Weekending

Sitting here on another Sunday night, wondering where the weekend went. I'm almost finished with the piece I planned to publish here last week. It will eventually be posted, but tonight is looking less and less likely. This weekend was very productive, with some dashes of good social time as well... in fact, so much was packed into the last two days that it seems like a whole week. Such is the odd math of weekends: the start of the weekend can feel at once long ago and immediate, just-past, too recent to be that far gone. There are strange lazy hours, alongside hurried ones, and all these hours somehow add up to two all-too-short days.

The odd math applies to life, too. The days sometimes drag, but the weeks, months, years fly by. I keep thinking I'll have "time to catch up," but that seems as mythical as a unicorn. So I need to come up with a revised game plan, rather than the catch-up-plan. If I come up with some magic formula, I'll let you know. But math has never been my strongest suit.

In Memory of Bubbe

My grandmother passed away Wednesday night of this week. Thank you to all my friends who have been so sweet, supportive and compassionate to me and my family at this difficult time. Below is a memorial I wrote for my grandmother, some of which I shared with some friends on Thursday night. (I have omitted some identifying information.) May her memory be a blessing.

This is in memory of my Bubbe Lill, who passed away on March 11, 2009.

She was born Karoline Lill J----- in Michelovca, Czechoslovakia on June 9, 1918. (Quick quiz: anyone know what else hails from Michelovca? Michelob. That’s right – Budweiser. When my father told that to my grandmother, she approved; although she wasn’t much of a beer-drinker, she preferred sweet plum wines and sherries.) Her Hebrew name was Chana Leah – a name she shared with her mother. To anyone who knows about Jewish naming traditions, this is odd. Traditionally, you’re supposed to be named in memory of someone who has already passed away, not after someone still living. That’s why there aren’t a lot of David Goldberg IIIs. Well, my grandmother sadly was named traditionally: her young mother died giving birth to her. One Chana Leah left this world as another entered it, and so my grandmother began her life.

For the first part of her life, though, Chana Leah/Karoline Lill was called by another name – the colloquial Czech “Laisczu.” The first part of her life is like a fairy tale – just as sad and somber as a genuine fairy tale, not a sparkly Disney version. Her father remarried, and her stepmother was not kind to her. A few years ago, I interviewed Bubbe about her life, and getting her to talk about her early days was difficult. We had to talk a lot about now before she opened up about then. It was partially that the memories were painful, but partially that she didn’t want to speak ill of family, or say something that might hurt anyone’s feelings. Family always, always came first, and even if there was pain, that’s not what she felt should be emphasized. She did, however, speak very lovingly of her grandmother – her mother’s mother, still a young woman herself, with a young child of her own, who was my grandmother’s uncle but seemed to her more like a brother. My grandmother found refuge in her own grandmother, and would run away to go stay with her. But ultimately, she needed to run further away, and she made her way to America… and by escaping her unhappy home life, she also wound up escaping Hitler. Her father, stepmother, and all but three of her siblings perished in World War II; all of them who remained in Europe suffered at the hands of the Nazis.

In America, the spelling of her name became Caroline instead of Karoline, and she went by the more simple “Lill.” Young Lill took a job at a bakery, began navigating her new country. She was introduced to Jake K------, a man living in Toledo, Ohio, with his four children, whose mother, his first wife, had died. Jake was a kind man with a good sense of humor; born in Lithuania, he was 21 years her senior, and had emigrated so long ago that he had fought for America in World War I. When they married, legend has it, Jake stood on a phone book hidden beneath Lill’s wedding gown train to make him look taller (neither of them were over five feet tall). She took on a new name – Lill K---- – and became a stepmother herself… but she was one who connected with her stepchildren. She also had another three children, bringing the number of Kander siblings up to seven: Irving, Herman, Sy, Esther, and Lill’s three youngest children: Rochelle, Marton, and my father, Ken.

As I said and will keep saying – family was of the utmost importance to my grandmother. She loved her children, and loved feeding them. Sadly, when she was still a young woman, in her forties, her husband Jake became ill, and passed away. My father was only 16 when he lost his father; I never knew my Zade Jake. But the family kept him present through stories, because sharing family stories (okay, and sometimes gossip) is one of many traditions we all keep… and none more so than Bubbe! But I’ll get to more Bubbe-stories momentarily.

Bubbe mourned the loss of Jake, but always embraced life, her family, her community, her faith and heritage. And later, she married again – a wonderful man named Al R--------, who gave her his love and yet another name – Lill R------.

After Al passed away in 1980, Bubbe did not seek to remarry. (But she never missed an opportunity to grill her grandchildren about their boyfriends and girlfriends.) Lill J----- K------ R------- remained the family matriarch, a family favorite for many, known as Ma, Aunt Lill, and mostly, Bubbe.

My family has so many great Bubbe stories. We had our favorite Bubbe fact and favorite Bubbe stories. And here are some of mine:

• I was always impressed with the “Bubbe Fact” that she spoke seven languages (I always remember making her list them for me when I was a child, and she would list them off, always ending with “…. and, you know, a little English”).
• “Holy Toledo!” Toledo, Ohio was Bubbe’s hometown for decades. “Holy Toledo” was one of our favorite exclamations. Why? I don’t know why. It was just a Bubbe thing.
• Every Thanksgiving, Bubbe would settle in at the counter over a mountain of potatoes and begin peeling away for the vats of mashed potatoes our family required. She would talk and tease and jokingly complain the entire time: “Oy, oy, oy, look how hard they work me here, here I am, Cinderella Potato Peeler!” Cinderella Potato Peeler. That’s one of my strongest Bubbe memories, and it will always be linked to Thanksgiving for me.
• “Potch you on the tushie.” Somehow, pairing the words “potch you on the tushie!” with a little cackle made it okay for my grandmother to grab absolutely anyone’s butt. Well, she probably never grabbed her rabbi’s butt. But she sure grabbed all of ours.
• Bags of stuff. If we went to visit Bubbe, we left with a bag of stuff. Toilet paper, cereal, stuff like that. Every. Time.
• Pictures. Bubbe’s house was always full of pictures of her family. She always surrounded herself with us, bragged about us, celebrated us. Her love for us was incredible.
• Yiddish curses. Yiddish curses are incredibly creative in their imagery (“you should be like a chandelier – hang by day and burn at night!”). Bubbe’s favorite, which always made us laugh, was gay kaken afen yam… which in her words, loosely translated, meant “go poop in the lake.” Trust me, at any age, this is a hilarious thing for your grandmother to say.

There are so many more Bubbe stories…. but the most incredible story of all is her life. Though sometimes, especially when I was younger, I felt that we had so much that differentiated us, there is so much that I have inherited and so much more I can still learn from her. She was a true survivor, a strong and stubborn woman who always loved her family - whatever we wound up looking like, she loved us. (Even if she might tease us: “My grandchildren, they’re so ugly! I don’t like them… I LOVE them!”) That was her – Chana Leah/Laisczu/Karoline/Caroline Lill J--------- K----- R--------.

Holy Toledo. What a blessing.

Psalm 23: A Psalm of David.

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness For His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; My cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; And I will dwell in the house of the LORD Forever.

Ladies & Gentleman

What constitutes "gentlemanly" these days?

How about "ladylike"?

When it comes to defining these terms, I think it's getting more and more difficult to discern cliche from compliment, polite from posturing. Is being demure ladylike, or nowadays does that just mean being a pushover? Is being commanding gentlemanly, or would we now just call that being controlling?

I'd like to give some thought to this. But in all honesty, I spent a lot of time writing this weekend - finished a full-length play that I've been chipping away at for some time! - and my mind is, simply put, spent.

So while I'd like to have something eloquent to say about this, at the moment, I do not. I'm just putting the thought out there, as something to return to at a later date. If you have any brilliant insights (or not-so-brilliant... look at this post... who am I to judge?), feel free to post. Otherwise, all I can say for now is, I'll try to devote a bit more time to the ol' blog next week, and come up with something more thought-provoking.

(Somehow, "ol' blog" sounds decidedly unladylike to me...)

Emoetry

Seven years ago, I discovered a handy service called Yahoo Briefcase. An online storage "briefcase" for your files, it was an easy way to back-up my writing someplace other than my computer or a flash drive. I loaded many files to the Briefcase from about 2002-2006. Then, since I had other online storage available, the Briefcase sort of slipped from my mind. Until I got an email last week, informing me that the Yahoo Briefcase service was being discontinued, and advising that I download any files I had stored there before they disappeared forever.

It was like finding a treasure chest - some fool's gold, to be sure, but a few gems in the rubble. Story ideas, lines of dialogue, even a few complete scripts and shorts I wrote years ago and had forgotten about. Most of the files were scripts, fiction-prose, or lesson plans - but there were two poems, each saved as their own small .doc file. One of them was entitled, simply "loneliness poem."*

The poem is from about three years ago. I wouldn't say it's a good poem; playwright, I can claim, but great poet, I shall never be. [I do admire those who can distill emotional depth in a few stanzas, and envy their skill.] But reading this poem, though I couldn't suppress an eye roll... I also have to admit that it made something stir in me. I could not remember the exact day or moment of gathering these words, yet I could remember how I felt when it was written.

Here is the poem:

loneliness poem
the danger
- as i see it -
is that the lonelier you are
the lonelier you will become...
because loneliness repels
and attracts the attention
only
of the other
lonely
who glance over
briefly, quickly,
see your
solitude
and murmur
i know, i know...
soothingly,
to
themselves.

It's funny how much a poem can at once reveal and conceal. When I wrote this poem, three years ago, I was a graduate student, in a social work school [or as I referred to it on my more bitter days, an antisocial work school]. I have always been one who can connect, one who longs to be part of the cast, the team, the family - and now I suddenly had few friends in proximity. I was constantly surrounded by people, but connected with few - and could see that I was not the only one in that predicament, yet still felt unable to break the barriers and find a way to reach the other loners.

And maybe on some level, I didn't want to - I needed to learn what it was like to spend a lot of time on my own. Though I logically knew this was a finite phase of my life, I was also afraid that even if I needed to learn something about solitude - what if this foreign period, this newfound loneliness, lingered and self-perpetuated for too long? Both of these emotional truths, I think, come through in the poem.

However, one who doesn't know me well might also infer from this poem that I was single when I composed this piece... while those who do know me well will know that the opposite was true. One might think I was calling out the other lonely people; I was, and I wasn't. I was just trying to acknowledge the chasm surrounding us.

I felt sad reading the poem, but also profoundly relieved. It is from a chapter now closed. I did gain strength and learn some important things about myself during that period of frequent solitude. I'm also glad to be past it. In my life now, I have moments of loneliness, but they are just that: moments. Not months. Not oppressive. Not all-encompassing. Just... human.

Finding this poem brought back some memories, not all pleasant, but all important. It also reminded me of the power of writing, for ourselves and for others. Eras can be preserved, emotions made tangible once more, by encasing our experiences in our stories, scripts, and yes - our poems. Though to clarify, "being inspired to write more poetry" is not on the list of things that have resulted from finding this one. As my mother and I have joked on more than one occasion, I pretty much only write poetry when I'm down, and I pretty much only write bad poetry. For both these reasons, I'm happy to report that I haven't been cranking out much poetry of late.


*When I mentioned this to the boy, his comment was "Oh, baby. You wrote emo poetry?" Hence the title of this blog post.