing more Golf than W did! That must be when he is not out partying with Desiree, Valerie and all the girls in the East Wing.
Try to Remember the other 100 things I absolutely NEED to do like get my daughter ready for an Ice Show.
Go to the ice show.
File, File, File,: son’s stuff, daughter’s stuff, mother’s stuff, cousin’s stuff and my stuff (who the hell is “I” anyways?).
Write the Great American Novel OR simply put a Post on my poor neglected Blog (perhaps I should just copy and paste this email) Hey, can I have your permission to do that. I will change your name to protect your innocence (not that you have any left) and i will also change the name of the individual you gossiped about because I was petty enough to make my friend send you his info on face book. Face Book is just contributing to the overall Gigantic/Enormous aka my new word GI-Normous flow of useless information being used to submerge our culture and our people into mindless robots easily manipulated by some secret cabal of super rich people hiding their money in Castles somewhere off shore.
Robert Wrote Back:
Post away. Change names please, and it's not gossip - it's a memoir. I noticed that when I started checking your blog regularly it seemed to dry up. Re: the great Obama: I'm getting sick of all this complaining from people who thought we elected the Messiah and are getting impatient about the deliverance. Take a look at who is impeding progress, and make sure you don't see yourself. One thing about Republicans; they're loyal in the long term, willing to wait out even complete incompetence and malfeasance until they can elect it again. Considering the depth of poop Bush left behind, I believe it will take more than a year to clean it up. I'm hoping it takes at lease eight.I just got my daily frantic call from my mother near tears because she's frustrated about some phone call she needs to make or a form she needs to fill out. I repeat, daily
I wrote Back:
Okay, I will post away. It did not dry up. I am calling you right now and you are not answering so I guess you're talking to your mom. I hate when you make sense (e.g. with Obama) but then again, the guy had a MANDATE and he is so damn smart I can't help but feel disappointed in the Democrats yet again. I think you and I should either start a 3rd Party (the Independents are not really an organized group and if they are they are not very effective) or better yet, a 3rd World Country - Get ourselves a small chunk of land no one else wants and see how long it takes before a bunch of morons want to attack us for no good reason (e.g. like Israel).
love ben
Our Pseudonyms should be Robert and Ben.
The daily care and maintenance of elderly parents is a full time job. My best friend and I are on that part of life’s journey simultaneously. We rely on each other for advice, as sounding boards and as our very own resource system. Following is a sample of one of our exchanges via email. I have been very worry as of late because my usually sharp 90 year old mother has seemed confused a lot lately. I have changed all the names (not that you couldn’t figure out mine) to protect the innocent (if that is what you want to call them). I also took artistic license to edit, augment, and change whatever I felt like.
Robert Wrote:
How is your mother’s oxygenation level? I thought the first time she spent time in the Manor (sounds like a euphemism along the lines of 'Shalom, Baby') she needed oxygen. It may be a good sign that she recognizes she's confused. Did her dr. have a plan if the confusion didn't lessen with the anti-biotics?I got an email from Irwin forwarding a Facebook message from Lawrence M. Do you know who that is? He went to Boone, then went to Lane, where I knew him from some shared classes. He was a really weird guy - smart, attractive, but off social skills. I never saw him with a girl. He sat behind me in English junior year and I can only describe him as hostile and verbally abusive. He was prone to negative comments about girls - stupid, etc. - and proudly wore a hoodie most days that said 'male chauvanist pig' over an elaborate drawing of a violent looking pig. This was not popular clothing at the time, and at a school of 5000 teenagers, he was the only one I ever saw wearing something like this. Since it seemed like he really hated women, I was surprised to learn via Irwin that he married one. Of course, according to his story, he picked her up at the beach when he was 40 and she was 20, married her eight years later, and then had his first kid recently. He's a radiolotist, so he's not hurting financially, and she probably thought she hit the jackpot. Can you imagine having anything in common beyond physical attraction with someone that much younger than you? It's so funny how after all these years, this guy's life trajectory seems consistent with where he was going in high school. My mother needs anti-depressants but refuses to take them. She's having trouble with her eyesight.
I wrote back:
I was with Irwin when he sent that to you. I love the flow of your writing and how it ends so abruptly with “my mother needs antidepressants”. Thanks for the tip on the oxygen. I have to call the "Rabbi on Wheels" to see if they can take my mom to the dr. for a four thirty appt. Unfortunately the fucking place where she lives needs to find people who can drive their stupid van around for more than 6 hours three days a week. motherfuckers.
Get a load of my “to do” today:
Call my mentally challenged adult male cousin’s attorney so I can then say the right things when I call the SS Nurse about his disability qualifications.
Call the State of IL. SS Nurse (ominous acronym wouldn't you say?) to get my mentally challenged cousin who I have been helping way too much over the last 4 years so I can get him On Disability and OFF my fucking nerves.
Call Rabbi to see if his guy (hey, a new sit com idea for FOX: The Rabbi's Guy instead of the Family Guy – imagine the possibilities) can drive my mother who will be very hostile after being examined in her apartment for a hearing aid fit to the doctor to see what else we can do to bring her back to her Jolly Old Self.
Clean (a figure of speech in this instance) my house which is slowly turning into site soon to be given "disaster status" by the President of the United States no less - just ask him, go ahead I dare you. He doesn't seem to be too busy fixing the economy, putting people back to work, or living up to all those "words" he said were not just "words". Denise told me he is playing more Golf than W did! That must be when he is not out partying with Desiree, Valerie and all the girls in the East Wing.
Try to Remember the other 100 things I absolutely NEED to do like get my daughter ready for an Ice Show.
Go to the ice show.
File, File, File,: son’s stuff, daughter’s stuff, mother’s stuff, cousin’s stuff and my stuff (who the hell is “I” anyways?).
Write the Great American Novel OR simply put a Post on my poor neglected Blog (perhaps I should just copy and paste this email) Hey, can I have your permission to do that. I will change your name to protect your innocence (not that you have any left) and i will also change the name of the individual you gossiped about because I was petty enough to make my friend send you his info on face book. Face Book is just contributing to the overall Gigantic/Enormous aka my new word GI-Normous flow of useless information being used to submerge our culture and our people into mindless robots easily manipulated by some secret cabal of super rich people hiding their money in Castles somewhere off shore.
Robert Wrote Back:
Post away. Change names please, and it's not gossip - it's a memoir. I noticed that when I started checking your blog regularly it seemed to dry up. Re: the great Obama: I'm getting sick of all this complaining from people who thought we elected the Messiah and are getting impatient about the deliverance. Take a look at who is impeding progress, and make sure you don't see yourself. One thing about Republicans; they're loyal in the long term, willing to wait out even complete incompetence and malfeasance until they can elect it again. Considering the depth of poop Bush left behind, I believe it will take more than a year to clean it up. I'm hoping it takes at lease eight.I just got my daily frantic call from my mother near tears because she's frustrated about some phone call she needs to make or a form she needs to fill out. I repeat, daily
I wrote Back:
Okay, I will post away. It did not dry up. I am calling you right now and you are not answering so I guess you're talking to your mom. I hate when you make sense (e.g. with Obama) but then again, the guy had a MANDATE and he is so damn smart I can't help but feel disappointed in the Democrats yet again. I think you and I should either start a 3rd Party (the Independents are not really an organized group and if they are they are not very effective) or better yet, a 3rd World Country - Get ourselves a small chunk of land no one else wants and see how long it takes before a bunch of morons want to attack us for no good reason (e.g. like Israel).
love ben
Our Pseudonyms should be Robert and Ben.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
293 Days Until the Big Five-0
This is based on Prompt number 9 from the book Branches by Nancy Beckett.
“Describe a person or a group you saw everyday on the street or in a neighborhood. Place yourself in the scene and describe the setting, clothes, weather and where you were going.”
The newspaper stand on the corner of Rockwell and Devon was a blue wooden structure that looked a lot like the little house I see in backyards all over the suburbs. These backyard sheds can be bought at Menard’s or Home Depot and are used to house lawn mowers in the winter and snow blowers in the summer so garages can be free of clutter. The newspaper stand looked like a small barn to me when I was a child and had no idea about suburbs, backyards, or snow blowers. My father and brothers equipped with shovels were my idea of snow removal. Lawn care followed the same principle but with a manual piece of metal. My mother with a rake and a broom managed to pick up all the loose grass after each lawn, front and back, got the weekly hair cut in the summer. In the city we had basements to store all these shovels, rakes, lawnmowers, sprinklers and anything else needed to make the outside as beautiful and clean as the inside of where we lived. In the suburbs Basements are usually furnished and use for R&R, not laundry and bicycle storage.
I often wondered where the old scrubby newspaper man lived. His little blue hut was barely big enough for him and his stool and his stacks of papers. He decorated the outside with a sample of all the products he had: The Chicago Tribune, The Chicago Sun-Times, The Daily News, The Jewish Sentinel, The Wall Street Journal, The North Town News (I cannot recall if North Town was one word or worked into a single word). There must have been others but I don’t really remember. I don’t remember much really about the old man and his newspaper stand. I just remember it was there. I cannot recall when it finally was removed. I think it was still there when I took the Devon Bus everyday to go to Circle (now known as the University of Illinois, Chicago Circle). Back then we just called it Circle. It was appropriate my first college experience would be at someplace representing the shape of my life, I always seemed to be going in circles, never getting anywhere. Is that what was happening to that old man sitting in the blue hut? He started handing out newspapers for a dime, or on Sundays for a quarter and they were filled with words about wars, Viet Nam, or the Six Day War in Israel, or one of the other many wars raging in the Middle East, or about hippies and the Civil Rights Movement. Eventually the price of the paper went up and the wars changed names and locations, the fervor of the Civil Rights movement faded, the 60’s became the 70’s and the news was a lot less exciting. No man landing on the moon, no more marching on Washington, no more being afraid of Russia, really afraid I mean.
I never knew the old man’s name and I can’t recall ever hearing him talk. But I saw him. I just wish I could remember when I stopped seeing him, stopped reading the newspapers, stopped thinking about the all the different wars that have come and gone over time. Some of the newspapers died, and I am sure the old man eventually died as well. His little wooden blue hut was taken down by some city of Chicago employee perhaps or maybe the local Chamber of Business for Devon Avenue. The entire street was changing, the dream street. It had been a shopping destination for over a decade with Jewish people from all over Chicago coming there to stroll along the stores offering fine clothing, bakeries, jewelry, records, perfumes, cameras, grocery stores, shoes store, and so much more. It was a rich man’s Maxwell Street, the famous place for shopping for immigrants and discounters, where so many of our ancestors landed to begin a business and perhaps for a lucky few to build an empire to pass along to their children selling socks, ladies’ underwear, or watches. Devon was a street where kids ran to get the paper for their parents at the corner or cars would pull up on Sundays and honk signaling the old man. He would come out of the hut wearing his blue apron with the big pockets take the quarters from the outstretched hands of drivers with his left hand while passing them the newspapers heavy with advertisements with his right hand.
Devon was simply re-modeled for the newest influx of immigrants from India and Pakistan. Soon there were Sari’s for Sale and stores filled with Electronics and Spices (I never did see the connection between those two), and jewelry stores where the jewelry had this incredibly unusual tone to it that I had never seen before. It looked fake but I was told it was not. Parking became unbearable as more and more people moved into tiny apartments and more and more families owned 2 cars. The street would become some other child’s youthful dream of days gone by when their parents first got to America and made a place for themselves that reminded them of home.
“Describe a person or a group you saw everyday on the street or in a neighborhood. Place yourself in the scene and describe the setting, clothes, weather and where you were going.”
The newspaper stand on the corner of Rockwell and Devon was a blue wooden structure that looked a lot like the little house I see in backyards all over the suburbs. These backyard sheds can be bought at Menard’s or Home Depot and are used to house lawn mowers in the winter and snow blowers in the summer so garages can be free of clutter. The newspaper stand looked like a small barn to me when I was a child and had no idea about suburbs, backyards, or snow blowers. My father and brothers equipped with shovels were my idea of snow removal. Lawn care followed the same principle but with a manual piece of metal. My mother with a rake and a broom managed to pick up all the loose grass after each lawn, front and back, got the weekly hair cut in the summer. In the city we had basements to store all these shovels, rakes, lawnmowers, sprinklers and anything else needed to make the outside as beautiful and clean as the inside of where we lived. In the suburbs Basements are usually furnished and use for R&R, not laundry and bicycle storage.
I often wondered where the old scrubby newspaper man lived. His little blue hut was barely big enough for him and his stool and his stacks of papers. He decorated the outside with a sample of all the products he had: The Chicago Tribune, The Chicago Sun-Times, The Daily News, The Jewish Sentinel, The Wall Street Journal, The North Town News (I cannot recall if North Town was one word or worked into a single word). There must have been others but I don’t really remember. I don’t remember much really about the old man and his newspaper stand. I just remember it was there. I cannot recall when it finally was removed. I think it was still there when I took the Devon Bus everyday to go to Circle (now known as the University of Illinois, Chicago Circle). Back then we just called it Circle. It was appropriate my first college experience would be at someplace representing the shape of my life, I always seemed to be going in circles, never getting anywhere. Is that what was happening to that old man sitting in the blue hut? He started handing out newspapers for a dime, or on Sundays for a quarter and they were filled with words about wars, Viet Nam, or the Six Day War in Israel, or one of the other many wars raging in the Middle East, or about hippies and the Civil Rights Movement. Eventually the price of the paper went up and the wars changed names and locations, the fervor of the Civil Rights movement faded, the 60’s became the 70’s and the news was a lot less exciting. No man landing on the moon, no more marching on Washington, no more being afraid of Russia, really afraid I mean.
I never knew the old man’s name and I can’t recall ever hearing him talk. But I saw him. I just wish I could remember when I stopped seeing him, stopped reading the newspapers, stopped thinking about the all the different wars that have come and gone over time. Some of the newspapers died, and I am sure the old man eventually died as well. His little wooden blue hut was taken down by some city of Chicago employee perhaps or maybe the local Chamber of Business for Devon Avenue. The entire street was changing, the dream street. It had been a shopping destination for over a decade with Jewish people from all over Chicago coming there to stroll along the stores offering fine clothing, bakeries, jewelry, records, perfumes, cameras, grocery stores, shoes store, and so much more. It was a rich man’s Maxwell Street, the famous place for shopping for immigrants and discounters, where so many of our ancestors landed to begin a business and perhaps for a lucky few to build an empire to pass along to their children selling socks, ladies’ underwear, or watches. Devon was a street where kids ran to get the paper for their parents at the corner or cars would pull up on Sundays and honk signaling the old man. He would come out of the hut wearing his blue apron with the big pockets take the quarters from the outstretched hands of drivers with his left hand while passing them the newspapers heavy with advertisements with his right hand.
Devon was simply re-modeled for the newest influx of immigrants from India and Pakistan. Soon there were Sari’s for Sale and stores filled with Electronics and Spices (I never did see the connection between those two), and jewelry stores where the jewelry had this incredibly unusual tone to it that I had never seen before. It looked fake but I was told it was not. Parking became unbearable as more and more people moved into tiny apartments and more and more families owned 2 cars. The street would become some other child’s youthful dream of days gone by when their parents first got to America and made a place for themselves that reminded them of home.
294 Days Until the Big Five-O
Tradition! Tradition! Tradition!
Oh how we love Traditions. They make us feel warm and happy. The recognized and predictable create continuity in our hectic ever changing world. And each family can create their very own traditions. A unique tradition enhances the emotional value it holds for everyone involved. It is “ours” and we grow to love it like a puppy or a kitten. Even better, traditions don’t grow old. They seem to stay young and thereby they keep us young.
I have decided to start my own tradition, one I cannot share with the rest of my family and friends, but a tradition I feel is just as important as our family visit to Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving or the celebration of a friend’s birthday at our favorite Tapas restaurant. I have started a tradition with my Van. Yes, my Van. I consider the Van to be The Academy Award of motherhood and all that is right with the world. I see it as the symbol of “I made it!” I am a real success. I was never into cars growing up. Mainly because I am a girl, and more importantly because my family did not own one, for very long that is. So, my first car, a Nissan Sentra, was fun and cheap (we had a lot in common). It served its purpose and lived a long life (I hope to do the same). I was sad to see it go, but I replaced it with the new and trendy car that you can’t dent. Obviously it did not leave a lasting impression on me because I cannot even recall its name, but I do remember the effective marketing associated with it. It was that car where you don’t have to negotiate a price. You know the one. But it was not until I got my first Van that I really fell in love with an automobile. I fell in love with the space it provided and the easy access to children in the second row, and being high up so I can see over the cars or peer into the windows of all those fancy SUV’s. Oh, I knew I was not one of them, but yet, I felt superior in some way. I had something those SUV’s only dreamt of having. I am not sure what it was, but it I knew it was there.
It never really mattered what Van I had, any Van would do. So I guess I am the Tiger Woods of Van Love. Any port in the storm, any Van in the Garage will do. Once my husband decided I needed a new Van. He stopped at Carmax on the way home from work and bought it. He replaced the old Van with the new One and did not tell me. I went into the garage the next day, got in the Van and went about me daily routine without even noticing it was a different vehicle. A Van is a Van in my eyes. I think I will always want to drive a Van even when I am 80 years old, if I am still allowed to drive by then.
My Tradition with my Van is in its 3rd or 4th year. I stopped counting. I think of it as a Holiday Tradition because it always occurs at the same time of year as Hanukkah and Christmas. I find a large chunk of ice in a strip mall parking lot where I have parked while running an errand (e.g. Going to the bakery, the orthodontist, the drug store) and as I am leaving (yes it is important this occurs on the departure from the lot and not the arrival). I need to somehow maneuver back and forth in order to pull out of any parking situation. . I don’t see it, but after plowing there are always mini mountains of ice in every parking lot. Since I still have the cognitive development of a 2 year old, if I don’t see it, then it does not exist. It is a simpler way of living, but one for which I have a deep appreciation. So I drive into the large chunk of ice and destroy my front fender. Crack it wide open! I then drive home hearing some strange noise and think, “oh shit, not again!” My average Van will last 10 years. Over the course of its life, it will need to have at least 8 new front fenders. I drive by Braille I guess. Sometimes the cracks can go un-mended but usually I am stuck with a large bill I consider to be the Christmas present my Van did not ask for but got anyways like the ugly sweater with the bells on it. Yes, it is a Christmas gift, not a Hanukkah gift, because my Van is not Jewish. I know that how? I am not sure.
So my Van is the Titanic always in search of the elusive iceberg. But my Van and I will not go down with the ship. We get on the life boat and say good-by to yet another Front Fender. You served us well. You will be missed. You will be replaced. And the tradition continues.
Oh how we love Traditions. They make us feel warm and happy. The recognized and predictable create continuity in our hectic ever changing world. And each family can create their very own traditions. A unique tradition enhances the emotional value it holds for everyone involved. It is “ours” and we grow to love it like a puppy or a kitten. Even better, traditions don’t grow old. They seem to stay young and thereby they keep us young.
I have decided to start my own tradition, one I cannot share with the rest of my family and friends, but a tradition I feel is just as important as our family visit to Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving or the celebration of a friend’s birthday at our favorite Tapas restaurant. I have started a tradition with my Van. Yes, my Van. I consider the Van to be The Academy Award of motherhood and all that is right with the world. I see it as the symbol of “I made it!” I am a real success. I was never into cars growing up. Mainly because I am a girl, and more importantly because my family did not own one, for very long that is. So, my first car, a Nissan Sentra, was fun and cheap (we had a lot in common). It served its purpose and lived a long life (I hope to do the same). I was sad to see it go, but I replaced it with the new and trendy car that you can’t dent. Obviously it did not leave a lasting impression on me because I cannot even recall its name, but I do remember the effective marketing associated with it. It was that car where you don’t have to negotiate a price. You know the one. But it was not until I got my first Van that I really fell in love with an automobile. I fell in love with the space it provided and the easy access to children in the second row, and being high up so I can see over the cars or peer into the windows of all those fancy SUV’s. Oh, I knew I was not one of them, but yet, I felt superior in some way. I had something those SUV’s only dreamt of having. I am not sure what it was, but it I knew it was there.
It never really mattered what Van I had, any Van would do. So I guess I am the Tiger Woods of Van Love. Any port in the storm, any Van in the Garage will do. Once my husband decided I needed a new Van. He stopped at Carmax on the way home from work and bought it. He replaced the old Van with the new One and did not tell me. I went into the garage the next day, got in the Van and went about me daily routine without even noticing it was a different vehicle. A Van is a Van in my eyes. I think I will always want to drive a Van even when I am 80 years old, if I am still allowed to drive by then.
My Tradition with my Van is in its 3rd or 4th year. I stopped counting. I think of it as a Holiday Tradition because it always occurs at the same time of year as Hanukkah and Christmas. I find a large chunk of ice in a strip mall parking lot where I have parked while running an errand (e.g. Going to the bakery, the orthodontist, the drug store) and as I am leaving (yes it is important this occurs on the departure from the lot and not the arrival). I need to somehow maneuver back and forth in order to pull out of any parking situation. . I don’t see it, but after plowing there are always mini mountains of ice in every parking lot. Since I still have the cognitive development of a 2 year old, if I don’t see it, then it does not exist. It is a simpler way of living, but one for which I have a deep appreciation. So I drive into the large chunk of ice and destroy my front fender. Crack it wide open! I then drive home hearing some strange noise and think, “oh shit, not again!” My average Van will last 10 years. Over the course of its life, it will need to have at least 8 new front fenders. I drive by Braille I guess. Sometimes the cracks can go un-mended but usually I am stuck with a large bill I consider to be the Christmas present my Van did not ask for but got anyways like the ugly sweater with the bells on it. Yes, it is a Christmas gift, not a Hanukkah gift, because my Van is not Jewish. I know that how? I am not sure.
So my Van is the Titanic always in search of the elusive iceberg. But my Van and I will not go down with the ship. We get on the life boat and say good-by to yet another Front Fender. You served us well. You will be missed. You will be replaced. And the tradition continues.
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