Sweet Jesus

Hundreds of bloggers have already discussed the naked chocolate Jesus incident but I'll bring my own slant to it. I don't see what all the fuss was about. I googled "Chocolate Jesus" and found pictures of a fully dressed chocolate Jesus that apparently no one got bent out of shape over. So maybe the crucial issue isn't that Jesus was carved out of a humongous candy bar, but that he was depicted naked.

At least one blogger claimed that people were crucified naked in those days, so that appears to be simple truth telling without the fig leaf. In any case if Jesus was built like a man, why isn't it okay to portray that?

As for a chocolate statue of Jesus, it's been done and no one made a big deal. But this time it's offensive. Why? He did say to eat his body, what's wrong with it being chocolate? After all, everyone's eating chocolate bunnies and eggs in honor of the holiday, so what's wrong with going right to the source? And, why shouldn't God be sweet? I guess that could be a problem if you're trying to convert diabetics, but surely something could be worked out. The communion wafer originated as a piece of matzoh; well, today you can get your matzohs dipped in chocolate too!

When I was a teenager I once brought home a poster that I thought was very funny. It was called "The Birth of Christmas" and it was a manger scene but instead of a baby Jesus there was a baby in a Santa Claus suit. I thought it was funny and I saw it as a commentary on the commercialization of Christmas. I brought it home and put it up on my wall, and my parents complained so loudly about it that I was forced to take it down. I didn't want to waste it so I used it as a backdrop for a collage. The irony of it was, my parents didn't see that it was satirical, and their objection was that it didn't belong in a Jewish home.

But I think there's a bit of reverence and a bit of satire in both that old poster and in the Chocolate Jesus that was banned from a downtown hotel. I think it's good to be able to look at our beliefs with a little bit of humor. Hey, if God did not have a sense of humor, how is it humans have one? Yes, I know the artist seems to be hung up on working with food. Well, it's no crazier than ice sculpture which disappears once the winter is over. Chocolate melts, that's true. But maybe that's part of the plan.

Crazy Day

Yesterday was a "crazy day." I haven't had one of these in a long time. It started when I got an address wrong. I was supposed to go to 89th Street in Bay Ridge to pick up a new Dana Alphasmart for Jason to use at school. But instead of 89th Street I made the mistake of thinking I needed to go to East 89th Street and Avenue D in Canarsie. I headed over there very early hoping that I'd have time to pick up the Dana and then hurry back to Lucille Roberts and catch a morning class. As luck would have it, that just wasn't going to happen. Instead, when I reached my supposed destination I found myself in an industrial area, lots of truck and car oriented businesses around, but no sign of an office that remotely resembled a Department of Education office.

I called the woman I was supposed to meet and told her I was at Foster Avenue and East 89th Street and she gasped. "You're at the wrong end of Brooklyn!" she told me. She explained that I would need to take two buses and it would be at least an hour's ride out to Bay Ridge from Canarsie. In fact it took an hour and a half.

Since I was near Rosanne's house I called her and said I was just a few blocks away and would stop by for a few minutes. Rosanne was glad to hear from me. When I arrived I ran straight for the bathroom, and then Rosanne put up hot water and served me a cup of maple-flavored tea. We checked the ingredients and it had no sugar or caffeine in it so it was safe for me to drink. That's as close as I'm going to get to maple syrup or maple sugar in my lifetime, unless someone invents a sugarfree variety!

We checked on the computer and verified the route, and I also checked on how to get home from Bay Ridge. I had plans to meet Gloria at 1 PM on Kings Highway but I could see that wasn't going to work out. I called her and let her know we could meet at a different diner on Avenue U instead. Then I headed out and caught the B82.

I felt if was fated that I would get to see Rosanne that morning. She's been ill with cancer but she just had good news the day before that her tumors were shrinking in response to the new chemo drug. I was happy to be able to share that upbeat feeling with her.

On the B82 I found myself sitting next to an elderly man who launched into a tale of his difficulties with his eye doctor. It seems he has macular degeneration and the doctor told him he could not prescribe stronger glasses for him because they just were not going to help. Then he told me about his niece moving out of Long Island because the taxes were so high, and how they bought a house in North Carolina. All this without asking my name or giving me a chance to get more than a few words in edgewise. He must be a lonely fellow with not many people to talk to, so he talked nonstop until I reached my destination.

The second bus ride was quieter. The bus had padded seats and felt more like an intercity bus. Since I was going to the last stop, I read my book, Dean Koontz's "Seize the Night," which I will review here as soon as I'm finished with it. It certainly commands my attention. I felt like I was on an unguided tour of all of Brooklyn.

Finally I found the correct address and picked up the Dana. The old one was so battered that Pat couldn't even find the serial number, and she said it was not worth fixing, they would just discard it. She said nothing about charging us for it so I hope we won't get a nasty surprise at the end of the semester when Jason graduates.

I headed to the diner at Avenue U and even arrived there by 1 PM much to my surprise. Gloria didn't arrive until 2. In the meantime I drank decaf and wrote a draft of a letter of recommendation I needed a friend to sign for Jason so that Jason can apply for summer jobs through the government. Once Gloria arrived we had a lively conversation about our kids, and even about religion, one of the taboo three subjects. But we know how to avoid getting into a religious argument since we respect each other's viewpoints. The coffeeshop owners were tolerant, letting us sit there until 3:30 when I'd arrived two and a half hours earlier. Then again, I am somewhat of a regular there, and they weren't crowded.

When I got home I was exhausted and had a headache. Jason needed help with his college homework so I sat down and went over his paper with him. I kept getting phone calls from people from BSEC and I was getting frazzled. Then Bruce's computer crashed and Jason was frustrated, thinking he wouldn't be able to send his paper out before I left for the constitution meeting.

Finally, though, he was able to submit his paper and all was well. I did minimal editing on it and it seemed to me he is already improving his writing style and thought process. After that I ate a fast dinner and left for Ruth's apartment for the Constitution meeting.

We worked on the Committees bylaw, putting in many new requirements for committees such as reporting to the Board and presenting an annual budget of their necessary expenditures. We had much laughter and some great raunchy remarks by Bruce and Tony and a few from me also. I'm reminded of how much fun we used to have before the place was taken over in an illegal coup. With God's help (even though some of our group are atheists) we'll take it back again.

Today should be easier and that's a good thing because I sure need a rest!

My Most Memorable Birthday

Jason’s been given an assignment to write in detail about his most memorable birthday and I thought I would try to tackle the assignment also. It’s really hard to single out one birthday to write about. To be honest I don’t make a big thing out of birthdays any more, and I have pretty much forgotten the details of most of my birthdays.

My birthday falls on December 26^th, the day after Christmas. I was born six weeks premature, and for a long time I resented missing Christmas by only two hours. It seemed to me that my very first day, the actual day of my birth, should have been a major holiday since it was clear I put my life in jeopardy in order to emerge on a special day.

For several years I tried to piggyback my birthday onto Christmas. If we hadn’t been Jewish, I might have resented my birthday’s proximity to Christmas, because I would have lost out on half the presents most kids got every year. But since that wasn’t an issue I daydreamed about getting Santa Claus to make a return trip. I remember hanging socks on the handles of our television console (since there was no fireplace) in the hopes that on his way back to the North Pole Santa would drop off a few gifts.

This was considered akin to blasphemy in a Jewish household. My parents didn’t order me to take the socks down but they left no presents in them, either.

I don’t remember my childhood birthday parties. There is a picture of me at a party, presumably mine, all dolled up in a party dress of indeterminate color, since it is a black and white photo. I’m guessing I was three. In the picture, instead of being a cute little birthday princess, I’m scowling and looking like a spoiled brat. I have no memory at all of that birthday but somehow I have a feeling it wasn’t a great day for me.

As a kid I was excited about reaching the next birthday and I counted the months. When someone asked my age I would proudly announce, “I’m eight and seven twelfths!” or whatever my age was at the time. Adults were impressed that I knew fractions, but other kids rolled their eyes and let me know that this was too much information.

The year I turned nineteen, I spent my birthday in Florida. My friend Janet and a couple of her City College friends decided to take a trip down to Disney World and invited me along. The one memory I have from that birthday is being on the beach and taking a dip in the ocean. It must have been eighty degrees in the sunshine. I was used to ice and snow on my birthday, so spending it on the beach was unforgettable.

Worry about aging caught up to me quickly. When I was about to turn twenty, I tossed around in bed the night before, uncomfortably aware that I was not going to be a teenager any longer. The next year, before turning twenty-one, I worried that now I was a full adult and solely responsible for my actions.

When I turned thirty, the clock was ticking. I wasn’t married yet. I wasn’t dating anyone spectacular, and my life was pretty humdrum. I went to work and went home to my studio apartment in Forest Hills. Sometimes I went out with my friend Monica and we cruised singles bars but never seemed to meet nice normal men. I felt the passage of time and wanted to do something outrageous to mark the big three-oh.

I decided to visit Plato’s Retreat, a sex club that was thriving in the years before AIDS became a menace. I didn’t want to participate but just visit a sex club and watch what people did. But, it didn’t seem safe to go alone. I had no idea how these clubs operated, and was afraid that just by being there I’d be setting myself up to get raped. I asked a few girlfriends but no one was willing to join me. In desperation, I called up a male escort service and asked what it would cost to have a young man pretend to be my date and look out for me for the evening.

The fee was $200. Aghast, I asked the secretary, “Is there a discount if I don’t fuck him?” The answer was no. Then and there, I dropped the notion of visiting Plato’s Retreat. I did something else for my birthday that was far less memorable.

Skip ahead another ten years, to my fortieth birthday. This was a bad one for me emotionally. We had a celebration, there was a cake, but I was in a dreadful mood. If I had PMS I don’t remember it but I do remember feeling like my youth was gone and now it would be nothing but a downhill slide. I felt old, or at least middle-aged. Bruce was trying to cheer me up but I would not be cheered up. I was miserable and I acted it. That birthday was spent in a cloud of gloom.

Three years later, I had the worst birthday yet, but it was a turning point in my life. In late 1997 I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I had a mastectomy and recovered well. But on December 22^nd I had a bone scan that turned up a mass in my left femur. On Christmas Eve, we visited the oncologist and he told me it looked as if I had metastatic cancer in my leg and that if that’s what it was, it was a question of how long it would take me to die. I wanted to answer, “Yeah, and Merry Christmas to you too,” but I was too devastated to crack a joke. I couldn’t even eat at the Christmas party we attended that night. My throat closed and I could barely force any food down.

Bruce wanted to take me to dinner for my birthday but I couldn’t face the thought of any kind of celebration. It seemed my life was over and there was nothing to look forward to. When I tried to imagine my future I saw nothing, just darkness. I refused to go out to dinner, but I knew we would have to do something. I asked myself what I would be willing to do for this birthday and the answer came back to me, “Go see Richard.”

Richard was a friend from the Ethical Culture Society, and he’d already been a blessing, calling me up every other day and sending me information about alternative treatments for cancer. I felt if there was any right place to be, it was at Richard’s apartment. Richard was struggling with his own demons, terminally ill with hepatitis that had destroyed three quarters of his liver. Yet he was the head of the Society’s Caring Committee and when he was no longer able to get out and make visits he would call and do his best to cheer the congregation’s shut-ins.

So I called him and said, “Richard, tomorrow is my birthday and I would be honored if you would let me spend it with you.” Richard was delighted. His nephews had visited him for Christmas but the next day was a lonely one for him. Although I was still very frightened and remained terrified until I got a good report on a biopsy in February, visiting Richard made me feel better. We were both in trouble, in the same boat as far as I could see, and we were supporting each other. Richard was the one person who could say, “You’re going to be fine,” and I would not feel he was making light of my worries. People who had no idea sometimes said, “I know how you feel,” but when Richard said it he was right on target and I knew it.

I can’t tell you what we talked about that day but I can tell you that I knew the little voice that spoke to me and told me to go and see him on my birthday steered me right.

Ever since that birthday, yes, I have felt old sometimes, but birthdays are a celebration again. Now I feel that every birthday is a chance to stick my tongue out at Death and say, “You see? I’m still here, and you’re just gonna have to wait!”

My fiftieth birthday was a great celebration, marred only by news of the tsunami that struck that day. This time I was taking no chances with a major milestone. I asked Bruce to make sure I had a party. I gave him a list of people to invite and he got a group together to come to my party. It was at home. I like giving parties at home. This time I didn’t do much cooking since it was a special milestone birthday. We must have ordered some food in; whatever it was, it was good. The company was lively and varied, friends from elementary school, from my single days, and from the Ethical Culture Society. Everyone mingled well and there were three or four conversations going on at once. I meandered between them and also helped myself to chips and dip as well as the main dishes. This was probably my happiest birthday so far because I asked for a party and got exactly what I wanted. Maybe that is the secret of birthdays, just as it is the secret of so many other things. Know what you want and make it happen, and you’ll have a day to remember.

Goodbye to Yummy's

Yummy's, the convenience store a block and a half away, closed down today. They were driven out of business by a greedy landlord who doubled the rent and even wanted the storekeeper, Kim, to pay half the real estate taxes. Our street is not a main thoroughfare and the stores don't get that much street traffic. No store on this strip can survive paying $3,000 in rent, certainly not a homey little Mom and Pop convenience store where the prices stayed lower than the rest of the area.

Kim must have taken over from the previous owner about 12 years ago. He's a tiny man of Asian extraction, probably Korean. He's not much bigger than a 13 year old boy, and very thin as well. His glasses dominate his small face. He had several other workers in the store, a young mother who brought her small son in when she worked, another woman and sometimes one of the men who often hung out in the store. I wasn't sure if he was being paid or volunteering!

Yummy's attracted three or four men who hung around the store all day socializing with each other and oozing out of the way when a customer wanted to get by. They gave the place a down to earth, Brooklyn working class ambience. Kim also kept a friendly orange cat wandering around the store, probably to kill the mice.

I never got to know much about Kim. He had a sign suspended from the ceiling, which said, "My son is in the Air Force." He was so proud of that, but then his son was killed in a plane crash. I remember Kim weeping openly in the store shortly after his son died. But he kept his store going, and was there seven days a week.

Kim is a tease. You'd bring your purchases to the cash register and Kim would tally them up and tell you the price was something outrageously high, usually ten times the real amount. Sometimes his razzing went a little too far and I got aggravated with him. I told Bruce once that Kim was going to annoy the wrong person someday, because he seemed to tease everyone.

But the teasing wasn't his downfall. They jacked up the price and he could not afford to stay in business. He doesn't live far away so maybe I will see him around the neighborhood. He's an older man and could decide to retire, but I have a feeling he will try to start a store somewhere else.

Yummy's was one of those old-fashioned places where we were a known quantity. The workers recognized us and asked after Jason when he wasn't with us. It was one of those little unsung places that gives a neighborhood character and warmth. I'll miss it.

Public Enemy Number One

Years ago I dated a man I met at a singles event in Manhattan. When I asked him what he did for a living, he said he worked for "Public Enemy Number One." In his case he meant the telephone company (which is no longer the monolith it was back then).

Today I'm ready to designate insurance companies as public enemy number one. What good do they do us? When it comes to health insurance, they limit our choices of doctors and hospitals, and even refuse to cover life saving new procedures or drugs. It's all about the bottom line and not about the good of the patient.

When it comes to home insurance, I am freshly outraged. We've had a policy with MetLife Auto and Home for 19 years now. Suddenly, we received notice that we will not be renewed. And why, pray tell? Because of a claim we made three years ago.

For years, our upstairs neighbors had a washing machine in their bathroom that periodically overflowed and leaked through our bathroom ceiling. I don't know how many times the superintendent had to come up and plaster over our ceiling. For months at a time we had an open gaping hole in the ceiling while we watched to see whether there was a leak at any other time than when the washing machine was running. As far as we could tell, there wasn't.

Three years ago, the washing machine overflowed and this time instead of flooding our bathroom the water poured down through a light fixture in the hallway. It was frightening, the light flickering as if flames were about to shoot out of the glass. I had the presence of mind to grab a bucket and collect some of the water that came through, which was all soapy since it came from the washing machine.

We called Metlife, made a claim, and received a small payment of $3-400. We were given no warning that this was our downfall, that perhaps we'd want to reconsider making this claim. Instead, out of the blue three years later we received a letter informing us our home insurance will not be renewed because our apartment has not been "properly maintained." The leak from upstairs and "leaky pipes" were given as the cause.

They're within their legal rights to do this, according to the New York Insurance Law (section 34.25) but it still stinks. You're supposed to pay forever, making their coffers overflow, but if you dare to actually need the protection you're paying for, one or two strikes and you're out.

I also heard, from the Insurance Commissioner's office, that a lot of homeowners on Long Island have been kicked off home insurance because they are in a flood zone. I wonder if that's the case here, whether my neighborhood being in a flood zone resulted in increased scrutiny of our claims and a decision to dump us.

We might be reinstated if we can get a note from the building management company stating that the problem no longer exists. It doesn't. The upstairs neighbors were forced to give up their washing machine (probably the co-op board or the building managers got on their tails) and there has been absolutely no problem in the past 3 years. But even so, Metlife was merely willing to "consider" reinstating us.

The truth is, we will probably have to find home insurance somewhere else, at a higher rate. It's not right, and I'd like to see insurance companies deprived of the power they hold over us.

"My Heart Stood Still"

I've just finished reading, "My Heart Stood Still," by Lynn Kurland. It's a type of romance novel I especially enjoy: a combination of romance, the paranormal and science fiction. The romance develops between Thomas McKinnon, a modern 21st century man, and Iolanthe MacLeod, the ghost of a medieval woman who was murdered in the 14th century.

The attraction between them is powerful as are the obstacles to a romance presented by trying to love someone on the other side of the veil. Thomas decides he's got to have Iolanthe as a real flesh and blood woman. The secret of her keep (for which she was murdered) is that there are gates on it to other centuries. So Thomas determines to go back to the 14th century and rescue her before her murder takes place, then bring her back to the 21st century as a living woman. This is an extremely dangerous undertaking, and he faces the difficulty that once he rescues her, her life as a ghost for the past six centuries will not have taken place. Therefore she might not know him or remember him and he would have to win her heart all over again.

The book bogs down slightly after an exciting and heroic rescue. But it picks up again and finishes with the classic romance happy ending.

For those who enjoy romance with a twist, this is a fine and imaginative tale.

Romance Novels With Unhappy Endings

In most historical romance novels today there's a set formula. Boy meets girl, the electricity crackles in the air, various obstacles and villains arise to keep them apart, but they triumph at last and wind up happily ever after in each other's arms. Twenty or thirty years ago the conflict would have been more personal, and many of these romances included an element of "Taming of the Shrew" as the hero found ways of gentling his headstrong lady. Nowadays, much of that "Hollywood romance" has been removed from historical romance novels and the tension is due to outside forces, society, or other circumstances that conspire to keep the lovers apart.

Two of the famous historical romances of the past, however, did not conform to this pattern. Written around the same time, "Gone With the Wind" and "Forever Amber" contain many of the elements of historical romance but end in a defeat or apparent defeat for the heroine. What's more, by the end of both novels, the heroines have a great deal of the villainess about them.

"Forever Amber" is the story of a country girl who falls in love with a Cavalier and follows him to London. She endures many hardships in the beginning but as she gains 17th century "street smarts," she learns to manipulate people to her own ends and rises higher and higher, eventually becoming mistress to Charles II. She grows more unscrupulous as she rises and allows nothing and no one to stand in her way. Yet she is also defeated, because try as she might she cannot win the love of the man she adores, Bruce Carlton.

In a similar vein but an entirely different era, "Gone With the Wind" chronicles the adventures of Scarlett O'Hara during and after the Civil War. Scarlett and Amber would have been a formidable team as both are unprincipled and care only about getting what they want. Of course, if they both wanted the same thing (or man) the cat fight would have been spectacular.

Scarlett takes control of her life and defies Southern mores to see to it that she and her family survives and thrives. She earns the scorn of many but she doesn't care so long as she achieves the security that the war took from her. But she is defeated twice, first when Ashley refuses to run away with her even though he acknowledges that he "wants" her, and then again when her real love, Rhett, tells her his love has worn out and he no longer gives a damn.

Apparently although both books enjoyed enormous appeal, readers must have clamored for happy endings, because I can hardly think of any other historical romances that end unhappily. Today, no matter what obstacles the lovers must face, we can be assured that at the end of the book they will be together, passionately in love and either married or about to marry.

Both Amber and Scarlett are down but not out at the end of their stories. Scarlett vows to win Rhett back and concludes defiantly, "Tomorrow is another day!" Amber has sailed for America on the false information that Lord Carlton's wife is dead. Although it's not likely that she will receive a pleasant reception from Lord Carlton, she is a character of enough wit and guile that she might somehow survive and thrive in the colonies.

The modern sequel to GWTW, "Scarlett," was a pale imitation of the original. Ms. Mitchell would have been disappointed to learn that Scarlett somehow turned over a brand new leaf and became a kind and charitable Southern lady. I wonder if anyone will ever try writing the story of Amber's adventures in America. I hope if they do, she will continue to be up to her old tricks.

Helen Keller and Me

When I was eight years old, Mom took me to see a double feature at Radio City Music Hall. The films were a Doris Day movie, "State Fair," and Patty Duke and Ann Bancroft in "The Miracle Worker."

I was thoroughly bored by "State Fair," much to Mom's surprise as she thought it would be entertaining for a little girl. The entire movie (the plot of which I have mercifully forgotten) seemed to be nothing but fluff, cotton candy for the mind. All I can remember is an elephant standing on a revolving platform, and someone singing a silly song about him. At that point I jumped up in the darkened theater, put my hands on my hips and huffed, "This movie is about absolutely nothing!" Then I sat down with my arms folded and ungraciously endured the rest of it.

But when "The Miracle Worker" began I was immediately fascinated by Helen and her teacher Annie Sullivan, as they struggled, fought, and forged a relationship. Helen's triumph at the end, saying, "Wa wa" as the water from the well gushed over her fingers, and then going into a "What's this word?" frenzy as the meaning of the sign language alphabet dawned on her, made an impression that has lasted a lifetime.

After seeing the movie I went out and read several biographies of Helen Keller from the library. I was intrigued by her managing to achieve so much even though she lived in darkness and silence. I learned the sign language alphabet. Around that time someone gave me a tall doll, "Caroline," that was probably modeled after Caroline Kennedy, and it would walk if you led it by the hand. I pretended I was Annie Sullivan and the doll was Helen Keller, and I spelled words into her hand to talk to her.

Years later I read a Reader's Digest article by Helen Keller, about how she would spend a week of her life if she were granted the power to see and hear for just 7 days. She talked about viewing sunsets, nature, movies, rainbows, and all the things we see and take for granted. She wrote of attending symphonies and hearing all kinds of sounds and music, including the natural calls of birds in the woods. I wondered how she would be able to stand it when the darkness and silence closed in again at the end of the week.

A few days ago I went to the eye doctor and learned that there were two blood spots in one eye. He says they are not a danger but that it is a big wake up call to get my sugar under control. Since then I have been exercising and I joined Lucille Roberts to get on a regular exercise program. I've never been a fan of exercise and I always hated gym, but I can't imagine living as Helen Keller did, and I don't want to have to be blind. There are just too many things I would miss, and I would never feel safe walking around unable to see, even with a cane or a guide dog.

I've been looking at everything, appreciating colors and design and natural beauty, in a way I don't often think about. It could be taken away from me, if I'm not careful. It could happen anyhow I suppose but maybe I can stall it off until I'm so old that it won't much matter. In any case the doctor indicated it can be reversed at this early stage so I am going all out. Despite my admiration for Helen Keller I have no desire to live in eternal night. If it is up to me at all I am not going to let that happen.

Snow is a Four Letter Word

To me, snow is a four letter word. It can look pretty, especially when it sugar-frosts pine trees in the countryside. But I hate going out in it. So many people love snow and look forward to winter sports. Not me. When it snows, I hole up in the apartment and hope I have noplace to go until it is gone.

Today, I have a meeting in the evening so I may not be able to escape it unless we decide to cancel.

How did I come to be so afraid of snow and ice? I guess it started with my mother. Mom had a similar phobia. I remember once when I was about twenty we were crossing a street. It must have felt slippery to her and she froze in place, unable to move. I had to go back and get her and lead her across the street. Little did I know that around twenty years later I would be just as scared as she was.

I wasn't afraid of snow in Buffalo. I got completely used to it there. Everyone had snow tires and traffic didn't stop except during the Blizzard of '77. The day of the blizzard, I was running for the last bus to the dormitories, when a powerful gust picked me up off my feet. For a moment I was flying, not under my own power. I screamed in terror and was relieved when the wind dropped me unharmed into a soft snowdrift. The bus driver spotted me and kindly held the bus until I could get to my feet and get on.

I was afraid of high winds but not snow and not that afraid of ice either. So what changed?

I remember one incident when I was with Bruce already. We were crossing the 12th Street bridge and it was completely covered in ice. I felt my legs lock up and he had to hold onto me and lead me the rest of the way, or I might have stayed in place on the bridge just like Mom.

After that it seemed to get worse. Once, crossing the street with a friend, I realized I was walking on ice that had been rained on. That's even more slippery than plain ice. She had to rescue me. It was in the middle of the street, and cars were coming, but I couldn't take a step. I had become my mother.

The year Jason was four, there were ice storms all winter long. I don't know how the buses managed to keep running or the schools stayed open. Jason was in a pre-kindergarten at that time and the little bus came no matter what. I stayed indoors the whole winter with only a few exceptions. Once I had to go out to the bank. I walked two avenue blocks, clinging to people's fences and even crawling part of the way because I was so terrified. I didn't care what people thought, and there weren't many on the street anyhow. Walking was horrific. Also that winter, Jason fell on the ice once and my friend Nancy had to pick him up, because again I was locked. My legs would not move! I felt like a terrible mother, but I just could not force myself to walk forward and pick him up. That was one of my low moments in parenting. Fortunately there have been many highs.

In 1996 there was a blizzard, about 24 inches of snow, and for once in 18 years, the New York City school system declared two snow days and a late opening on the third day. That first blizzard was fun to go out in the day after the snow fell. It was so deep that cars could not travel down our street so we waded around in knee-deep snow, throwing snowballs at each other. Jason was six and in first grade. I used the two days off to do "homeschooling" with him. We decorated sweatshirts to say "Blizzard of 1996," called up friends and family to find up how much snow they had gotten, and did snow experiments to see how fast a snowball would melt in the kitchen, inside the refrigerator, and in the freezer.

It would have been all right if that blizzard had melted away. But that winter, every time the melting began, a fresh snowfall would come down on top of it. Treacherous ice was hidden under innocuous dustings of snow. I had to walk back and forth to Jason's school twice a day, and found it physically daunting to dodge the ice patches every day for over two months.

Now, I've become so disgusted with snow that when there is more than a mere dusting I don't even leave the house. I bought yak tracks but have not used them, because often the snow gets shoveled to the corners the day after it falls. Then the sidewalk will be relatively clear (but deceptive because of the black ice) but at the corners it is icy and deep. If I wore the yak tracks under those conditions I would only succeed in crushing them on the concrete sidewalks, and they would be useless at the corners where they are needed.

So despite its beauty and the peaceful feeling I get when I look out the window and see it falling, snow and ice are my least favorite forms of precipitation. Give me rain, anytime. In fact, give me April showers and springtime, I'm more than ready.

Roses Are Red

Warning, if you have not read this book, I do reveal part of the ending.

I have just finished "Roses Are Red" by James Patterson. I enjoy thrillers and this one was thrilling and disturbing. The chase took many twists and turns and twice over you think they have caught a merciless killer, only to find out the captured person was part of the conspiracy but not the Mastermind (which is in fact the name of the kingpin of the operation).

The ending was a complete surprise to me and a letdown since the bad guy did not get caught. That is usually the satisfying end to a thriller. I was quite disappointed and righteously angry. I hope he gets taken down in a sequel. Or perhaps there is a sequel out that I have not seen yet.

However I enjoyed the cleverness of the chase and the frustration felt by the police and FBI agents as they struggled to figure out who the Mastermind was. I felt outraged by the Mastermind's cold-blooded killings of families and children though his murders of the killers who did his bidding brought some satisfaction. His main character, Alex Cross, is a well-drawn and well rounded character as is his family.

I recommend it but with a reservation, if you must see justice done, pick another book.

Kindergarten at P.S. 86

I started Kindergarten in the fall of 1959, when I was four and a half years old. I don’t remember a lot about that year but I do remember that Mom got an older girl to walk with me the five blocks to the school. The next year, when I was a five-year-old first grader, I walked back and forth on my own. What a different world it was. Today, no one would allow a child that young to go to school alone.

I was almost a year younger than the oldest kids in my class, small, skinny, and not very mature. I got into trouble several times that year. Once, I decided to give myself a haircut, and I positioned myself above the garbage pail and hacked away at my hair with a scissors. Mom immediately took me to the hairdresser to get my hair back into some kind of a neat haircut, instead of the raggedy coiffure I created for myself. I suppose in the East Village today that self-inflicted haircut would be acceptable!

The other trouble I got into involved a little Asian girl who joined our class. She was actually too young to be in kindergarten, but apparently the school made an exception for her because her older cousin was in the class to “look out” for her. Now I wonder if her mother had to work and couldn’t keep her at home.

Anyhow this little girl attracted me. She was a tiny, golden-skinned beauty with hair like black silk. I wanted so much to be her friend, but she spoke no English, only Chinese. I could not figure out how to communicate with her, so I tickled her in order to get a reaction. Each time I tickled her she would run to her cousin and tell on me. Her cousin spoke English and a few times she warned me to leave her little cousin alone. But I kept it up partly because I liked to hear her speak in her mysterious foreign tongue. Finally her bigger cousin told the teacher.

The teacher must have sent a note home to Mom telling her I was tormenting this little girl. I couldn’t explain why I did it. When Mom asked me, I had no answer, but I knew I hadn’t meant to hurt her. I knew I wanted to find a way to be friends with her but I didn’t know how. Faced with no reasonable explanation, Mom punished me by making me write lines. Probably I had to write, “I will not tickle (girl’s name)” 100 times. I felt like it was a horrible punishment and I wrote the lines with tears coursing down my cheeks. I never did figure out a way to become friends with that girl.

Another memory of kindergarten was the day we made butter, passing a miniature butter churn filled with heavy cream around in a circle and each of us taking turns working the churn until it turned to butter. Then the teacher produced crackers and gave each of us a cracker with a pat of butter on it. It was sweet and melted in my mouth. No butter I had ever tasted was quite so soft and delicious.

Finally, I remember that the teacher gave birthday spankings. At the start of each month, any child who had a birthday coming up that month would line up at the front of the room and go across the teacher’s lap for a few mild pats on the bottom (one for each year) and a slightly firmer pat “to grow on.” That, also, is a custom that has gone by the wayside, as any teacher who did this today would certainly be accused of child abuse and hounded out of his or her job.

A Few of My Favorite Books

My cousin Ivy was generous enough to send me a package of romance novels she's done with, and we got into an email discussion of our favorite books and authors. It's clear we are related because our tastes appear to be very similar.

I read a fair amount of nonfiction. When I read fiction I enjoy several genres: historical romance, science fiction, fantasy, suspense and horror. I used to say I liked historical romance because it took me out of the century, and science fiction because it took me off the planet!

Some of my favorite authors are:

Bertrice Small (romance)
Rosemary Rogers (romance)
Johanna Lindsey (romance)
Cassie Edwards (romance)
Diana Gabaldon (romance)
Piers Anthony (fantasy and science fiction)
Robert Heinlein (science fiction)
Robert Silverberg (science fiction)
Marion Zimmer Bradley (science fiction and fantasy)
Stephen King (horror)
Dean Koontz (horror)
Jonathan Kellerman (suspense)
John Sanford (suspense)
James Patterson (suspense)
Isaac Asimov (science fiction)
Mary Higgins Clark (suspense)

I'm sure there are others I haven't thought of but that's a meaty enough list for now.

Some of my favorite books are (in no particular order):

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
Lord of the Rings
Gone With the Wind
Forever Amber
1984
We the Living
Anthem
The End of Eternity
To Kill a Mockingbird
The Diary of Anne Frank
Lolita
Stranger in a Strange Land

As a child, my favorite books were:
The Pippi Longstocking books
Horton Hears a Who
Horton Hatches the Egg
The Cat in the Hat Comes Back
Tom Sawyer
Little Women
Little Men
Alice Through the Looking Glass
Sherlock Holmes (I have the complete compilation, first book I ever bought for myself, cost $11 in the mid sixties)
Nancy Drew books
Podkayne of Mars
David and the Phoenix
Animal Farm
Uncle Tom's Cabin

There are probably others too but these are all books I read many times, sometimes until the books fell apart. Or, I checked them out of the library time and again but never bought them.

What about you? Feel free to share your favorites.