Friday the Thirteenth

Today is Friday, the 13th. As a child, I wasn't superstitious about it at all. It seemed of no more significance than Monday the 13th or Tuesday the 13th or any other day of the week. But apparently enough people dread Friday the 13th for it to be a major superstition and the topic of a series of horror movies.

Mom was superstitious but not about Friday the 13th. She had superstitions imported from Greece, brought by her mother to the new world. Nona, as we called my maternal grandmother, believed in the power of dreams, and had all sorts of interpretations at the ready. By contrast, my grandfather, Papoo, scoffed at this and said that if you had vivid dreams it meant you must have kicked off the blankets and slept with your buttocks uncovered.

Mom learned the superstition that cats were ghosts. She had a few bad experiences with cats anyhow, so she feared them and it was difficult for her to warm up to a cat. She also learned that if you said too much good about a person, you would give them a "Kinohorah" which meant the evil eye. So it was better to say modest and even negative things about a person so as not to attract the jealousy and malice of the evil eye. If you did have to compliment someone, you followed it with, "Poo, poo, poo," in order to drive the evil eye away.

Mom, although highly intelligent and well-read, retained other superstitions from her childhood as well. She believed in witches and we were not allowed to throw hair or finger and toenail clippings into the garbage, in case a witch found them and put a spell on us. Instead, all clippings from the human body had to be flushed down the toilet, to keep them safely away from witches. I guess Mom did not believe in the Sea Witch who aided "The Little Mermaid" in her quest to become human and marry her prince, or else we might have had to burn our nail clippings instead.

Another superstition that I ended up retaining was that you never handed another person a sharp object. Now as a safety measure we are all taught to hand it over with the handle facing the other person so that they will not grasp the blade and get cut. But Mom's superstition dictated that if you handed a sharp object to a person at all, it would cause a fight between you (the relationship would be "cut"). So if we needed to pass a knife or a pair of scissors we had to lay it down on a surface near the person who needed it, and let them pick it up on their own. I still do this today because I have a mental image of Mom scolding me if I don't observe this one. Also when giving a gift of knives to a newlywed couple, it was important to scatter a few pennies into the box with the knives so as to avoid a falling out with them.

But with all these other superstitions, I never learned to dread Friday the 13th until I lost the only two jobs I have been terminated from in my life, and both times it happened on a Friday the 13th. The first time, I was working at Matthew Bender, writing on family and matrimonial law. We had a new person take over our floor, and unfortunately I made the mistake of engaging in negative gossip about her to a tattletale who ran right to her with this information. Back then I was a good worker but knew very little about office politics. Today, I'm a lot better at keeping my mouth shut.

This didn't lead directly to my firing but it set the groundwork. The new manager of our floor set out to clean out the "third floor bolsheviks" who had protested holding our Christmas party at a private club that had a history of excluding blacks and Jews. I was one of the people who signed that petition; therefore I was targeted. She also cut out some of the abuses going on on our floor, with practicing attorneys running their own side business on company time and having clients up to see them when they were supposed to be working on publications. I can't fault her for that one. Third, she targeted people who'd been with the company a while and had risen to a reasonably high salary, in order to push us out and bring in law school graduates who would be happy to work for $17,000 a year instead of commanding salaries in the mid-30's.

So with all this going on, she built a case against me and had me dismissed, supposedly for poor work. As the man in the unemployment office laughed, "It took them five years to figure out you couldn't do your job? Ha!" I knew it was coming sometime but in June of 1984 Luke Skywalker was depicted on my Star Wars calendar. When I turned the page at the start of July and saw that there was a photo of Darth Vader and a Friday the 13th in the month, I knew that my time was short. Sure enough, I was let go on Friday the 13th.

The second firing took place a little over a year later. I found a legal editor position with a firm called Brownstone Publishers. At that time, the two owners of the company interviewed potential employees by hiring them. In the six months I worked there, there was a great deal of turnover for such a small company. Instead of supporting and guiding new hires, we were thrown into the fray and expected to come up with a brilliant newsletter on unfamiliar areas of law. I made a valiant stab at learning co-op and condominium law in order to write my assigned newsletter, but soon my superiors found fault with it, and after six months they let me go with only one warning and no attempt to help me do better.

Mom particularly resented this firing because not only did it take place on Friday, September 13, 1985, but it occurred right on Erev Rosh Hashonah (the eve of the Jewish New Year). Mom was incensed that one of the partners, a Jewish man, would fire a Jewish employee right at the start of the New Year. I didn't particularly care about that but this second episode on a Friday the 13th solidified my feeling that Friday the 13th was a day to dread.

Over the years this feeling has dissipated somewhat as nothing else too dramatically bad has happened on a Friday the 13th for me or my family. So now I view it two ways. In a sense it was bad luck to get fired twice on two separate Fridays the 13th. But as they say, one door closes and another door opens. If I hadn't been let go twice from legal publishing positions I would not have moved into the development field where I have done better and enjoyed my work much more. So maybe Friday the 13th is a lucky day after all.

Writer's Block Day?

Today I don't think I have a specific topic so I'll just ramble and see where I end up. I had the fourth, and I hope final, periodontal surgery this morning. It was raining hard and the wind was strong when I left the house. For a few moments I thought I would have to turn back and call car service in order to get there. But then the wind eased off slightly and I made it to the subway station. The streets were a graveyard for mutilated umbrellas, with five or six of them outside the subway entrance alone.

Today the surgery seemed harder than the other times. It seems more difficult for anesthesia to take on the left side of my mouth. Could that be because I'm left handed? Is the right side of my brain more sensitive and less susceptible to drugs to numb it out? I wonder.

Now that it is over I can't go to the gym for a week, and I have to eat soft foods until the stitches come out next Thursday. Already I miss the gym. Who would have thought that a computer potato like myself would turn into a gym rat? We will have to see whether it holds up after a few months.

Bruce also got his machine to help him with his sleep apnea. With the tube and mask, he looks like a space alien come to visit my bedroom. It will probably be uncomfortable for him to sleep in at first, but I hope he can get used to it quickly. We're both feeling old as a result of all this medical stuff, and need to do something for rejuvenation. But what? I haven't thought that one out yet.

Dormitory Pranks

In the late 70's, I attended law school at SUNY Buffalo and lived in the dormitories on the Amherst campus for most of the three years I was there. One term I lived on the Main Street campus but found it irritating to have to commute back and forth by bus when I could just as easily live right on the same campus as the school.

We played some strange practical jokes on each other. Once, we filled a condom halfway with Jergens lotion and hung it on someone's door. There was so much fluid in it that the prankee opened the door, spotted the condom, and enquired of the jokesters, "What did you do, take up a collection?"

Once I was taking a shower and my roommate stole my clothes out of the bathroom, locked them up in our room, and took a walk with her boyfriend. So there I was in the shower, dripping wet, stark naked, and no clothing. I wasn't going to wait around for her to come back and give me my keys, so that I could dash across the hall and hope no one saw me.

I took the shower curtain off its hooks, wrapped it around me (clinging to my wet body in interesting places) and dripped my way down the hall, knocking on doors. I knocked on all the women's doors first but naturally, no one answered. So I had no choice but to knock on the first men's door I came to.

The fellow who opened the door, Barry something, stood there with his lower jaw on his chest while I nonchalantly explained that someone had taken my clothes, and asked if he had a bathrobe I could borrow. He muttered, "Yeah, sure," handed me a terrycloth bathrobe, and I thanked him and sloshed off. As soon as he shut the door I heard him and his friends exploding with mirth. It was embarrassing but at least with the bathrobe I could dry off and wait for my roommate to come back and let me into the room. After that, I took the keys with me and put them on the far side of the tub when I got into the shower. That way, at worst she could snitch my clothes, but she couldn't lock me out of the room!

"Along Came Polly"

We recently viewed "Along Came Polly," which we didn't see when it was in the theaters. I found it somewhat gross but very funny. The main character was a risk analyst for an insurance company and he did the safe thing, married a nice Jewish girl, had the traditional wedding complete with being picked up in the chairs (did I mention that Bruce fell out of the chair at our wedding, because of his rowdy friends?). But on their honeymoon, they met a devastatingly sexy Frenchman who approached them on the beach, stark naked, and invited them to take scuba lessons. Our hero foolishly backed out of it and allowed his bride to go alone. Not surprisingly, when he got to the boat a few hours later, he found Claude and his bride of one day in bed together, so passionate that they had forgotten to remove their flippers (but she had managed to remove her bathing suit, which would have been logistically impossible).

Our hero returned to New York and ran into a young woman who went to middle school with him. Polly is the exact opposite of our straitlaced hero, a gal who lives on the edge and is totally spontaneous. She finds it difficult to even commit to going out to dinner with him. Even though our hero suffers from IBS which is exacerbated by eating the spicy foods Polly enjoys, and she leads him a merry chase through a world he's never encountered before (learning dirty salsa dancing from a gay Cuban), Polly wins his heart.

I especially enjoyed the scene where his prodigal bride returns and he works up the guts to call her a heartless bitch and throws her out. Good for him!

Bruce and Jason's hearts were stolen by Polly's blind ferret Rudolfo who continually runs into stationary objects.

A fun movie, even with some very stomach turning moments (let's not dwell on a certain hairy, sweaty chest!). I recommend it.

Seder Memories

Passover has always been my favorite Jewish holiday. I like the ritual of the Seder, which means "order." Everything in the Seder is said or eaten in a particular order and has a particular meaning.

I remember some Seders at my parents' apartment in the Bronx. One year we had the Kraut side of the family in attendance. My Grandma was there, and it was the last Passover she would see. I didn't understand at the time, but she was growing somewhat senile.

Grandma drank the four cups of wine. They were small cups, barely more than a shot, but she managed to get a little giddy. She wiped her mouth with a loose page that fell out of her Haggadah (the booklet that lays out the ritual and prayers). Grandma was quite religious and she would have been horrified if she had realized what she was doing. She also took a large swig from Elijah's cup, the cup that sits on the table and is supposed to be there for the Prophet Elijah when his spirit visits each home. Must get pretty looped, what with all those cups of wine waiting for him, but I guess spirits don't have to worry about driving drunk.

Anyhow, Grandma drank from Elijah's cup, which you aren't supposed to do, and she launched into a tirade about the inadequacy of our Seder. "Lukelah," she said to my father (this was her nickname for him, his name was Louis), "you call this a Seder? Feh! I was at Hesch's Seder last night and that was something to see!"

I didn't comprehend, at ten years old, but the rest of the family was squirming. It was the first night of Passover, and "Hesch," as Grandma called my Uncle Harry, was not religious and had never made a Seder in his life. Afterwards I thought of it as a humorous episode but I'm sure no one else did because it was obvious to them that Grandma's mental faculties were slipping, and before the next Passover she was gone.

There was an annual tradition of a Passover Seder with the Calamar side of the family. Many of these took place at my cousin Sarita's apartment complex in Queens. She had the use of the basement for a big family Seder. My memories of these are vague but I do recall crawling under the table and trying to find the Afikomen. If you found the Afikomen you won a prize. I thought this had some religious significance but it was most likely thought up by someone who wanted to make sure the kids didn't get bored and cause a ruckus.

As I got older I explored Seders with other groups of people. One year I joined a small group that celebrated Shabbos together and they invited me to a Seder. We met in an apartment in Manhattan. The hosts were a gay couple who were quite observant and had koshered their kitchen. This was way beyond any level of observance I ever intended to reach but it was interesting to hear how they had gone about it.

What I remember most from that Seder is that they served a special matzoh that was hand-baked in Israel. It was round instead of square and irregular in appearance, rather than the mass produced ones I was used to. It also seemed a bit more flavorful. We also sang some nontraditional songs about freedom, and I suggested, "Oh, Freedom," with the line, "before I'll be a slave, I'll be buried in my grave, and go home to my Lord and be free."

My most memorable Seder is the one I gave the night after I met Bruce. I got a copy of the "Rainbow Seders" by Arthur Waskow, and put together a vegetarian meal. For the shank bone, I bought a doggie squeak toy shaped like a lambchop! This resulted in much laughter. I don't remember what the main dish was but I made the Charoset (imitation mortar) out of dates, sweet potato and pine nuts. It was a far cry from the traditional apples and walnuts I grew up on but it was delicious nonetheless. This was a great Seder because the ritual included some modern issues such as the environment and nuclear disarmament, and it was a model Seder attended by many of my friends.

My Halloween Wedding

Bruce and I got married on Halloween, 1987. I picked the date because it fell on a Saturday night, we’d always have a party to go to, and he’d have no excuse to forget our anniversary. All those black cats and skeletons and grinning jack o’lanterns would serve as a reminder.

Arranging the wedding was almost like holding a second full time job. We actually paid for about a third of it while the rest was picked up by my Mom, who held to the old-fashioned view that the bride’s family pays the lion’s share. Bruce and I took care of all the arrangements, because Mom was already slipping downhill with the onset of Parkinson’s disease.

We chose a local pool club and catering hall for our wedding, the Palm Shores Club in Sheepshead Bay. It’s out of business now, but at the time it had two party rooms. We chose the smaller one and decided to limit our guest list to approximately sixty people. We also chose the Palm Shores Club because they served kosher food, but that wasn’t good enough for my brother’s ultra-strict father-in-law, who refused to eat a single bite because the club was open on Saturdays.

Limiting the guest list meant cutting out first cousins. We invited only immediate family, friends, a select few work colleagues, and the aunts and uncles. One first cousin was invited because his mother was frail and needed assistance in getting around.

This set off a huge brouhaha with Bruce’s sister. In order to start the wedding after Shabbos was over, we were forced into having the smorgasbord right before the dinner. This wasn’t ideal but it was the only way to go. It also meant that it would turn into a late night wedding, beginning at 8:30 PM and with the reception ending around 1:30 in the morning.

Bruce’s sister had twin daughters who were just over three years old. They were adorable little girls but they were far from well behaved. In fact, they were rambunctious little imps. The image of having them at a late night wedding was not a pretty one. I pictured food fights, screaming tantrums at tender moments, the two of them tearing around the hall being ineffectually chased by Bruce’s sister and brother in law, and then enthusiastically hugging Aunt Celeste and wrecking the white gown with their grubby little hands. So we drew the line: No children under 21 years of age, and this meant the twins, too.

Bruce’s sister took it as a personal insult, and refused to come to the wedding. She was neurotic about babysitters, considering everyone but close family members unfit to watch the twins. There was no persuading her. She threw her own adult-sized tantrum, accused Bruce of not loving his little nieces, and stayed home.

I wanted to decorate in the spirit of Halloween. The Club disappointed me because they did not have orange tablecloths. The closest they could come was peach, so I chose peach. I found some black candles and put them on the tables to sneak in at least some of a Halloween theme. We also requested that the band play the theme from “Ghostbusters,” but they forgot.

The night of the wedding, we took a taxi to the catering hall. A limousine was expensive and we were afraid it might get egged, being it was Halloween. When I tried to change into my gown I discovered that I’d lost a bit of weight since the final fitting a few weeks earlier, and now the gown dragged a bit on the floor when I walked. “What am I going to do?” I wailed. I’m going to trip over it!”

While I was freaking out, the rabbi came in and distracted me long enough to get me to sign the ketubah (marriage contract). Then it was time to go downstairs to the ceremony. We took the elevator down one flight but I had to walk down the last set of stairs. The elevator door opened into the larger party room, where employees of a local hospital were enjoying a costume party. When they saw me, they must have thought I was in costume, because quite a few people laughed and applauded. I shouted out, “Happy Halloween!”

I was nervous walking down the aisle, but made it without tripping over the slightly long gown. My mother and brother walked with me, as my father was deceased. I barely remember the ceremony but I remember the rabbi saying that getting married brings peace to one’s life, even though that seems like a contradiction in terms what with trying to coexist with another person and offspring making a cacophony during their formative years. Bruce stomped on the glass, kissed me, and we were wed.

Next came the smorgasbord, followed by the reception. I’d warned all our friends that I didn’t want anyone clinking on their wine glasses to force us to kiss. A few people did anyhow and we obliged, but fortunately it didn’t go on constantly as in some weddings. We danced our first dance to Kenny Rogers’ “Lady.” In honor of Mom’s Greek ancestry, the band played the “Miserlu.” There was also a special song honoring parents when they married off their last remaining children. Since Bruce and I both were the last children in our families to get married, Mom, Bruce’s Dad, and his stepmother sat in the center as everyone did a circle dance around them.

It’s customary at a Jewish wedding for some of the guests to pick up the bride and groom seated in their chairs and dance around with them. First they picked me up. As they hoisted me up, terrified and clinging to the chair with both hands, my brother quipped, “Boy, Celeste, what have you been eating?” I was so relieved when they finally put me down. Bruce wasn’t as lucky. His friends Jeff and Norman got a little rowdy when they picked him up, and Bruce actually slipped off the chair and fell. I was horrified, seeing him lying on his side on the dance floor, thinking this was our wedding and he might be injured. Fortunately he was all right but a bit shook up. Jeff and Norman also got into a wild dance, holding each other’s hands and whirling around so fast that other dancers had to scoot out of their way. I wondered whether they were expressing some hidden envy that Bruce was the first of their crowd to get married.

Inside our hall we could almost forget it was Halloween, but when I went out to use the ladies’ room I was accosted by a man dressed as the Cowardly Lion, who asked me if I was a real bride. Bruce reported later that when he was pacing back and forth nervously before the wedding, some other costumed characters spotted him and speculated on whether he was a real bridegroom. They concluded he was, based on his obvious tension level. He even tied his bow tie so tightly that it left a red butterfly-shaped mark on his neck. It was a wonder he was able to breathe!

At my family’s table, my aunts and uncles were taking gentlemen’s bets on whether Bruce was wearing a toupee. (He wasn’t). My Aunt Hilda invited Cousin Jeffrey to crash the wedding uninvited. Ever since Jeffrey was a little boy, Hilda dragged him to parties and adult gatherings where children weren’t welcome, and insisted that he be served a meal. I don’t think he got a place setting but probably Hilda fed him off of her plate. Because of her spoiling, Jeffrey at forty-something was an over-aged hippie who’d never taken adult responsibility or held down a job for more than a short time. I resented his presence at my wedding but there wasn’t much we could do about it without it escalating into an ugly fight. So we looked the other way and let him party.

The reception broke up early. We had the room until 1:30 or 2 AM but everyone left by around 1 AM. Bruce and I changed back into our jeans, packed up the gown and tuxedo, and headed back home, again taking a taxi to avoid Halloween celebrants armed with eggs, toilet paper and shaving cream. Our wedding was a simple affair that cost less than $10,000 but it was an evening to never forget.

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.

Movie Review: "Pat and Mike"

I know it's a very old movie but old movies seem to speak to me in a way that newer films often don't. Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn paired up in this one. The interplay between them was excellent but one thing that slowed the picture down was the emphasis on sports scenes. Over and over again we watched Katharine Hepburn either charge to victory or else fumble up pathetically when her jinx of a boyfriend was around.

The boyfriend seemed to undermine her in subtle ways such as making her feel wrong and giving her unwanted advice. He put a lot of pressure on her and she would feel her confidence knocked right over. I was surprised that Katharine Hepburn who is known for her independent attitude (at least in her movie roles) played someone who was so dependent on this man's opinion of her. But she did.

I loved it when she chucked her suitcases out the train window and jumped off the train to stay in New York and have Mike (Spencer Tracy) take her on as her manager. She stood up to him and everyone else but she sure had trouble standing up to that boyfriend until he thought he caught her with Mike in a compromising situation, and stalked out of her life. And good riddance too!

Meanwhile she and her manager are falling for each other but in denial about it. He's plenty supportive, at first because he wants to make money off of her success but later on as he starts to care for her he encourages her for her own sake. Mike has his own blind spot: he is affronted when Pat fights off a pair of thugs who are about to beat him up. Even though he says he believes in a "5-0, 5-0" relationship between a man and a woman he wants her to be a "she" while he remains the "he."

However he seems to get over it and by the end, they have decided to give their growing love a chance to grow. And I was happy for them. It's a bit slow by today's standards but an interesting film and the two stars were lovers in real life, so you can feel the electricity. I recommend it.

Ashes to Ashes: A Ritual

Yesterday Bruce and I did not want to get up for a morning service so we decided to go to the Brooklyn UU church and take part in their new "Sunset Services." This is something new they are trying out and it is aimed at young people. So Bruce and I found that we were the oldest people in attendance.

The ritual reminded me of some of our reflections groups at BSEC when Kurt Johnson used to lead them. I remember one in particular where we were supposed to choose an object that had some symbolic meaning to us and lay it on a sort of altar while meditating. This seems to bring a focus to one's inner thoughts.

In last night's ritual we thought about the body, ashes, earth, decomposition, and without mentioning it too explicitly, death. We sang several hymns, one of which I remember. It went, "Brother, Sister, take your time, go slowly...simple things are holy." There was a bit more but this is what stood out in my mind. At the same time we watched a slide show of sonograms showing the fetus, hands, beach sand, etc. After singing hymns and doing readings (after each sentence the person reading the words came up and burned them in the chalice), we did "holy play" which consisted of touching, manipulating and playing with clay, sand and dirt. I liked the sand best and felt that I found a piece of bone in it that seemed like a treasure. Some of the young women took off their shoes and socks and walked and danced in the dirt pile, so they really got deeply involved in it.

We passed around the bowl of burnt words and each of us took some of the ashes. Some of this was tied in with the Christian ritual of Ash Wednesday but the woman running the worship said that often they simply put the ashes on your forehead for that ritual and you do not get to touch them. The ashes were stark black and soft and crumbly. I rubbed them between my fingers and they crumbled more and more and left a stain on my hand. They were very fragile, fragile as life.

Afterwards we went to a bowl of soapy water and washed up. Someone made a joke about footwashing and another person said that would be a whole other ritual. Actually I think I would enjoy that. It would be an experience I have not had. This was meaningful and yet part of it was just like being a kid playing in the sandbox again.

When it ended we just went home. I seem to be shy around much younger people. I don't know why that is. But it was a nice mellow experience. We were in a small chapel downstairs in the church, and a concert with Gregorian chanting was going on upstairs. The stained glass windows were very Christian but the ritual was earth-centered, and almost pagan.

I find I like more traditional services but once in a while something like this can be food for thought. Maybe food for the soul as well. It is certainly more nourishing than a place where we have to constantly struggle. That's for the workaday world, and should not be for the church or other spiritual experiences.

I also felt that it was easier for the younger people to do an exercise with the overtones of bodily limitations and death, because it seems far away to them, as if it will never happen. Whereas for us fifty-somethings, having already been brought face to face with mortality, it was harder to enter into a ritual like this in a playful mode, for I felt the reminder as I dug my hands through the decomposed plants and animals contained in the dirt. The song, "All we are is dust in the wind," seemed most appropriate.

In all, it was well worth going there and a little step back from everyday life that I think we both needed. We will keep on exploring there.

The Trip to College

We got up early Thursday morning to make the trip upstate for Jason's "Advantage Day" at college. I was nervous about possible snow since the weather reports were saying there would be at least two inches Thursday and Thursday night. We did get the snow as we were traveling up, a little past Kingston. From inside a bus, it was pretty, watching the snow sugarfrost the evergreens. The snow didn't slow the bus down all that much either.

I wasn't too pleased with the bus driver. There was something about him, some indefinable attitude, that rubbed me the wrong way. On the way up I wasn't sure what it was. He did let us off at the motel as we asked though we had to remind him several times beforehand.

The motel itself was a trip. It was like stepping back in time. No one was at the desk at first and we had to ring a buzzer. They had us pay in advance which is very unusual. Generally you pay at check out. I guess they have sometimes been stiffed and being a small place, can't handle that.

The room was all right but old fashioned. There was a color TV with cable stations but no VCR or DVD player. There was no hair dryer or coffee maker as you see in hotels now. But the worst part was that the toilet didn't flush. We had to call the owner in twice to fix it for us. And this was just for a one night stay and then up in the morning to get to the school.

Since it was snowing hard we were pretty much trapped in the room. Bruce got antsy and went out for a walk to see if he could make it into town and buy us any food, but he turned back because it was late and starting to get dark. We watched TV all afternoon and into the evening. Jason found a channel that showed old Star Trek episodes from Voyager and The Next Generation. We also watched an old episode of Gunsmoke that was pretty funny. Later stuff like "Crime Scene" and "Haunting" came on. The "Haunting" episodes were downright scary this time, with evil spirits inhabiting them. Jason got nervous and came over to stick close with me. He hasn't done that since he was little and there was a loud thunderstorm.

For dinner we ordered from The Pizza Factory. Prices were so reasonable that I was afraid the portions would be small. So we ordered more food than we normally would, and of course the portions turned out to be gigantic! I had chicken wings and a tossed salad, Jason had pizza, and Bruce had a chef salad, and then we still had huge mozzerella sticks and linguine with meat sauce to contend with.

In the morning, I was a little worried about whether the campus police would show up in time, so I asked some people at the breakfast whether they could drive us to the campus. The first family's car was too crowded but I found a young man who was with his father and they agreed to take us. We drove over together and sat with the father at the parents' orientation, while the kids took their tests.

We got a lot of information. I wrote some of it down but I couldn't keep up with it all. Anyhow I liked what I heard. They are strict on certain points so the students are unlikely to be total party animals. And they work on getting the students into activities that are an alternative to drinking.

We ate in the student dining hall for $5.75 a person. That was quite a deal. I had a nacho salad that was very tasty. Now I am aware that when parents are present they make a special effort to produce a good meal, but even so they had a salad bar and it seemed like pretty good food overall. We sat with a father and daughter who lived nearby, so she would be commuting. Of course the parents talked and the kids didn't say a word to each other. I am sure once we are not in the picture they will speak with each other much more easily.

After lunch they had advisement to set up a temporary schedule. As usual Jason scored low on the English part of the test and they wanted him to take a remedial English class. I butted in on that and said it was not necessary. He's always done badly on standardized tests yet he does fine in class and he got an 88 on the English Regents which is mostly essays. So I am positive that he could handle Freshman Composition, and he doesn't need an extra class to make his schedule even harder in the spring.

As it is he will have 17 credits but only 3 of the classes should be a ton of work. The others I think will be more reasonable.

When we left, we caught a ride into town with another family. Then began the only bad hour and a half of the trip. We hadn't known that the students were beginning a break and that there was a bus stop on campus used for student break time. So we saw a bus bound for New York but they refused to pick us up before going to the campus. By the time it came back down to the bus stop it was full and the driver said there was another bus right behind it. But as we were waiting the crowd of students was growing and the next bus took a different street and never even came to the bus stop!

The bus from Oneonta seemed to be our hope but it arrived in town and headed up to the campus. So of course that one filled up completely also. I called the bus company and asked for them to put on extra buses and to come directly to the town stop instead of going to the campus.

By the time a bus that had some seats arrived it was four and we had been standing in the cold for an hour. My toes were freezing. Bruce's hands were freezing too (he didn't have his gloves). When this bus opened up we saw it was the same driver we had on the way up. This time he confirmed my feeling that he wasn't a hell of a nice guy. First when he got out I asked if he was going to New York. He said he didn't know what was happening but HE was going home. How is that for an evasive answer! Then he asked someone to count how many people were waiting. He finished loading luggage on for people going to NYC (even though he wouldn't answer when I asked him), and then he made us wait longer while he took a head count. I said, there's no need, when the bus is full he'll know he can't take any more people.

He said, "I like to count and if you don't like it you can take the next bus." I said, we have been waiting for an hour, we were the first ones here, and we are getting on THIS bus. So Bruce and I gave our tickets and got on and then he started taking tickets from the other students and ignoring Jason who was holding out his ticket. I yelled, Jason, make sure he gets your ticket, and I said to the bus driver, let my son get on!

So he did but I had a feeling he was trying to be a real bastard and separate us. He also would not let on a kid who was going to Kingston even though he was stopping there. A royal asshole if you ask me. Then when we got to Woodstock he picked up a woman and made a big deal because her ticket was expired by a few weeks. Made her get off the bus at Kingston and buy a new ticket. Then another woman wanted to get on and he made her wait in the cold for a while. He was just a petty tyrant enjoying his little fiefdom and making people suffer.

Anyhow, at least Jason won't have to face him all the time, with any luck. I think Jason was quite excited about the campus and the upcoming classes. So this should be great for him. I'm happy, and happy we got to see it on one of it's not so beautiful days. Since it is in the Catskills, though, the campus is surrounded by mountains and the view is beautiful. That should be soothing to the mind as well.

The Seventh Veil

Another James Mason film I swoon for is "The Seventh Veil." It's mired in psychiatry that's two generations old and presents a facile solution to a deep seated problem. But it pulls me in and every time I watch it, I find more and more hidden meaning in it.

A warning to those who haven't seen the film: I'm going to reveal the ending. It's about a young pianist, Francesca, who tries to commit suicide in the belief that her hands have been badly injured and she will never be able to play again. When she's rescued, she is in a catatonic state and a psychiatrist is called in to treat her.

Using a narcotic-induced hypnosis, he gets her to recount the story of her life and the importance of her hands. She begins by telling him about an episode where she and a friend were caught out late and got into trouble. Francesca begs the headmistress not to cane her hands because she has to audition for a music scholarship that afternoon. The headmistress canes her anyway and she loses out on the scholarship.

Soon afterwards she is orphaned and goes to live with her second cousin Nicholas. Nicholas (played by James Mason) is domineering, sardonic and wants nothing more than to avoid the company of women. But when he discovers Francesca's talent he devotes himself to helping her develop it, at the cost of her freedom and social life. She practices for four or five hours every day under his watchful eye.

Nicholas sends her to a music college, where she finds a boyfriend, Peter. Peter is an American working his way through college by playing in a jazz club. He convinces Francesca to go dancing with him and after rebuffing him a few times she falls in love with him. Peter seems content to dally with her but he doesn't ask for her hand, so a 17-year old Francesca pops the question.

When she announces her engagement to Nicholas, he ignores it, orders her to go to bed and says to pack a bag because they are leaving for Paris in the morning. Francesca objects that she won't go because she is going to marry Peter, whereupon Nicholas slaps her and then coldly informs her that he is her legal guardian and she must obey him until she is 21. She doesn't see Peter for the next seven years, and he doesn't make any effort to stay in touch with her.

It's clear that although Nicholas is caustic and overbearing, he recognizes Francesca's talent and is devoted to helping her develop it. He is with her constantly, teaching her how to behave onstage and always admonishing her to take care of her hands.

The torch she has carried for Peter is extinguished when she finds him again and learns something that explains why he never tried hard to get in touch with her during all the years she was away. Then she meets Max, whom Nicholas has commissioned to paint her portrait. Max falls in love with her and asks her to go to Italy with him, but like Peter, he doesn't offer marriage. Still, she is determined to go with Max and get away from Nicholas's influence. She admits that Nicholas has an uncanny power over her.

Nicholas finally breaks out of his cold and rejecting shell when Francesca says she is going off with Max. At first he begs her not to leave, saying he can't be without her. Then, as she ignores him and plays Beethoven's Pathetique, he becomes irate, tells her she won't go because she belongs to him, and finally lashes out by striking her hands with his cane. Francesca runs away from him and leaves the house with Max who has just arrived. But as they drive away, escaping from Nicholas, they get into a car crash and Francesca's hands are burned in the accident. No matter how Max tries to assure her that her hands are only slightly injured and she will play the piano again, she doesn't believe him, and sneaks out of the hospital to jump off a bridge.

Max takes her away from the hospital against doctor's orders, and the psychiatrist tries to convince him to allow her to go back into treatment. Max refuses, and the psychiatrist visits Nicholas to try and persuade him to help. Nicholas, hearing the "Pathetique" played, knows his part in Francesca's despair, and smashes the recording. Thus he reveals the depth of his love for Francesca and his belief that she could never love a lame and embittered man such as him.

But when she is cured and put to the test, given the choice between Peter, Max and Nicholas, Francesca runs to Nicholas's arms.

Although Nicholas was a difficult character, I felt she made the right choice. Peter and Max were happy to accept her favors but they weren't offering her permanence. That might not matter as much today but in 1945 when the picture was released, their reluctance to marry her said a great deal. Nicholas never says a word but you can tell from his anger at the idea of Francesca living with Max that he is the honorable one who would marry her in a New York minute.

He was also the only one who sufficiently respected and nurtured her talent. Peter had talent of his own and wasn't going to concentrate on her. Max just wanted her to himself. Even though Nicholas was dominating and prickly, he was the one who was always there for her.

It seems the psychiatrist's work with Francesca gave Nicholas a benefit too as he was able to get in touch with his feelings and finally hold out his arms to the woman he loved, instead of bullying her and restricting her freedom. Oddly, Nicholas didn't seem to realize just how overbearing he was, and wondered aloud several times why Francesca was afraid of him. When he finally showed his gentle side, he won her over easily, as she'd been hoping for that all along.

The music in the film seemed to make a statement also. Nicholas was contemptuous of modern music such as jazz, and only recognized classical music as the genuine article. He was also the one man who could fully appreciate and complete Francesca. When it came to Peter, he was the "king of swing" and had a "modern" and cavalier attitude when it came to love. Nicholas took love so seriously, and was such a lamed and wounded soul, that he almost shut himself away from it forever.

I've probably revealed too much, but if not, I highly recommend this film.

Hello Again: James Mason and "Lolita"

It’s been over a year since I’ve written in this blog. I wanted it to be a dream journal at first but it evolved from there into writing exercises and memories. Now I’d like to revive it and use it for those purposes as well as book and movie reviews.

For a good while I’ve poured my energies into my blog on the Brooklyn Society for Ethical Culture and the problems with the governance there that have escalated over the last year and a half. If anyone is interested, take a look at http://www.brooklynethics.blogspot.com/.

Here, I want to keep it more personal and varied in topic.

My most recent craze has been collecting the films of the late James Mason. I “discovered” him almost two years ago when I attended a book discussion group at the library. The book we discussed was Lolita and we watched the 1962 film starring James Mason, Sue Lyon, Shelley Winters and Peter Sellers. I’d seen the movie before but this time I came away from it with a tremendous crush on James Mason.

First of all, I’ve read “Lolita” many times since I was a teenager myself. Even before I fully understood the story and the emotions behind it I was fascinated by Nabokov’s lush writing style. He made the story of a pathetically twisted man into what’s been described as the greatest love story of the 20th century.

James Mason gave a terrific performance and brought the warped soul of Humbert Humbert to life. He succeeded in making me feel sorry for the criminal, the despoiler of little girls. Although, certainly, Lolita was no innocent, and actively solicited his attentions, he was the adult and he should have shown restraint. And yet, except for the murder of Quilty, he comes off as if he is the victim of an underaged femme fatale who took advantage of him!

By the end, when she sent him away and remained loyal to her husband, even though they were living in deep poverty, Humbert was so pitiful that if he hadn’t rushed off to shoot Quilty I would have felt sorry for him.

At the book discussion, everyone was quick to condemn Humbert. I was the only one who had a word to say in his defense, although, admittedly, if I had a daughter and he put his hands on her, I might have shot him myself. But I remembered a situation when I was a teenager and at summer camp, that seemed related.

The summer I was fourteen, I attended a summer camp for “gifted” children. We had a great deal of freedom and chose our daily activities as if they were college classes. By the time we were senior campers at fourteen we had a number of free periods during the day during which we were unsupervised and could roam the campus at will.

A girl in my cabin, Laurie, had an affair with a 24 year old counselor. I don’t remember his name anymore. I do remember that we all knew about it, because she didn’t even understand that it should have remained hidden. When she had a pregnancy scare a couple of the counselors were going to sneak her into a nearby town for an abortion. Fortunately, she wasn’t pregnant after all, but her pregnancy scare was so well known that when we wrote our “last will and testament” to be read aloud on the final evening of camp, some witty person left Laurie “first period.” I remember laughing at that and seeing the camp director flush scarlet. Whether he knew the real implication or not is a mystery but he closed down the camp after that season and Laurie’s sleeping with a counselor may have been a good part of the reason.

The counselor, whatever his name was, was just as sleazy as Humbert. One night as we all sat on the hood of a truck, stargazing, he tried to fondle my breasts. At the time, I didn’t understand the implications of an adult fooling with an underaged girl, and my indignant objection was that I would tell Laurie on him for trying to cheat on her!

The point, though, is that Laurie didn’t believe she was being molested. She was flattered and thrilled that an attractive older man was paying her so much attention. Did she change her mind years later and decide she’d been violated? If so, she would certainly be justified. But if not, she may have been spared the psychological damage that goes with being a victim. If she maintained the illusion that she simply had a fling with an older man, then in her mind there would have been no offense against her, and she would not need therapy to cure her of the emotional wounds.

So my statement to the discussion group was, if Lolita didn’t view herself as a victim but saw herself as the seducer, she might not have been harmed. Since she wasn’t innocent to begin with (and was in fact cheating on Humbert with Clare Quilty all those years), he may have molested her but he did not steal her innocence. His crime was stealing her freedom, when he denied her the right to go out on dates and to parties like other teenagers.

But, if he’d granted permission, she just would have seen more of Quilty. So my conclusion was that although Humbert was mentally guilty of molesting Lolita, in fact he wasn’t the one who despoiled her, and he really just deprived her of extra time with the other pervert. Of course, this made me the pariah of the group as they were all ready to draw and quarter Humbert.

Ever since I saw “Lolita” that time, I became fascinated with James Mason and decided I had to see his other films as well. So I began collecting them, and joined a yahoo group devoted to James Mason fans. On that group I met a woman who is a devout James Mason fan, and she has sent me quite a few DVD’s of his various films, along with audio CD’s of James Mason reading Robert Browning’s poetry and excerpts from, you guessed it, “Lolita.”

I’ve now seen probably 20 or more James Mason films and will review them here, along with some books I’ve recently read. If there are any other James Mason fans reading this, the yahoo group is located at http://movies.groups.yahoo.com/group/jamesmasonclub/.

The Subway Grinches

Subway Grinches

T’was the week before Christmas and all through the town
Every Who here in Whoville was wearing a frown
The shopping not finished, the brightness diminished
With mean Subway Grinches beating them down

There were two! Two foul Grinches, with hearts hard and cold
The Management Grinch was just rolling in gold
He was fat! He was false! And a terrible cook
Unless you enjoy an unwholesome stewed book!
And what can I say of his mean union brother?
That Grinch would steal Christmas from children and mothers
His workers were fed! His workers had money
His workers had pensions and health plans like honey!

They talked and they talked deep into the night
But neither would bend, they spoiled for a fight
And in the wee hours, ahead of the day,
Union Grinch called a strike, just to get his own way!

They locked up the subways, they hooted and hollered
They marched and they picketed, yelling for dollars
So the Whos down in Whoville sneakered their feet,
Rode cabs, skates and bicycles and took to the streets

Then at last, the Great Who of Whoville arose
Grabbed one Grinch by the ear, the other by nose
Led them inside to the bargaining table
And paddled their pants as the Great Who is able

“Look here, Boys!” said he, “best make up on the double
You’re both much too big to be causing such trouble!”
Now sad and ashamed, the two Grinches blushed
With tears in their eyes, to the table they rushed
They stood and they talked, with their feet getting tired
Shook hands and made up as the Great Who required

Now Whoville was humming again with bright cheer
The subways were running, and Christmas was near
Even Grinches were happy and grinned ear to ear

So if your mass transit’s been snitched by a Grinch
Remember the Great Who and don’t give an inch
If you can’t get to work in the usual way,
Just stick out your thumb and hail Santa’s sleigh!

Thoughts on Same-Sex Marriage

Remember the song in “South Pacific,” “You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught?” I think that’s very true when it comes to this issue.

The first time marriage was explained to me, I was probably around four years old. Some adult, I don’t remember who, told me that marriage meant a man and a woman falling in love with each other and deciding to live together as man and wife. In my little-girl mind, the question already formed: Why couldn’t two men or two women fall in love with each other as well? Why did it always have to be a man and a woman?

The answer I received, of course, was that two men or two women couldn’t marry and have babies. Aha! There was the secret underlying purpose of marriage: not love, which could happen to anyone, but making babies.

Knowing nothing of adult love or sex, I easily accepted this more practical explanation of why same sex marriage “didn’t make sense.”

The next time the subject came up, I’d already been “carefully taught.” Not by anyone openly, but by what I observed in society. I was ten years old and my friend David was eleven. My apartment building had a superintendent, and the superintendent’s daughter was a lesbian. Those were the butch and femme days of the mid-1960’s, before the Stonewall riots, before gays and lesbians came out of the closet.

Not only was the superintendent’s daughter a lesbian, she was black, and her lover was white. The daughter was pretty and looked feminine, but her lover cut her blonde hair extremely short, bound her breasts so that she resembled a man with a muscular chest, and wore mannish shirts and pants. Unless you scrutinized her, you could barely tell she was a woman.

The couple never appeared together in public that I ever saw. Maybe they went out at night to the lesbian bars in Greenwich Village. I have no idea. David and I would sit in my bedroom and sometimes catch a glimpse of the lover passing by on the street. Then we would giggle together.

“Their parents will never approve!” I laughed, referring not just to their same-sex relationship but also to their status as an interracial couple. But in fact, at least one parent, the superintendent, either approved or tolerated their relationship and allowed them to live together in his apartment.

Back then I had another confused notion about homosexuality. I thought all lesbians wanted to be men, and gay men wanted to be women. So I thought, why couldn’t a gay man marry a lesbian, and he could be the woman while she was the man? That would take care of the baby problem, wouldn’t it? Though a pregnant man would be an unusual sight, to say the least! Back then, of course, I knew the word lesbian but there was no such word as “gay.” “Gay,” in those days, meant happy and cheerful, and at first when homosexuals began using the word, I resented their misappropriation of the term. Today, you couldn’t possibly write a book titled, “Our Hearts Were Young and Gay,” unless you meant something specific.

Homosexual men were called homosexuals by the polite, homos, faggots and queer by the less polite, and cocksuckers by the bigots. Today, the LGBTQ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and questioning) community has adopted the word “queer” into its lexicon and it is no longer an epithet, just as blacks have taken over the word “nigger,” and they can use it among themselves without insult. Can a straight person call a gay person “queer” today without insult? In some cases, apparently, yes, because I just finished writing a grant to a foundation that maintains a “Queer Youth Fund.”

In the past thirty years, society’s pendulum has swung again. In the years since the Stonewall riots of 1969, first gays and lesbians came out, then bisexuals, and now the LGBTQ acronym stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered and questioning. Same sex marriage has been legalized in some places and I hope it will be legal all over the United States soon, but that may have to wait until Bush and his pals are out of office.

I used to tell a gay friend, Lou, that I wanted to dance at his wedding. Today, I belong to the Brooklyn Society for Ethical Culture, which supports same sex marriage. Its officiants perform commitment ceremonies as same sex marriage isn’t yet legal in New York City. Last February I arranged for BSEC to have a booth at the Same Sex Wedding Expo at the Javits Convention Center, hoping to attract more LGBTQ people to the Society as well as to advertise our rental space for commitment ceremonies.

And now I write grants for the Hetrick-Martin Institute, which provides direct services to at-risk LGBTQ youth in New York City. These kids come from impoverished backgrounds and have faced verbal and physical violence because of who they are.

I’ve learned that LGBTQ teenagers drop out of school at a much higher rate than other kids and are often afraid to even show their faces at school because of the taunting and beatings they face. Some of them have run away from home, some of them were kicked out when they outed themselves to their families. They attempt suicide three times as often as other teenagers, and on the streets, they are exposed to drugs, prostitution and HIV infection.

Right now HMI is helping them to get on their feet, get educated (it’s also the home of the Harvey Milk High School, the first public alternative school for LGBTQ students who have run into rough situations at their zoned schools because of their sexuality or gender identity), participate in after-school activities that boost their academic and job readiness skills as well as their creativity, get information about HIV prevention and taking care of their health, and get counseling and crisis intervention when needed.

When these kids grow up, will they grow up with scars? Or will they be strong and smart and happy? That’s not for me to decide: I just write the grants. It’s for everyone to decide, how these youngsters with dreams and aspirations should be guided into an adulthood of meaningful careers and stable loving relationships: for instance, marriage. I hope they’ll find society more and more ready to welcome them. I hope they’ll find the things every teenager hopes will be waiting out in the real world someday.

In spirit if not in body, I’ll dance at their weddings.

December 1st

Tuesday, December 1st, was the eighth anniversary of my breast cancer surgery. Pretty good, though it is scary that Nancy, who had ovarian and uterine cancer 9 years ago, got through almost 9 years of survivorship before it came back to kill her.

The concern that it may come back never completely leaves. I just have to believe that it won’t.

Eight years ago I felt and experienced the power of prayer. My friends from the internet support group were praying for me and they knew the expected time of my surgery. I remember being with Bruce and stopping off in Barnes and Noble first to try and get our minds off the operation. I remember looking through comedy books and laughing but underneath the laughs there was a constant dread.

Then we went to the hospital, I checked in, and I waited. I had a slight sore throat that evening. It was probably dryness due to fear. But I was afraid that if they found I was running a fever they would delay the surgery. I wanted that breast off. I wanted the cancer removed from my body, before it could go anywhere else.

Around 5 PM I felt a definite lessening of dread. My spirits lightened. There was no obvious reason for this, because in fact I was forced to wait an extra two and a half hours until an operating room was open for me.

But at the scheduled time of the surgery I definitely felt different, lighter, less afraid. I knew then that the prayers from afar were lifting me up and strengthening me.

Lois was returning from a trip that night, and she made a beeline from the airport straight to Beth Israel Medical Center. When I woke up in the recovery room, she was standing over me smiling and looking like a blonde angel. Lois told me that now, I could be an Amazon warrior.

I said I might list to the left unless I carried a shield in my right hand like the Amazons did, and Lois replied that I was more aware and alert than anyone she’d ever seen wake up from an operation.

No matter what happens on my survivorship anniversary, I am blessed. I was late to work because of a track fire, but so what? I’m here and I’m breathing, eight years after breast cancer. And I intend to keep on breathing. It was a sunny day and warm for December 1st. That was a gift too. “Just live in the sunshine,” as the song goes. “We’ll understand it all by and by.

December 1st is World AIDS day and Rosa Parks Day. Fifty years ago, she sparked off the Montgomery bus boycott by refusing to give up her seat to a white man. So December 1st is a special day in a lot of ways. I don’t like winter and I dread its onset, but now, every year for the rest of my life, I’ll be reminded that I made it through that scary winter of 1997-98. I survived. And that’s something to be grateful for.