I've decided that as I approach my 65th birthday I should take a stab at writing a memoir. Hey, my life is as unique as anyone's. Well, maybe . . . I didn't suffer abject poverty, rape, or addiction. And my travels didn't take me to Bali for love or to India to pray.
But the circumstances surrounding my birth toward the end of World War II make for quite a dramatic story. (Once a Drama Queen, always a Drama Queen.) And dealing with anti-Semitism for the first time in the girls' bathroom at my new junior high school threw me for a loop. My brother's downward spiral and eventual suicide at age 30 changed my life and the dynamics in my family forever.
And then there was my marriage to the wrong man (I knew I was making a mistake but forged ahead), the birth of my son, several affairs, a divorce, life as a single mother, remarriage . . . Throw in my son's automobile accident that nearly paralyzed him for life, the effect that accident had on my second marriage (it almost ended it!), a seizure that led me to meditation, my burgeoning career as a writer . . . Now, we're getting somewhere.
And if you've been reading my blog, my dear reader, you know that I lost both my parents within 3 weeks of one another and the heartache and challenges their deaths created. In July of this year, we will mark the 2-year anniversary of their deaths. I still miss them terribly.
Anyway, I've signed up for an online memoir writing class led by a seasoned writing professor who has published her own memoir. Am I ready to open my life to strangers? Why not? My friends and family are too through with my stories by now. Stay tuned.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Remnants
I hadn't intended to sell my mother's jewelry. I'd wear what I could and keep the rest in a safety deposit box for . . . A daughter-in-law? A granddaughter?
My mom's taste is jewelry was, for the most part, big. She liked 14 karat gold with bold stones that begged attention. Her favorite set was a gold necklace with an amethyst the size of Rhode Island, a matching pinkie ring with a second amethyst, and, yes, a pair of earrings with an amethyst dangling from each. The whole shebang cost a mint; the replacement value was even higher.
Alas, I'm just not a gold, big stone kind of gal. I go for silver, subtle, unique.
Even so, as I planned what I hoped would be the last estate sale (I'd already used Internet ads, auctions, consignment shops) to finally sell the remainder of my parents' stuff, I didn't consider selling the jewelry. Maybe it was the sense that my mother wouldn't approve. Or that I was a ruthless daughter interested in money. Whatever the reasons, I didn't list jewelry in the estate sale ads.
People kept calling and asking if I had any jewelry to sell. Initially, I said "No." Then I went through my own collection, picked out what I no longer wore, and threw that into the mix. I sold a few items. Then I tossed in costume jewelry from the 50s and 60s. The response was lukewarm. And there wasn't much interest either in the items I really wanted to sell - the rugs, the set of four Henredon chairs, the custom media center with antique Japanese screen doors, the oak square table for four. If I didn't unload these things, I would have to give them away. The monthly storage fee was bleeding me dry.
Finally, I called one of the dealers who was looking for "better" jewelry. I knew he'd never pay close to what the jewelry was worth. But I'd taken it around to estate jewelers months before, only to be told that it wasn't their style. Or that they'd melt the pieces down for the gold. Now, that I'd never do.
"How much do you want for these?" he said, having put together a pile of my mother's finest jewels, including the amethyst set.
I had no idea. "Let me look at the insurance estimates," I said.
"I'm not interested in those. They're always much too high, and I'm not going to pay close to those amounts."
This guy was a pro. I picked up the red folder with the insurance estimates and started reading aloud the descriptions and estimated values.
"What do you want?" he said again.
I started adding numbers in my head. "How about $1000?"
"$800," he countered.
I hate bargaining. "$900, and that's my final price."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and began handing me $100 bills. I thought of calling off the deal. My mother's going to kill me, I mumbled under my breath. "Sell these to women who will wear them proudly," I said loud enough so he could hear.
"What about these?" a second prospective buyer asked. She'd collected an array of less expensive pieces. Hardened by the first round of bargaining, I quoted her prices I was sure she wouldn't pay. I was surprised. She backed off of just one piece, an ornate silver necklace that looked Turkish or Indian. I vowed to wear the necklace sometime soon.
I cried myself to sleep that night. I missed my mom, wished I could call her and just shoot the breeze. Maybe she would have been practical about the jewelry thing and agreed that keeping it in a safety deposit box for years made no sense. Whatever her reaction, it would have been so good to hear her voice.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
I had the best of intentions. I'd counted my points, danced, walked, even took a yoga class. But at the end of a week, the numbers of my scale hadn't budged. And I wasn't about to stand on that four-pound-over Weight Watcher scale and have some smug woman who'd lost 500 pounds in three months record my failure and ask what I might do to jump start my diet. I'd jump started it, all right, with the physical scars to show for it: a perpetually sore lower back, aching muscles, and a growling stomach that talks to me all day long.
So, I played hooky. And instead of devouring a sweet, gooey pastry or a stack of pancakes smothered in butter and syrup, I read a book. An entire book. A 300-page book. (Okay, the print is rather large.) I plopped my sorry body down on the back deck, tilted my baseball cap to shield my eyes from the bright sun, and read Brooke Newman's Jenniemae & James: A Memoir in Black & White.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/0307462994/?tag=gidca-20
Yes, I'm a reader. But I can't remember the last time I read a book in one sitting or, for that matter, had sex multiple times in one day. It's been a while. But this book about a brilliant mathematician and his friendship with an uneducated, illiterate African American maid held me in its clutches for 4 hours with one potty break, a quick stroll around the garden, and one annoying phone call.
As pedestrian as it may sound, finishing that book gave the day meaning and me a sense of accomplishment. Phasing into retirement, it's easy to fret away the time, convinced that you should be doing something significant - whatever that means. Make money. Publish an article. Make a stranger happy.
Today I made myself happy. I think I'll read my way through the week, substituting the prose of good writers for any temporary satisfaction I might get from eating one too many Weight Watchers' peanut butter bars.
So, I played hooky. And instead of devouring a sweet, gooey pastry or a stack of pancakes smothered in butter and syrup, I read a book. An entire book. A 300-page book. (Okay, the print is rather large.) I plopped my sorry body down on the back deck, tilted my baseball cap to shield my eyes from the bright sun, and read Brooke Newman's Jenniemae & James: A Memoir in Black & White.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/0307462994/?tag=gidca-20
Yes, I'm a reader. But I can't remember the last time I read a book in one sitting or, for that matter, had sex multiple times in one day. It's been a while. But this book about a brilliant mathematician and his friendship with an uneducated, illiterate African American maid held me in its clutches for 4 hours with one potty break, a quick stroll around the garden, and one annoying phone call.
As pedestrian as it may sound, finishing that book gave the day meaning and me a sense of accomplishment. Phasing into retirement, it's easy to fret away the time, convinced that you should be doing something significant - whatever that means. Make money. Publish an article. Make a stranger happy.
Today I made myself happy. I think I'll read my way through the week, substituting the prose of good writers for any temporary satisfaction I might get from eating one too many Weight Watchers' peanut butter bars.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The Gathering
In order to save money and make more room on my crowded bookshelves, I've weaned myself off of buying new books and, instead, begun to scan the shelves at my local library. This requires a good deal of patience, for libraries are behind the curve when it comes to current bestsellers. And when they do get these coveted books, there's usually a waiting list. Sure, some of the newbies make it to the "Grab it fast and read it quickly" section where I often find readers body-blocking entire rows of books so they can get first dibs. I find myself grabbing at titles I've never heard of just in case I might be interested. Usually, I'm not.
Last week I got a brilliant idea: I'd focus on past Booker Prize winners, books that have received Britain's counterpart to the Pulitzer. Penelope Lively won the Booker for Moon Tiger, one of my favorite all-time love stories and examples of one of those wondrous books in which events unfurl as the narrator recalls them, not in chronological order. So, why not get on the bandwagon and check out other British authors whose work has been singled out as the best?
That led me to Anne Enright's The Gathering, winner of the Booker in 2007. The back cover blurb tells of "a moving, evocative portrait of a large Irish family haunted by the past." Well, I'm not Irish, but this is a Booker-prize winner after all. The blurb continues, "The nine surviving children of the Hegarty clan are gathering in Dublin for the wake of their wayward brother, Liam, drowned at sea." I know about such gatherings only too well. We three surviving Mersky children gathered for the funeral of my brother, Robin, some thirty years ago.
I didn't read the remainder of the jacket blurb. I was sold.
And I wasn't disappointed. Enright's writing is poetic, her observations keen, and the parallels between her relationship with her brother and my relationship with mine are uncanny. Readers discover soon enough that Liam's drowning was intentional. He stuffed his pockets with stones and walked into the sea. My brother chose a different escape route: He stuck a hunting rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
I finished The Gathering two nights ago. I reached to turn off the reading lamp next to my bed and shivered, fearful that I might have bad dreams about my brother, gone now for thirty years.
Instead I thought about my mother. She was the one who found my brother, his bedroom walls splattered with blood and brain matter. By the time my father arrived home, the cleanup crew had left. While the smell of death was everywhere, there were no visual reminders.
My mother was left raw. I can only imagine the nightmares she suffered for years. Only after she died did a home nurse tell me that my mom talked often about "seeing" my brother again. Perhaps it was her anticipation of such a gathering that buoyed her spirit through the last difficult months of her life and underscored that, when all is said and done, it is, as she told me, love that makes it all worthwhile.
Last week I got a brilliant idea: I'd focus on past Booker Prize winners, books that have received Britain's counterpart to the Pulitzer. Penelope Lively won the Booker for Moon Tiger, one of my favorite all-time love stories and examples of one of those wondrous books in which events unfurl as the narrator recalls them, not in chronological order. So, why not get on the bandwagon and check out other British authors whose work has been singled out as the best?
That led me to Anne Enright's The Gathering, winner of the Booker in 2007. The back cover blurb tells of "a moving, evocative portrait of a large Irish family haunted by the past." Well, I'm not Irish, but this is a Booker-prize winner after all. The blurb continues, "The nine surviving children of the Hegarty clan are gathering in Dublin for the wake of their wayward brother, Liam, drowned at sea." I know about such gatherings only too well. We three surviving Mersky children gathered for the funeral of my brother, Robin, some thirty years ago.
I didn't read the remainder of the jacket blurb. I was sold.
And I wasn't disappointed. Enright's writing is poetic, her observations keen, and the parallels between her relationship with her brother and my relationship with mine are uncanny. Readers discover soon enough that Liam's drowning was intentional. He stuffed his pockets with stones and walked into the sea. My brother chose a different escape route: He stuck a hunting rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
I finished The Gathering two nights ago. I reached to turn off the reading lamp next to my bed and shivered, fearful that I might have bad dreams about my brother, gone now for thirty years.
Instead I thought about my mother. She was the one who found my brother, his bedroom walls splattered with blood and brain matter. By the time my father arrived home, the cleanup crew had left. While the smell of death was everywhere, there were no visual reminders.
My mother was left raw. I can only imagine the nightmares she suffered for years. Only after she died did a home nurse tell me that my mom talked often about "seeing" my brother again. Perhaps it was her anticipation of such a gathering that buoyed her spirit through the last difficult months of her life and underscored that, when all is said and done, it is, as she told me, love that makes it all worthwhile.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Yikes! Retirement!
For us Baby Boomers, retirement can last 30 or more years - one-third of our lives. Now, there's an exciting (uh, scary) thought.
As someone in the midst of reinventing herself - or, at least, trying to figure out what's next - I must admit that it ain't easy. I realize some Baby Boomers can't wait to break the chains of an unsatisfying full-time job that has stymied their happiness and self-worth for decades. Just the thought of doing "nothing" - well, maybe playing some golf or tennis or hanging out at the local coffee shop - keeps them slogging toward the "finish line." On the other hand, others like myself have managed to craft a career that has offered a lot of freedom and independence (but rarely a regular paycheck).
Ah, but hold your horses. The Recession from which we are slowly recovering and the go-get-em' spirit of Boomers have prompted a majority (8 in 10 according to an AARP analysis) to plan to work at least part-time or start their own business instead of settling for a lawn chair in Florida. A staggering half of households headed by 50-to-59-year-olds have $10,000 or less in their 401(k) accounts, making holding down some kind of job more attractive than scrimping and saving. The National Council on the Aging estimates that by 2015 20% of the work force will be over 55.
Remember staring at the old guy or gal bagging groceries at your local supermarket and feeling blessed that you'd never have to do that! Hmmmm . . . . To avoid such a fate, millions of us are scrambling, trying to figure out how we're going to maintain something of the lifestyle to which we've become accustomed. And just when no one is hiring younger folks, let alone old farts.
Career coaches and therapists are quick to underscore the possibilities of following our bliss. Perhaps for the first time since we were young kids, we won't have to listen to what parents, peers, or society in general expect of us. We have a blank slate in front of us and can go to town joyously filling it in with piano or painting lessons, worldwide travel, volunteering for all those causes to which we've been donating all these years. Holy Cow! The possibilities are endless.
Or are they? What if no longer having a title (say an engineer or teacher or CEO of a corporation) makes you feel as if you're one big nothing? What if you don't have enough money to take off for Timbuktu? What if you're tired after some 40 plus years of working and you just don't have the energy to start from scratch? What if your mind goes numb with all the possibilities and renders you paralyzed?
I suppose we could all sign up for counseling. Or read a bunch of self-help books. Or we can plod our way through this delicate life marker event, making our share of boo boos along the way. In the meantime, I'll share whatever I figure out as I go along.
As someone in the midst of reinventing herself - or, at least, trying to figure out what's next - I must admit that it ain't easy. I realize some Baby Boomers can't wait to break the chains of an unsatisfying full-time job that has stymied their happiness and self-worth for decades. Just the thought of doing "nothing" - well, maybe playing some golf or tennis or hanging out at the local coffee shop - keeps them slogging toward the "finish line." On the other hand, others like myself have managed to craft a career that has offered a lot of freedom and independence (but rarely a regular paycheck).
Ah, but hold your horses. The Recession from which we are slowly recovering and the go-get-em' spirit of Boomers have prompted a majority (8 in 10 according to an AARP analysis) to plan to work at least part-time or start their own business instead of settling for a lawn chair in Florida. A staggering half of households headed by 50-to-59-year-olds have $10,000 or less in their 401(k) accounts, making holding down some kind of job more attractive than scrimping and saving. The National Council on the Aging estimates that by 2015 20% of the work force will be over 55.
Remember staring at the old guy or gal bagging groceries at your local supermarket and feeling blessed that you'd never have to do that! Hmmmm . . . . To avoid such a fate, millions of us are scrambling, trying to figure out how we're going to maintain something of the lifestyle to which we've become accustomed. And just when no one is hiring younger folks, let alone old farts.
Career coaches and therapists are quick to underscore the possibilities of following our bliss. Perhaps for the first time since we were young kids, we won't have to listen to what parents, peers, or society in general expect of us. We have a blank slate in front of us and can go to town joyously filling it in with piano or painting lessons, worldwide travel, volunteering for all those causes to which we've been donating all these years. Holy Cow! The possibilities are endless.
Or are they? What if no longer having a title (say an engineer or teacher or CEO of a corporation) makes you feel as if you're one big nothing? What if you don't have enough money to take off for Timbuktu? What if you're tired after some 40 plus years of working and you just don't have the energy to start from scratch? What if your mind goes numb with all the possibilities and renders you paralyzed?
I suppose we could all sign up for counseling. Or read a bunch of self-help books. Or we can plod our way through this delicate life marker event, making our share of boo boos along the way. In the meantime, I'll share whatever I figure out as I go along.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Comin' Home
We couldn't have asked for a better day to leave California. It was pouring. Fog shrouded San Francisco, rendering the city invisible from our perch across the bay. The weight of our overstuffed suitcases seemed even heavier as we lugged them up the flight of slippery, rain-soaked stairs. The cats who were unquestionably depressed didn't even bother to protest as we put them in their carriers on the back seat of our rented Kia wagon.
"It's better this way," my husband said as we drove down the steep, winding driveway for the last time.
I'd been thinking the same thing.
***************************************************************************************
Fast forward to a few minutes after arriving home. "I like our house," he said enthusiastically.
I knew it. He wouldn't waste any time finding all kinds of reasons to stay put. The streets are flat; it's better for jogging. The birds are chirping. There is something green trying to grow in our yard. The weather isn't so bad. There were no home invasions while we were gone. There is plenty of salt left to use on the sidewalks next winter. Ugh!
I wanted to scream something about him having no balls but somehow managed to keep quiet. I knew that we'd never be able to pull up stakes and move across the country. I'm destined to live and die in the Midwest.
Stay cool. Be patient. He usually comes around; it just takes time. Or maybe he and I will have rooms of our own during the winter months. He can stay in his beloved home and frolic in the Winter Wonderland. I'll bask in warmer climes, surrounded by Mother Nature in all her glory.
Okay, so our house is lovely. I'll give him that. And there's something about the symmetry of houses placed in a neat row, the same distance from one another. True, the streets are wider and not jammed with cars parked haphazardly as they were in the Berkeley Hills. It's all very neat and orderly here.
But there are no leaves on the trees and no spring flowers blooming. Lake Michigan is cute and all that, but it ain't the Pacific Ocean. You've got to walk twice as far to equal the calories spent on walking up and down hills. And the headaches. The damn headaches. They're back with a vengeance. And now I have to think about the future and what I'm going to do with my life. It was such a pleasure putting everything on hold.
A dear friend in California encouraged me to be patient and to "process." But patience has never been my middle name, and this waiting for the right decision will be the death of me. For now I'll drag both feet and put them down in the here and now. At least I'll try.
"It's better this way," my husband said as we drove down the steep, winding driveway for the last time.
I'd been thinking the same thing.
***************************************************************************************
Fast forward to a few minutes after arriving home. "I like our house," he said enthusiastically.
I knew it. He wouldn't waste any time finding all kinds of reasons to stay put. The streets are flat; it's better for jogging. The birds are chirping. There is something green trying to grow in our yard. The weather isn't so bad. There were no home invasions while we were gone. There is plenty of salt left to use on the sidewalks next winter. Ugh!
I wanted to scream something about him having no balls but somehow managed to keep quiet. I knew that we'd never be able to pull up stakes and move across the country. I'm destined to live and die in the Midwest.
Stay cool. Be patient. He usually comes around; it just takes time. Or maybe he and I will have rooms of our own during the winter months. He can stay in his beloved home and frolic in the Winter Wonderland. I'll bask in warmer climes, surrounded by Mother Nature in all her glory.
Okay, so our house is lovely. I'll give him that. And there's something about the symmetry of houses placed in a neat row, the same distance from one another. True, the streets are wider and not jammed with cars parked haphazardly as they were in the Berkeley Hills. It's all very neat and orderly here.
But there are no leaves on the trees and no spring flowers blooming. Lake Michigan is cute and all that, but it ain't the Pacific Ocean. You've got to walk twice as far to equal the calories spent on walking up and down hills. And the headaches. The damn headaches. They're back with a vengeance. And now I have to think about the future and what I'm going to do with my life. It was such a pleasure putting everything on hold.
A dear friend in California encouraged me to be patient and to "process." But patience has never been my middle name, and this waiting for the right decision will be the death of me. For now I'll drag both feet and put them down in the here and now. At least I'll try.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
A Traveler in a Strange Land
Every time we passed the Berkeley Bowl, one or the other of us said, "Maybe we should go bowling." A perfect activity on one of the many rainy days we've grappled with during our stay in Berkeley. And each time, one of us commented, "I haven't been bowling in years!"
The parking lot at the Berkeley Bowl was always jammed. Drivers waited in their cars until a space opened up or drove around the block and then back again. Even on warm, sunny days, both week and weekend, the place was packed. Bowling and Berkeley made strange bed partners, at least in my mind. But, hey, residents of this progressive town have always been ahead of the curve. Apparently, bowling had regained its popularity like so many other recycled pastime activities.
A few days ago, we mentioned to a local that we were thinking of bowling a few games at the Berkeley Bowl. She started to giggle. Okay, the image of two seniors donning bowling shoes, balancing heavy bowling balls, and mightily throwing the balls in hopes of knocking down a few pins was, well, funny. I guess.
She continued to laugh. "What's so funny?" I said, a bit miffed.
The longtime Berkeley resident tried to stifle her laughter by putting a hand over her mouth. The giggles slid out sideways.
I didn't get the joke and found myself getting angry. "Okay, fill us in," I said, unable to hide my growing frustration.
My husband joined in. "Is bowling uncool or something?"
Unable to stop giggling, the loca l- now our nemesis - tried to answer his question. Her answer was unintelligible.
I'd had enough. It's one thing to guffaw at somebody else's expense but quite another to keep up the game.
Now aware of our growing angst, the dear local took her hand away from her mouth and managed to spit out in bits and spurts, "The . . . Berkeley Bowl is . . . a . . ." Here she started to laugh hysterically. "It's a grocery store."
The next day, I checked the place out. Sure enough, our bowling alley was a 40,000-square-foot warehouse-like building with rows and rows of everything that is grown on this green Earth. The speciality here is produce, and the BB boasts the largest selection in northern California. Want green almonds? They're here. Need California red velvet apricots? They've got em'. In fact, the market's Web site boasts that that this is the place for just about any hard-to-find produce item. Bins and bins of nuts, mushrooms, squash, potatoes - the list is endless.
Come to think of it, one of those big purple heads of cabbage would make a great bowling ball.
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