June 11, 2018--Ladies of Forest Trace: President Grump

The phone rang as we were in the midst of preparing dinner. 

"Who would call us at this time?" I asked. "Anyone who knows us knows we have dinner about this time."

"Maybe it's a robocall," Rona said. "Check the caller ID."

I did and said, "It's from an unfamiliar area code--123."

"Pick it up. Maybe an actual person is placing the call. Not a computer. We've had an increase in the number we've been receiving. Maybe you can get them to take us off their caller list."

"Forget that," I mumbled. I was just about ready to add the spice mix to the vegetarian chili that was simmering on the stove. 

Rona said, "I thought no area codes are allowed to start with a 1."

"With telemarketing and hacking," I said, "I assume anything goes. So maybe I shouldn't answer it. We don't want to get drawn into anything that will take over our computer or phone."

"Now you have me curious," Rona said, "I wouldn't worry too much about that. I'll add the spices. You answer the phone. Let's see what this is."

"You would think I have all day." On the phone it was a woman's voice that sounded vaguely familiar."

"Who is this?" I asked tentatively.

"Have I changed that much in three years?"

"Who is it?" Rona mouthed.

Shrugging, I shook my head.

"Well, in fact I do have all day," the caller chuckled.

"Tell me what this is about. We're in the middle of preparing dinner. Chili." I was poised to hit the phone's Off button.

"How can I be at rest while that Grump is making himself a king?"

"Is this . . . ?" I began to tremble.

"Who else calls you when you're hiding in Maine?"

"We're not hiding . . . " I couldn't catch my breath but finally said, "Mom?"

"This is not the time to be hiding away. It wasn't easy, but if I could get permission to call you between now and November the least you can do is put down your potholder."

"Is it really . . .?"

"The girls and the people who run this place are very concerned with what is happening."

"In Maine?" I didn't know what to say. My heart was thumping and I thought I was about to pass out or have a stroke. 

I collapsed in a chair and Rona rushed over to see if I needed help. I signaled that I was OK. Just overwhelmed with emotion.

I mouthed, "I think it's my mother."

"How can that be?" Rona said so loud that my mother or whoever was on the phone could hear her.

"Tell my darling I love her and not to worry about me. They take very good care of us here. Even better than Forest Trace. Especially the food. Last night we had flanken with horseradish. It was delicious, I could chew it, and best of all it didn't give me gas."

Rona reached for the phone but I pulled it away. So she ran into the living room and snatched the other one from its cradle.

"Mom?"

"It's so good to hear your voice. I miss you every day."

"I think about you all the time. What an inspiration you have been and continue to be. So now you're here to . . . ?"

"Help with the election. We don't have newspapers or cable so I can't listen to Wolf or read Maureen Shroud. It's been difficult to keep up with the news. But we do know who was elected and can't believe what his people are doing to our  country. The same country that rescued so many of my family who fled the pogroms before the Nazis took over. Today, Grump would want to arrest us and send us back to Auschwitz."

"It isn't that bad," I said, and then after a pause added, "Yet."

"That's what they said in Germany. Things are bad but we will be safe. All we have to do is not make trouble. We're Germans, yes Jews, but we have always lived side-by-side with gentiles and they won't allow the worst to happen." She took a deep breath and said, "And then the worst happened. More than the worst."

"And so?"

"So, we have to make trouble. That's why I got permission to call. To make sure you and your friends--not just your Jewish friends--make trouble."

"Which means?"

"Working every day to make sure good people get elected. If he wins in November I fear for the future. It will say the American people agree with what he has been doing. What a message that will be to the world. And how it would encourage him to continue doing all the things he is doing. What will this mean to young people? I was a teacher and a mother all my life. My heart breaks when I think about what the future will be like for young people. They will lose hope. For the young, that would be the worst thing. Not to look forward to the future."

"That would be a tragedy," I agreed, "But young people are activated and it seems are eager to vote in November."

"They didn't vote two years ago. Not enough of them. They wanted Burning Sanders and when they couldn't have him they didn't vote. And what about women? I remember when we couldn't vote. I was 12 years old when they passed the Amendment. My sisters were suffragettes. They marched and marched and marched. In the heat and the rain and the snow. But now too many women didn't vote for the first woman running for president. Hillary. Not my favorite but better than him, no?"

"Much better," Rona said, "Especially as we see what he is doing. At least with her things wouldn't be this bad. But more than 50 percent of white women voted for Trump. So it was white women and young people more than anyone else who helped elect him. But we are organizing and demonstrating. Just last week we did well in primary voting in California."

"I hadn't heard about that," my mother said, "That is good news but unless Democrats won by big numbers it may not be good enough. And when I think about the demonstrations I am not impressed. How long has he been in office?"

"About a year and a half."

"And what did you have? Two marches? One right after he was sworn in, the Pussy Cat march (I'm old fashioned and hated the name), but it still was good and then there was the one organized by the Florida children after 17 of their friends were killed. Also very good. But I didn't make all this effort to be able to talk with you to pretend to feel good about two marches."

"What would have made you feel good?" I asked.

"A march every week or at least every month. That would be at least 18 marches already. I know the news people would stop talking about it but if it went on and on they would have to pay attention and it could make a difference. It would keep the drum drumming  It would also show that people, including young people, care about the future of America and the world. Their country, their world. Not mine and too soon not yours.

"What do you mean 'too soon'"? I asked, fearing she knew something I didn't.

"Time. Time is marching even if Americans aren't. Time doesn't need to do much or really anything to keep moving along. Time and tide. Look out your window up there and pay attention to the tide."

I glanced at Johns Bay and was about to ask about the tide since it ebbs and flows, first north and then it swings around to the south. I wasn't sure why this was significant to her. But before I could enquire, she told us she needed to pass the phone to one of the Forest Trace ladies who was waiting in line. She promised, until November, to try to call every few weeks. Maybe, she said, on her birthday, June 28th, when if she were still here she would be 110. Not, she said, that they make a big fuss there about birthdays. Or that 110, considering where she is now, is a big deal.

But before yielding the phone, she asked "Doesn't chili give you gas?"

The Ladies of Forest Trace (Mom Standing)

April 30, 2015--Burn, Baby! BURN!

"Burn, Baby! BURN," during the 1965 Watts riots, was the trademark of on-air rhythm-and-blues DJ, Magnificent Montaque. He and others proclaimed, some said encouraged insurrection as a large section of Los Angeles was in fact burning. During the 60s and 70s, so-called race riots spread to many American cities and to some, Burn, Baby! BURN became a rallying cry for the violent minority. Others protested peacefully, most stayed safely out of sight and were only marginally engaged.

As a much smaller section of Baltimore was being looted and torched on Monday, Mayor Stephanie Rawlings-Blake uttered a 2015 version of Burn, baby! BURN. She said--

While we tried to make sure that they were protected from the cars and other things that were going on, we also gave those who wished to destroy space to do that as well. And we work very hard to keep that balance and to put ourselves in the best position to deescalate, and that's what you saw.

What we also saw was a three-hour period when the rioters and looters had free range--or should I say had "space" "to destroy"--what we saw was an almost complete absence of police and not even a glimpse of Mayor Rawlings-Blake.

I can only conclude one or two things--she was ether cowering somewhere not able to think clearly about what to do or, more likely, was closeted with her political advisers since her primary preoccupation these days is not being mayor but how to launch a campaign for the U.S Senate seat about to be vacated by long-serving Barbara Mikulski.

After this week, I think she can forget about her Senate dreams.

But is there something to think about in her psychobabble about giving young people "space" to do their thing?

Much of urban America has missed out on the recent improvements in our economy and the steady growth in new jobs. As someone said, if a rising tide is to lift all boats, first you have to have a boat. Too few in the ghettos do.

Unemployment among the under-educated, especially young men of color, looms imperviously at at least 25 percent. Local schools are dysfunctional, families are shattered, street thugs rule the neighborhoods, and there is little left to do other than attempt to act as "cool" as possible, not to show concern about one's reality and sad prospects.

As with most of us, in order to become reconciled to our position in life, our reality, we find ways to validate and flaunt our circumstances, no matter how impoverished. And it doesn't help in Baltimore, New York, Miami, Los Angeles, Chicago, to see the glittering city meant for and protected for other people--those of us who through fortune and effort have done well.

In everyones' faces, if they choose to look up, is evidence of the widening inequalities that are manifestly worsening.

So what to do with that frustration, anger, hopelessness, and rage? With so few on-the-street examples of friends and neighbors making it (except in the underground economy) where and how is that pent-up pressure going to express itself, get some relief? In what private and public space?

This is not to find bleeding-heart excuses for criminal behavior but rather to ask, if social remediation is not likely, what do we expect of people whose lives are so full of insult and despair? In the absence of hope what is the appropriate response to oppression and containment by the criminal justice system--the police, prosecutors, courts, and prisons?

Listening to Wolf Blitzer and Jeffery Toobin on CNN in real time Monday when the looting and arson was occurring, not so much from their words but from their tone they conveyed nothing but disgust as mainly young men looted a CVS pharmacy. They didn't deserve sympathy, but they were not the "animals" Blitzer and Toobin implied them to be. How many viewers privately agreed with them?

More likely, they were desperate people who felt the world had no respectable place for them. That too needs to be part of the narrative.

What would we expect them to do? In their circumstances, what would you do? For myself I do not have a good answer. Or one that makes me feel good.

July 29, 2014--Ladies of Forest Trace: Winking

“If you want to talk to me you have to call between winks.”
"Between What?"

“I’m sleeping all the time. Twenty winks.”

“Forty.”

“Forty what?”

“Winks. You’re catching 40 winks.”

“So call me later when I’m awake. When I’m not winking.”

*  *   *

Which I did.

“Did I wake you?”

“No the phone did.”

“That was me.”

“You? I heard the telephone. Not you.”

"That was me calling. So the phone rang and . . .”

“I know. I was sleeping. And it woke me. Not you.”

*   *   *

When I called again, she said, “I’m such a baby.”

“A baby? Is there something frightening you?”

“No. Nothing.”

“But?”

“But, I’m such a baby. All I do is sleep.”

“That’s not true. You nap.”

“Nap, schnap, I sleep. I’m turning into a baby again. They sleep all the time. And do other things I don’t do . . . Yet.” She chuckled.

“You watch the news, read the paper, do the puzzle, join friends for breakfast and dinner, and . . .”
“Sleep all the time.”

“Nap all the time,” I muttered under my breath and said, “You are after all more than 106-years-old. And you do need your rest and . . .”

“And sleep.”

She trailed off, breathing heavily.

*   *   *

“While I’m between winks I have something to say.” It is rare now for her to initiate calls.

Is there something wrong I feared?

“I know this is upsetting you,” even on the phone, at 106 she can still read my mind and emotions.

I lied, “Not at all. I love hearing from you. It’s just . . .” I couldn’t hide my anxiety.

“Just that I never call any more. I’m so mixed up by what day it is.”

I wasn’t sure what that had to do with calling.

“I used to call you religiously every Sunday at 12:00. When I say religiously, I don’t mean . . .” She was breathing heavily.

“I know you don’t,” I jumped in, not wanting to tax her—it is now unusual for her to be able to sustain a conversation of more than five minutes. A few back and forths. Actually, with me doing most of the talking, which is easier on her.

But this time, with considerable effort, she pushed ahead.

“I know you are wondering what is keeping me alive.”

“Not really. I know that . . .”

“I’m too old and too smart for you not to tell me the truth.”

“I’m not. I’m . . .”

“Stop interrupting. At my age, this could be the last thing I ever say to you.”

“That can’t . . .”
“Yes it can. So just sit still.”

“I’ll try.”

“We’ve talked about why I got to be this old and you told me it’s because of my IRA.”

“DNA, though your IRA doesn’t hurt.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that. DNA, IRA they’re all the same to me.”

“In terms of the quality of your life that’s probably true. But you’re fortunate to have both.”

“Who’s doing the talking? Me or you?”

“Sorry.”

“Worrying is what keeps me going.”

“Sorry, worrying?”

“About everyone and then the rest of the world.”

“I . . .”

“You know how I always ask you about the young people in the family?”

“Yes.”

“How I am the last one?” I knew she meant of her generation and, now, more and more, even of the next one as her nieces and nephews are aging and . . .

“I worry about them and need to know they will be all right after.”

I held back from asking what she meant about after. I knew.

“And then I worry about what Mama and Poppa will say.” Her parents died nearly 70 years ago.

“Will say?” I was having difficulty not responding.

“What they’ll ask when we are together again. If I took good care of everyone. As the last. As they want me to.”

“I am certain they . . .”

“You don’t know them like I do. So I am not so certain.”

“We can disagree about . . .”

“And I also worry about the world. Not just the Jews. Though about them I am most concerned They are not doing the right thing.”

“The right thing?”

“For themselves and their neighbors who have been there for thousands of year. My Poppa always says that it is the responsibility of the strong to show understanding and compassion. Not to make it worse for those who are weak and suffering. Shouldn’t we Jews especially have learned that lesson? After so long being weak and suffering?”

“About this we do agree.”

“So I read, I watch Wolf on CNN, I listen to the girls at dinner, and I know it is not yet time for me to go.”

“I am happy that . . .”

“But I am not happy. I am not happy living this way where I can’t do things for myself. And I am unhappy at what I see. Not with the family. Though I worry about this one and that one I know they are secure and either can take care of themselves or are being helped. This is what to me family means.” She took a deep, raspy breath.

“I am unhappy with what I see in the world,” she said, “Russia. Iraq. Syria, Lydia.”

“Libya.”

“Lib-ya, yes, thank you.”

“You are not responsible for any of this. I keep encouraging you not to spend so much time watching the news. It upsets you.”

“What else do I have to do with my remaining time?”

“I understand. Though I have urged you not to dwell on all these troubling things, to do so is who you are. And, I’m sure you’re right, worrying, being concerned about everyone and everything has helped keep you going.”

“Where am I going?”

I chose to not respond since I did not have a good answer for either her or myself. Instead I said, “You can report about all of this to your parents when the time comes.”

“It is coming. But I try every day to live. There is still so much more . . .”

May 27, 2014--Ladies of Forest Trace: What's Left?

When I answered the phone, I heard my mother sigh.

"Soon, it will be another year."

"You mean, another birthday?"

"What kind of future do I have?"

"In truth, Mom, you've been saying that for years. Many years. Since before you turned 100 and here you are only a month away from 106. Amazing."

"For you maybe amazing . . . For me, too much." As she has recently, she sounded breathless.

"I admit, I've thought about that too. After all . . ."

"I have no time for after-alls."

"So, what's on your mind?" I wanted to distract her from thinking about aging and the inevitable.

"You tell me to distract myself," she said, as if knowing my intentions, "To listen to music, to watch the TV . . . to read the paper, to do my puzzle . . . to call the family. And when I do those things . . . it makes it only worse. Pavarotti is wonderful but makes me sad because wonderful makes me sad . . . And the puzzle I can no longer do without reminding me how much I don't know about . . . Forty-one across, from today's, 'Schoolmarmish sound?' You think not knowing this makes me happy? Distracted?"

"Mom, I can hear you trying to catch your breath. Please, you shouldn't overstress yourself. You need to remain calm. For your heart. None of this is important and it's making you sick."

"To you maybe it's not important . . . To me, it's my life."

I couldn't think what to say. I understood. She was right. It was, it has become her life.

"So what is it, darling?"

"What is what?"

"Forty-one across?"

"Oh, the puzzle. How many letters?"

"Six."

"Do you have any?"

"It ends with a K. About that I am sure . . . I should only be sure about anything else."

"This is a hard one."

"I'm working on it now. I think it starts with a T."

"T and K," I said, literally not having a clue.

"This I should know. For 40 years I was a schoolmarm. A teacher. First grade."

"And a wonderful one at that." I was happy we were talking about something other than mortality and catastrophes.

"TS," she said, a T and an S are the first two letters because 33 down is LOANSHARK. I like that one." She was sounding playful.

"I'm still stumped."

"I too was but not now--it's TSKTSK. Isn't that a good one? Though as a teacher . . . I never said that."

"Good for you Mom. I don't know how many 106-year-olds can do the New York Times crossword puzzle."

"And in ink. Though with my arthritis I can barely hold the pen."

"Your handwriting is still better than mine."

"So, as I was saying," the distraction was over, "on CNN and in the Herald . . . what do I see?" She paused, I thought to catch her breath. "Tell me, what do I see?"

"I suppose . . ." I stammered.

"Fires . . .  Arizona is burning down. Killings . . . Those beautiful little girls in Africa. More killings . . . By crazy people in California. Fighting . . . Did you see what they are doing to my beautiful Odessa? We had family there before they took them away."

From that memory I thought I could hear her beginning softly to cry.

"And our veterans . . . Isn't today their day?"

It was in fact Memorial Day. I was happy to see she was still keeping track of such things.

"It's a shonda, what they are doing to those poor boys."

"I've been following that too. It's what you say. Disgraceful."

"Worse than that . . . Criminal."

"I agree."

"They cry, the politicians, alligator tears about the veterans . . . call them 'heroes,' which they are, and then treat them this way. Making them beg for what they deserve and were promised . . . Even Wolf on TV is upset. He says many have been dying who shouldn't."

"The good news, Mom, is that . . ."

"You're doing that distracting business again." I was please to again hear her tone lighten.

"I am," I confessed. "It's what I advise you to do. In fact, all of us need distractions. To think only about sad things makes . . ."

"I know what it makes, but I can't help myself . . . That's the way I am . . . Always looking for the dark lining."

I couldn't disagree. She is prone to that, but to try to buck her up and to distract me from her reality, I said, "You have to try to look on the bright side of things." I knew I was speaking in clichés.

Hushed, she asked, "For me, what's left?"

"As I said, no one knows. About you or any of us." As gently as I could, I said, "Ten minutes. Ten years. It's all unknowable."

"Now you sound like me." She, I was happy to hear, between breaths, chuckled.

"And no matter how much time you have, any of us have, there are things to look forward to, to feel good about."

"Give me a for-instance . . . Tell me something good."

"Well, there are young people in your life who love and care about you."

"Me? I only know old people."

"That's not true. You may live mainly with older people but there are your grandchildren and your many nieces and nephews."

"A few."

"No, many. They call you, they write you notes to tell you what you mean to them. Don't you remember what Shelly wrote to you, from Africa where she is working?"

"Shelly?"

"Yes, your sister Yetta's daughter."

"She is wonderful and does such good work . . . With poor people."

"She sent it to me as an email and I have it here. A printout, which I was about to mail to you."

"She wrote to me?"

"Yes, I told you about that."

"Now I can't even remember my own nieces . . . But they are all darlings."

"Fran wrote--

I am thinking about her at the age I am now and recall how she expressed her affection through a singularity of attention that I was not used to."

"About me this is?"

"Yes, she is looking back, remembering you more nearly 50 years ago. Let me read you the rest--

She recalled the names and ages of my children and took pleasure from their small accomplishments. I remember how being on the receiving end of our family's excessive concern was like getting a wet kiss on my 12 year-old cheek. An annoying intrusion but comforting reminder that I belonged."

"I didn't mean . . . to be annoying."

"I know that. She knows that. She's being playful, which is the way she is, but most important she wants to remind you that through your concern and love you reminded her that she belonged in our family."

"Of course she did . . . Belong. She was such a darling child."

"So you see, you still have a lot to live for. You're not just waiting for . . ."

"I know what I'm waiting for."

I took a chance and asked, "Waiting for what?"

"Like I said . . . for what's left."

"Which is?"

"The things you say and reminded me about . . . And other things too."

"Now I'm interested in a for-instance."

"Things in the world to get better."

She was becoming very short of breath, but still I asked, "For instance?"

"Maybe the Pope . . . will be able to help." She had never mentioned a Pope before. "And for Hillary. You know . . . two of my sisters were . . .  Sufferers."

"Suffragettes."

"Yes, however you say it. And couldn't vote . . . But now . . . this is something, no?"

"Hillary Clinton?

"Yes. And everyone . . . can go to the same school and drink the same water. . .  That's good too."

"The list is long of things that have changed."

"It's still long . . . Maybe I'll see . . . Maybe that's what's left."