Meaty Memoirs

     I had the great pleasure of meeting both Patricia (Patty as she likes to be called) Volk and Sonia Taitz yesterday at ORT's annual luncheon in Chicago.  I arrived early, and the two authors were sitting in a corner of the large room at the Bryn Mawr Country Club where 300 women would eventually gather.  

     I had just finished reading Shocked for my book club and had been bowled over by the creative structure that Volk used to compare her mother ("the most beautiful woman in the world") and the inventive fashion maven Elsa Schiaparelli.  The author had never met Schiaparelli but had read her memoir as a young girl.  She was smitten and reread the book many decades later in researching her own memoir about a daughter's relationship with her mother and what set her mother apart from a woman like Schiaparelli.

       So, I walked up to Patty, shook her hand, and waxed eloquent about how much the book moved me and how the structure blew me away.  She seemed genuinely pleased, something I wouldn't necessary assume from an author whose book was reviewed by the New York Times as "a meditation on the plastic possibilities of womankind and a very special treat."  

      Maureen Corrigan, NPR Books, had this to say:

http://www.npr.org/2013/04/02/175585315/minks-perfume-and-beastly-beauty-in-shocked

     "Did your mother read at least the galleys of the book before she died?" I asked.
     "No," Volk said.  "I couldn't have written it while she was alive."
     "That's a problem I'm having.  How do you write about family and friends when they are still around and risk offending them or ending the relationship?  Maybe you can address that when you speak later today."
     "Yes, and if I forget, please ask me that question during the Q&A."
     There was no Q&A, but Volk began her talk by asking the woman who had asked her about writing memoirs to raise her hand.
     I proudly raised mine.  She'd remembered.
     And even though she'd said earlier that she couldn't have written her memoir while her mother was alive, she took a very different stance this time around.  "Write whatever you want.  Don't care whether or not you hurt someone's feelings.  Tell the truth."
   
     Now I hadn't read Taitz's The Watchmaker's Daughter but immediately plopped down my money before walking to her and Volk.  I didn't want to offend her.
     I was honest.  "I bought your book and am looking forward to reading it.  Judy Levin whom I think you've met recommended that everyone in our book club pick it up."
    I handed her the book.
    "Would you please sign it for me?"
     Taitz picked up the pen she had at the ready and, having seen my name on my name tag, wrote "To Jane.  Enjoy!"
     And enjoy I have.  I've plowed through half of the book and didn't put it down later on Sunday when the Chicago Blackhawks played their third game against the Nashville Predators.  And I'm a big Blackhawks' fan.
   
     Like Volk, Tatiz has written a mesmerizing memoir.  Her parents, both of whom are Holocaust survivors, came to the U.S. where Tatiz was born.  Straddling the worlds of both the Old Country ad the New, Ziddish versus English,  Tatiz manages to find her place while keeping her heritage alive.

  I have a lot of work to do.
   
   

WHY DO I WRITE: MONEY or JOY?

“This is an industry that is really built on people’s hopes and dreams. Authors write books for all different kinds of reasons. In the past, we were seeing that more of the authors were talking about building their careers and telling their stories. Those were the key things that they were interested in, and fulfilling a lifelong ambition by publishing a book,” Weinberg notes. “This year, what we saw was that more of the authors were very interested in making money, and this was also one of the top priorities. People this year expressed a more career-focused kind of perspective. They were interested in publishing books and building a reputation, and of course in making money.”

                                        Digital Book World and Writer’s DigestAuthor Survey 

Wow!  More authors interested in making money!  Imagine that!
Hey, writers need to make a living, too.

But for those of us "retired" folks who have scraped together enough money to keep afloat, writing is no longer about the financial pay off . . . probably never was.  Because, let's face it: Only a fraction of authors make it big . . . And I mean big.

Authors like J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown, John Grisham rake in millions and millions.

But the rest of us?  Well, it's often a struggle.  How many times have you heard about the budding writer who holds down a full-time job and writes at night or early in the morning?

Plenty.

Some of those writers have miraculous stories to tell about suddenly writing a best seller.

Alas, most do not.

So, why write?  Here are some of my reasons.  Please share yours.


I write because I must.

I write because I have something to say about something I feel passionate about.

I write because the journey winds in miraculous ways.

I write because I want to share the stories of extraordinary people and, sometimes, my own.

I write because I hope my readers will laugh, cry, learn, and act.

I write because I learn something new every day.

I write because the challenge consumes me.

I write because it's just plain fun.

If you respond with your list, I'll publish them all over social media.

Can't wait!

A Baby Boomer's Lament

At the risk of offending my younger (make that much younger) friends and family, I just don't get this selfie thing; in fact, I don't understand the whole "smart" phone deal, either.

Sure, I use a cell phone to google some important piece of information (Who is the actress who stars in "Madame Secretary?), to call folks, to get directions, even to access my emails.

But I don't use my cell while I'm walking with a companion, having dinner with friends, or to take selfies anywhere I happen to be.  In fact, I don't take selfies at all.  I mean, okay . . . If I ran into, say, Gloria Steinem or Mary Karr, even a hunk like Paul Newman when he was still alive, I might be inclined.



But at an intimate dinner --- indeed, an anniversary outing --- with my husband?

That's exactly what happened a while back.  A young woman with long black hair and already tons of makeup, took out her mirror, combed her hair, blotted her lipstick and starting taking selfies while her husband sat there, silent.  I have to wonder what he was thinking.  Was this self-centered wife of his really so stuck on herself instead of him?

Call me old fashioned.  But don't people spend time together so they can share stories, worries, future plans?  You know, that age-old art of conversation?  If not, why do they bother spending time together at all?  

When we Boomers wanted to see a friend, we didn't put our phones on the table, available at a second's notice to answer a call, check an email, read a text.  

Okay, so we didn't have cell phones back then in the dark ages.  Ma Bell was still in business.  And if we needed to make an important call, we'd go to a pay phone or phone booth, put it our change, and dial.  And that we did in private, aside from those crazies who squeezed into a phone booth to set a Guinness record.

Our conversations were private to be shared with the person on the other end of the line.  We didn't want strangers on a bus or train or walking down the street to hear what we had to say.  And we certainly didn't want to be rude by talking on the phone when with friends or family.

Alas, I think society has gone around the bend with no chance to return.  Tech companies will continue to introduce even more devices, more apps, more programs to allow users to "plug in" anytime, anywhere.

My solution?  Declare a mandatory 24-hour moratorium on the use of any and all cell phones.  Those who break this "Day of Rest" will face a $100 fine.  Then we'll see a pause in the world of immediate gratification and maybe some face-to-face communication that encourages eye contact, a bit more privacy and, yes, a bit less invasive chatter.

The only problem:  A new class of addicted citizens who will require immediate care.

Another Decade, Another Blog

SixtiesSister

Unique, often humorous take on life experiences and events from award-winning author and journalist, Jane Leder. The 60 something survivor of the 1960s (Whew!) rarely considers herself too seriously and encourages readers to "Take her advice because she's not using it.

Get a good look at my blog name and its description.  Why?  Because in a matter of months, I'll no longer be a SixtiesSister.

Nope.  I'll cross the proverbial line from one decade to the next and will have to either come up with a new title that has nothing to do with age (That sounds like the best idea) or create something catchy like SexySeventies or SeventySomething, or SeventyIsTheNewFifty.  (Someone told me that the other day.  My question to her was, "At what point can we safely admit that we're just plain old?")

Like other Boomers who are about to take the plunge, I can't believe that it was . . . (picture me covering my mouth and mumbling to myself) years since we did all that great stuff from marching against war and for civil/feminist rights, going door to door in support of Eugene McCarthy's run for President, discovering the Beatles, eating a lot of ice cream after imbibing on a Saturday night, experiencing the deaths of two Kennedys and Martin Luther King, saying "no" to just about everything our parents stood for, watching "Woodstock" and so wishing we'd been there, committing ourselves to our chosen professions but never hesitating to have a good time . . .

I often yearn for those times when everything seemed possible, when the naysayers were in the minority.

Computers, cell phones, eMail, social media hadn't yet been invented.  We actually wrote letters, talked on the phone, and talked to one another.  (Oh, brother!  Now I'm sounding like my parents.  Blah, blah, blah.)

But we were more personally connected.

We were more optimistic.

We believed in change.  (Not the b.s. we hear during every local/national political campaign.)

I could go on, but you get the point:  The Sixties rocked.  My sixties rocked.
If you have a suggestion for my new blog name, please send it my way.

Peace and love.

Forgetting How Old We Are

CARL KASELL RETIRING FROM 'WAIT WAIT... DON'T TELL ME!' KASELL TO BE SCOREKEEPER EMERITUS OF NEWS-QUIZ SHOW

March 4, 2014; Washington, D.C. – Carl Kasell, the famed voice of NPR News for three decades turned comedy star of Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me!, has announced he's stepping down this spring after a five-decade career in broadcasting. Kasell will record his final broadcast for Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me! this spring; celebration shows are planned in the show's home city of Chicago, and in Washington, D.C.

Carl has been gone from "Wait Wait . . . Don't Tell Me!" for over a month.  But we were in Mexico and missed the news and his final show.

When I turned the radio dial to 91.5 Saturday morning upon our return, I was surprised to hear the voice of Bill Curtis.  I would know that voice anywhere.  Curtis has been a media staple in Chicago for decades.

But I was confused.  Where was Carl?  Ill?  On vacation?  He couldn't be off the show for good.  His voice on a winning contestant's phone message remained the grand (and only) prize.

For several weeks, I listened to "Wait Wait . . . Don't Tell Me!"  No Carl.  

Just this morning, my husband, his family from Ann Arbor, and I were hanging in the kitchen.  My husband spun one of his exaggerated tales.

"You know," I said.  "That reminds me of the stories on . . . the NPR show.  What's the name?"

"'Wait Wait . . . Don't Tell Me!'" 

"Right.  It's the time in the program when each panelist reads a supposed news snippet about a most improbable event.  It's the contestant's job to somehow guess which one is true."

I turned to my husband's cousin and his wife.  "So, your challenge is to decide whether what this esposo of mine says is true or not."

Everyone laughed.

"Whatever happened to Carl Kasell?" I said.

"He retired," my husband said.  "I think he's ill.  He's 75.  What do you expect?"

"Well, my dear," I said.  "You turn 72 this year!"

  

I recognized the voice of Bill Curtis straight away.  After all, he's been a media staple in Chicago for decades.  

"Why is Curtis doing the show?" I asked.  

Years Flying by

Every time I have to fill in my birthdate online by scrolling down the years, the exercise rudely reminds me of the years behind me and the decreasing years ahead.

The whole process brings my mortality into clear focus.  I realize how many folks are younger than I am and am shocked that I've gotten so old!  Well, maybe not SO old but old nonetheless.

Where has the time gone?  Sure, we've all asked ourselves that question many times.  But now I REALLY mean "Where has the time gone?"  And how much do I have left?

Initially, the whole business freaks me out.  Then I breathe deeply, close my eyes, and say to myself, "Okay, if you stay healthy and don't get hit by a bus or die at the hands of some lunatic who flies a plane into the side of a mountain, you may have a good 20 years or so."  My parents both lived into their early 90s and, so why shouldn't I?

Then I choose a twenty-year period in my life, say from my 50th birthday onward or from the day I married the second time around until the publication of my second book.  Wow, I think.  A lot went down between those marker events.  So, yippee, I've got a lot more stuff to look forward to.

I guess I should think about compiling the proverbial "Bucket List" and all those things I want to do before I kick the bucket.  Somehow, that seems a bit too daunting.  I'd rather just let things play out as they may and take my chances.

And the next time I'm asked to complete an online form by filling in my date of birth, I think I'll opt not to sign up for that online app or apply for that loan.  I'll print out the damn form and actually fill in the blank by hand.  Imagine that!

Youth Suicide: What To Do About It?

The following article appeared in the April 26, 2015 edition of the Chicago Tribune.

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/ct-crystal-lake-teen-suicide-met-20150324-story.html#page=1

Officials: Crystal Lake teen suicides highlight prudence needed in response

Relatives of a suicide victim straighten a memorial in Canterbury Park in Crystal Lake on March 19, 2015. (Stacey Wescott, Chicago Tribune)

By Amanda Marrazzo and Lisa BlackChicago Tribune
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/ct-crystal-lake-teen-suicide-met-20150324-story.html#page=1
As the author of a book about youth suicide that I wrote many years ago and recently reissued as an eBook on Amazon and Bublish.com, I didn't know how to respond.  Should I call the designated staff at the Crystal Lake Schools and share my book and the possibility of making it available to interested teens, teachers, and parents?  Or is that a tacky way to "sell" copies of my book?

https://www.bublish.com/bubble/stream/3579?share=
I'm still debating.

The Mythologized Story of Our Births - Part One

All children mythologize their birth. It is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind and soul? Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won’t be the truth: it will be a story. And nothing is more telling than a story.

                        Diane Sutterfield, The Thirteenth Tale

            The story of my birth on July 25, 1945, a few weeks before the Americans dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and six months before the official start of the “Baby Boom,” has morphed into a drama of heroic proportions.  Well, maybe not heroic but courageous, gallant, determined.  It was, after all, a time of war when ordinary people lived extraordinary lives.  I have no doubt that over the years the details have been exaggerated, even modified to provoke suspicion in the minds of the most trusting of souls. What if the story has been mythologized?  It’s not the truth that matters but the persistent memories that count. Memories are like the whispered words in a game of “Telephone.”  By the time the last player repeats the words out loud, they are nothing like the original.  The fluidity of the game mimics the ever-changing stories of our lives—stories that create reflections of the past and decisions in the future.

STAY TUNED FOR PART 2

And do share your birth story with me below.

The Little Things

Maybe I'm trying to rationalize my return from two months in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.
Perhaps it's the leave taking of delightful weather, speaking Spanish, taking yoga from the best instructor I've ever had.

Or maybe it's the festivity of the place.  The fiestas left and right.  The chance to just let it rip.

But there are the little things I won't miss . . . the things one has to put up with when traveling in a foreign country like Mexico:

*     The cobblestone streets that look charming (see above photo) but that make walking a challenge.  Sturdy shoes and head down required.
*     The lack of central heating.  January and February mornings and evenings can be rather chilly.  The temperature can drop into the 30s.  But there's no thermostat to dial up.  Nope.  It's a gas fireplace(s), small electric heaters, piles of blankets, multiple layers of clothing . . . Still, with all of these accoutrements, there's no guarantee that you'll be warm.
*     The water, when sipped from the tap or accidentally used to wash fruits and vegetables, that often leads to "Montezuma's Revenge."  Bacteria.  A parasite.  Who knows?  But gulping down a cool glass of tap water is a no-no.  Eating fruits and vegetables that have not been washed in aqua purificado is also a big no-no.  And, dear me.  Don't dare swishing water after brushing your teeth or you risk spending a good deal of your vacation on the toilet.
*     The signs in most bathrooms, public and private, plead for you not to flush toilet paper but to put it in the available can or waste paper basket.  Now, I don't know about you, but the idea of putting used toilet paper in an often open container doesn't smell right.
*     Ah, and speaking of smells, it's the polluted canal that runs through the city that sends visitors and locals alike for cover, or, at least, a pair of hands over nose and mouth.  I've actually seen those in the know wear those face masks that are most appropriate for working in a hospital, not walking down a charming but smelly street.
*     While I'm at it, I have to mention the casa-shaking noise after every toilet flush (okay, we cheat and flush), every hand wash and definitely after bath or shower.  One night someone forgot to release the toilet handle, and we were bombarded all night long until my husband dragged himself out of bed, followed the noise, and lifted the handle.


My friends will kill me if they ever read this blog (They won't!) and all of my complaints.  After all, they were stuck in Chicago and suffered bone-chilling temperatures, dark, gloomy days, and piles of snow that required shoveling from morning until night.

What right do I have to complain about minor inconveniences?  I guess it all depends on your perspective.

Friendship

     Here I am in beautiful San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, consumed by finding a vacation rental for 2016 and what I see as the end of a friendship.
     I met Alice (I'll call her that) and her husband in a Spanish class five years ago.  We became fast buddies and shared not only our desire to learn a second language but art, travel, food, and a love for the Mexican culture.  She and her husband were finishing the renovation of their casa in San Miguel and already talking about sending more time away from their home in the frozen tundra of the north.
     The next year, Alice and I became Spanish buddies and helped each other learn irregular verbs, direct and indirect objects, expressions not found in any Spanish books.

     I looked forward to our classes and to the social time we spent together --- enjoying Mexican restaurants, sipping wine on their terrace with a view of all of San Miguel, traveling to Lake Patzcuaro and beyond.  Alice and her husband were two of the most laid back, take-it-as-it-comes people we'd met in a long time.  We appreciated their patience and apparent lack of major stress.

     Then things changed.  We remained Spanish buddies but spent less and less time together socially.  I was hurt.  Confused.  Didn't understand why our friendship had changed.

     When I asked her about this and why, for example after bumping into them with another couple at the cine but not invited to join them for dinner, she became stiff, distant.  "I refuse to play the high school game."  I took that to mean that she was uninterested, annoyed at having to consider my feelings and unwilling to have me or anyone else suggest that she ought to be loyal or cage herself with one group or another.

     No matter the "I" statements I gave, she didn't budge.  No matter the "I" statements about how we valued her friendship, she wasn't moved.  Never once did she acknowledge my feelings.

     And this year during our two months in Mexico, nothing has changed.  Alice seems to see our time together working with a Spanish tutor as the extent of our friendship.  There have been no dinners, no drinks on the terrace, no jaunts outside of town.  Oh, there have been empty invitations from both Alice and her husband.  "We really should get together."  "We bought a new case of wine. You should share some of it with us."  And so it goes.  We have one week left before returning to the frozen tundra and have not once spent any time outside of class.

     So, how have I juggled my hurt and frustration?  I left our class together and am working alone with our tutor.  I wait to respond to her emails and make them short and sweet.  Even when she "vented" (her word) in a recent email about all the decisions she has to make to expand a second home with gardens the size of a small botanical and the apparent stress between her and her husband, I didn't respond.  Yes, I thought about it.  I even penned a draft.  But it's remained unsent.

     It pains me that I have been so disappointed, so hurt.  I'm almost 70 years old and should be spending my time on more important things.  But good friendships are hard to make the older I get, and I sure thought mine with Alice would last and grow.

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

     Getting out of Chicago's winter for two months has saved me from Seasonal Affective Depression and made my life so much richer.  If only I could stay another month and avoid what is turning out to be one of the coldest and snowiest Februarys in the Windy City.  But no such luck.  

     This is our fifth consecutive year in San Miguel de Allende.  What a treat!  I've learned Spanish, met other Gringos and engaging Mexicans, traveled to several other cities, attended the annual writers' conference, and just plain hung out in what is now the glorious sun.

     Yesterday, my husband, son, and I took a day-long trip to Canada de la Virgen, pyramids occupied between 540 A.D. and 1050 A.D. and opened to the public just a few years back.  With Albert, our engaging guide, we walked the same path the Otomi walked all those years ago up to the currently excavated site.  The climb was a breeze in comparison to many of the hikes up streets in San Miguel, but the steps leading to and from the center vortex of one of the pyramids were narrow and steep. Like many of the others in our group, I clung for dear life on the way down.  But I'm here to tell the tale.

     After three hours of touring, we returned to the bus that took us to a nearby ranch where we were served a hearty lunch of rice, beans, potatoes with cheese, chili rellenos, quesadillas, a homemade cheese, corn and flour tortillas.  Delicious but not the best for a dairy intolerant woman like me.

     Today I'm off to Spanish class and to meet a friend who quite unexpectedly showed up in town.  We haven't seen other for probably 30 years!

      We're in the midst of a hunt for a place to rent for next year.  It's not easy.  Ever since Conde Nast named San Miguel one of the best cities to live on the entire planet, folks are flocking here and making us "regulars" search high and lo.  Keep your fingers crossed.  The last thing on my wish list is to weather a Chicago winter!

       

A Day To Remember

     I opened my calendar this morning and stared at the date.  December 11.  There was something I was supposed to remember or do or start.  Why hadn't I added it to my Spanish class at 9 a.m. and my physical therapy appointment at 11:30 a.m.?  That wasn't like me to forget items on my daily "To Do" list.
     I sat at my desk, staring at the calendar.  I don't know:  Maybe I thought this book of reminders would jog my memory.  Power up those synapses which, I must admit, have been a bit unreliable lately.  (Soon, I'll have to change the name of my blog.)
     Gracias a Dios!  I remembered how to say "Thank God" in Spanish AND why this day rang a bell:  My parents' wedding anniversary.  Married in 1940, they would have sealed the vows they made to each other seventy-four years ago.  The Great Depression had just ended.  World War II was just around the bend.
     Now I can be forgiven for the lapse in memory.  My parents have been dead for more than six years.  First, my mother, then my father three weeks later.  (Check out my post on August 21, 2008 for more details.  Or hold your breath for my memoir still under construction.)  Just like that, no more anniversaries or birthdays to celebrate.  No longer necessary to buy a card, a present, or to pull out the worm scrapbook with the faded wedding photos.
     Still, the memory persists and so does the emptiness of losing both parents in such a short time.
     Around their wedding anniversary, my husband and I would pack our bags and head to sunny Florida where my parents lived, first in a Gulf-side condo on Longboat Key, then in a state-of-the-art senior high rise in Sarasota.  ("Now, I can't predict the weather," my mom learned to say.  She didn't want me to be disappointed.  We were coming from the Midwest where winter had most likely already descended.)
     The four of us would toast with a glass of sherry before dining at an exclusive restaurant my parents were excited to share.  Their anniversary was a ritual, one that provided a sense of continuity and a meaningful past and hopeful future.

     For their 44th, my mom and dad took the entire family to the Galapagos Islands, then up into the Ecuadorian Andes.  My son, then eleven, can still mimic the whistle of the blue-footed Boobies and the huff hisses of the largest, most colorful iguanas in the world.
     In advance of their 65th wedding anniversary, our family traveled to France where my younger brother owned and ran a gites in the village of Villeferry, 90 minutes out of Paris by fast train.  If my mother had had her way, she and my dad might have retired there.  But by then, my dad's traveling days were over, and my mother had to settle for a part-time move to Ohio to be closer to my sister and me.
     Today, I booted up my iPhoto and savored every saved photo of my parents.  Photos taken in France.  Scanned photos of my mother and me when I was a newborn.  Photos of my dad and my son riding a tractor and cutting the lawn.  Shots of my mother giving a toast at my first of two engagement parties.  Images of family gatherings, three generations casually enjoying a summer day on Walnut Lake . . . And the last photos.  My mom lying in bed with oxygen tubes in each nostril . . . My dad sitting outside on a bench, old and defeated.  He wanted to die first, but it didn't work out that way.

     Here's to you, mom and dad.  I raise a glass of sherry and sure as hell wish you were here.
   
   


   

What A Difference A Wig Makes

     I have a friend (I'll call her Sabrina) who is no slouch.  She earned an BS in Mathematics and a PhD in Biological Psychology at the University of Chicago.  Sabrina is one of the country's leading experts on shift work, human circadian jet lag, sleep, and circadian rhythms.  She may know more about circadian rhythms than the majority of us combined, but her knowledge of rhythms in general has proved sorely lacking.
     Until last night.
     As a guest at an annual Thanksgiving dinner that traditionally progresses into a raucous dance party, Sabrina shocked us all when she donned a long, black wig that had been plopped on top of an African sculpture, and bounded onto the dance floor.  There, she pranced and shimmied and shook to the music like she'd been dancing with abandon her entire life.

     Her husband of some 32 years had never seen her shake her booty in the over three decades they'd been a married couple.  He's a quiet, undemonstrative kind of guy who sat there with a slight grin on his face, the only sign of his approving amusement.
     "Grab your camera," I yelled to my husband.  "Sabrina is wearing a wig and dancing!"
     Alan did as he was told, grabbed his cell phone, and stood in amazement.  Sabrina was an academic who liked her alcohol on the week ends but had never once gotten off her duff to dance, not even a little boogie down the hallway when she was sure no one was watching.

     The wig was magic.  It gave her cover.  Like an actress assuming a role very different from her natural personality, Sabrina became a newly-invented person  Whatever fear she'd had about displaying this playful, rhythmic part of herself melted like the ice cream on top of the pumpkin pie. For over an hour, Sabrina danced in the living room, sashayed around the dining room table, returned to the make-shift dance area to sometimes partner with another dancer or to boogie by herself.
     Several times, she tired, removed the wig, and sat back down.
     After a brief rest during which we encouraged her to get up and back on the dance floor, she jumped out her chair, replaced the long, black wig or chose instead a white out-of-control Afro, and hit the dance floor.
     "Alan," I yelled.  "She's at it again."
      Alan ran back to the living room, and the two of us stood there mesmerized as we watched our friend whom we thought we knew emerge from her self-imposed cocoon.
     Sabrina held onto the Afro wig throughout the rest of the evening.  She carried it everywhere.
     At the end of the evening when Sabrina and her husband bundled up in their winter coats and hats, our host and owner of the wig offered it to Sabrina.  "I'd like you to have the wig."
     "No, that's okay," said Sabrina.  "Save it for next Thanksgiving."
     Was she going to wait a whole year before letting go?  Was she going to retreat to her studious life in which she spent hours and hours researching and writing grants?  Would she travel the world to speak at conferences and never show her love of other kinds of rhythms?
     It seemed so.
     And while I honored her decision, it seemed a damn shame.
   

Seeing Purple

            Rhoda, her white fluffy bangs covering the top rims of her glasses, bent over me and tweaked the arrangement of my bolsters, blocks, and blanket.  It was a somewhat complicated design— one I’d not seen before.  The one bolster I’d put horizontally across my yoga mat wasn’t quite low enough to support the bolster that balanced on top and ran parallel to my spine.  The two blocks on either side of the mat on which I was to place my hands as I might on the arms of a lounge chair failed to (support) my wrists, an apparent essential in the pose.  Once the props and I were resituated, Rhoda walked to the prop room and returned with an eye mask filled with malleable flax seed that, once placed, molded over my forehead, eyes, and upper cheek bones like one of those bean bag chairs so trendy in the 1970s.              

            “I’ll guide you through to begin,” Rhoda said.  “Then you can continue on your own.”

            I didn’t like guided meditation.  (I still don’t).  I wanted to do my own thing which usually meant repeating the mantra I’d been given after taking a transcendental meditation class soon after my first seizure.  It didn’t matter that over the years I’d bastardized the two supposedly sacred words chosen just for me and repeated over and over two sounds that changed from one session to the next.  Marahirsi Mahesh Yogi would not have been pleased.

            That day, I gave in to Rhoda’s soothing but strong guidance as she encouraged relaxing every part of my body from my feet to my belly, from my chest to my third eye, the spot above the forehead believed to be the link between the physical and spiritual worlds.  

Now, I’m not sure I understand exactly what the means but often when I close my eyes, focus on my third eye, and concentrate on the in and out of my breathing, I see vivid purple which, I’m told is a “spiritual” color and, as it turns out, my mother’s favorite.  Whenever I “see” purple, I visualize her purple bedspread, purple stripes in the matching sofa fabric, the purple placements on the oak table, the purple bath towels, the bathroom rugs, and, most vividly, the purple silk pajamas my mother wore the day she died.   Now more than six years after her death, I’m convinced that she’s still hovering about, keeping an eye on me just as I imagined she would after noticing that half-opened eye of hers that wouldn’t close.

            Enveloped in purple and open to silence and thoughts, I flashed to the evenings long ago when, before going to sleep, I would bury my head in my pillow and “see” all colors, designs, and little people.  All these years later, I don’t remember much about these little people.  It doesn’t matter.  These special friends were my secret and not to be shared.  They made me feel special.  They provided something I could count on night after night.  They lulled me to sleep.   I imagine shrinks could have a field day analyzing what holes in my life I was trying to fill or from what traumas I was trying to escape.  So, let them have their fun.  As far as I see it, my night visions fueled a vivid imagination that has served me well. 

            And now all has come full circle.  I’m a sixty-nine-year-old student of yoga who lies on two purple bolsters with an eye mask over my eyes instead of a pillow and reconnects to a peace and sense of wonder that was me then and me now.

HGTV ADDICT

     Okay, with my tail between my legs, I fess up:  I'm an HGTV addict.  When politics get too upsetting (and there's a lot of upset these days),  I flip to "The Property Brothers."  When the weather is gloomy and I want to feel better, I switch to "Love It or List It" where the ground is often covered in snow (It's Canada, after all) and the hosts and homeowners are usually bundled up against the cold. If I need another escape to the promise of warmer weather, "Beachfront Bargains" gives me hope that I, too, might be able to afford digs on a sandy beach somewhere in the southern U.S.  (Though as someone who overdosed on sun as a young girl, the beach thing is probably not a good idea.)

     My husband is ashamed that his wife is addicted.  He is convinced that I've lost it and need treatment or an intervention.  He catches me at all times day and night sitting in front of the TV, absorbed in the tearing out of kitchen cabinets and counters, knocking down interior walls, redoing en suite bathrooms.  I've added "open concept" to my everyday vocabulary and bemoan the fact that our 1864 home doesn't quite qualify.  We actually have walls and doors and can close off our kitchen from the living and dining rooms.  I'm convinced that no one will want to buy our house.

     There's something weird about my addiction to "Love It or List It." I secretly hope that the homebuyers will decide to sell their home in favor of the new one that David has shown them. (Maybe it's my penchant for rooting for the underdog.  After all, who wants to go through the hassle of moving when the neighborhood is in your desired location, it's a 10-minute drive to work, and the school system is one of the best?  David has an uphill battle.)  Now, I do get sick of his standard patter that never seems to change:  "And here we have your lovely 4-piece bathroom."  "And step into your new man cave."  OR  "I have one more listing to show you, and it's yours."  

     Yes, the format can get old but, like all addictions, I'm hooked and can't stop myself from watching.  Maybe it's the voyeur in me: The need to vicariously stick my nose into the homes of strangers.  Perhaps the addiction stems from seeing in reality what I cannot have and doing what I can to stem the pain.  I'm not sure but, for me (and, it seems for many of my closeted HDTV addicts), HDTV makes my trying times a bit more tolerable.

     Oh, and did I mention that my husband is a cooking show and Anthony Bourdain addict?

Addicted to HDTV

SixtiesSister

Unique, often humorous take on life experiences and events from award-winning author and journalist, Jane Leder. The 60 something survivor of the 1960s (Whew!) rarely considers herself too seriously and encourages readers to "Take her advice because she's not using it."

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2014

HGTV ADDICT

     Okay, with my tail between my legs, I fess up:  I'm an HGTV addict.  When politics get too upsetting (and there's a lot of upset these days),  I flip to "The Property Brothers."  When the weather is gloomy and I want to feel better, I switch to "Love It or List It" where the ground is often covered in snow (It's Canada, after all) and the hosts and homeowners are usually bundled up against the cold. If I need another escape to the promise of warmer weather, "Beachfront Bargains" gives me hope that I, too, might be able to afford digs on a sandy beach somewhere in the southern U.S.  (Though as someone who overdosed on sun as a young girl, the beach thing is probably not a good idea.)

     My husband is ashamed that his wife is addicted.  He is convinced that I've lost it and need treatment or an intervention.  He catches me at all times day and night sitting in front of the TV, absorbed in the tearing out of kitchen cabinets and counters, knocking down interior walls, redoing en suite bathrooms.  I've added "open concept" to my everyday vocabulary and bemoan the fact that our 1864 home doesn't quite qualify.  We actually have walls and doors and can close off our kitchen from the living and dining rooms.  I'm convinced that no one will want to buy our house.

     There's something weird about my addiction to "Love It or List It." I secretly hope that the homebuyers will decide to sell their home in favor of the new one that David has shown them. (Maybe it's my penchant for rooting for the underdog.  After all, who wants to go through the hassle of moving when the neighborhood is in your desired location, it's a 10-minute drive to work, and the school system is one of the best?  David has an uphill battle.)  Now, I do get sick of his standard patter that never seems to change:  "And here we have your lovely 4-piece bathroom."  "And step into your new man cave."  OR  "I have one more listing to show you, and it's yours."  

     Yes, the format can get old but, like all addictions, I'm hooked and can't stop myself from watching.  Maybe it's the voyeur in me: The need to vicariously stick my nose into the homes of strangers.  Perhaps the addiction stems from seeing in reality what I cannot have and doing what I can to stem the pain.  I'm not sure but, for me (and, it seems for many of my closeted HDTV addicts), HDTV makes my trying times a bit more tolerable.

     Oh, and did I mention that my husband is a cooking show and Anthony Bourdain addict?

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About Me

Jane Leder

Award-winning journalist and author whose latest book, DEAD SERIOUS, a book about youth suicide, is now available as an Amazon Kindle.

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