“There a hold up in the Bronx, Brooklyn’s broken out in fights. There’s a traffic jam in Harlem- That’s backed up to Jackson Heights. There’s a scout group short a child, Khruschev’s due at Idlewild- Car 54 Where Are You?”Toody, Muldoon and Officer Schnauser- where are you when we need you? Indelible visuals of their caricatures implanted in our minds. We only wanted them to get back together as partners. Oh, their chemistry, it was really strong. My go to is Barbra with an A. “Was it all so simple then or has time re-written every line?”

Interesting when the going is good, in euphoric recall fashion, I remember the days of no wine, maybe sweet sixteen roses. We drew the hopscotch board on the part of the sidewalk that was flat. Throwing my skate key as my hopscotch shooter was so exciting- where would it fall? Happy to land with two feet on 3 and 4 or 6 and 7 (double squares). Biggest worry was that the street light would go on before I found my skate key en route home to watch the latest episode of Dr. Kildare( Richard Chamberlain ) was very cute . We loved playing stoop ball- loosely based on baseball, only you used a Spaulding and retrieved it from the stoop steps. So enjoyed the game of Jacks, even though I was often left with scrapes on the side of my hand from my pinky to my wrist. No worries- bacitracin and band-aids were big in my house. The boys on the block played Stickball, (baseball with a stick.) 

Johnny on The Pony was a fave, rough housing at its best. Great memory and first glimpse into early on-set competition was watching the kids play skully. Remember, flicking bottle caps into a chalk made skully board. Object not over-flicking–nope it’s on the line. 

And then came the Whistle. I think my father practiced it a few times before we heard it coming as a “it’s time.” I did not look forward to hearing that sound at all, and in the middle of a game -ugh! But Daddy we aren’t done. “Please, just a little bit longer.”! Denominations of time didn’t matter. 10 more minutes would have done. I cherished these after dinner nightly reunions. Iris Stoller and Linda Widensky were becoming my two best friends. I just got my new jacks set and they wanted to play with me. The crescendo of childhood memories was getting the baby bead bracelet with the letters spelling my name encased in gold. My piece of the sky, indeed. 

So with resignation and dismay I left the street. Bath time, Dr. Kildare and maybe some of Pinky Pinkham( Dorothy Provine) singing a few turnes at the Charleston Club. So like the corners of my mind- with skate keys, red licorice and connecting with childhood friends on Facebook- I wish every Daddy and Grandpa a Happy Father’s Day. And what I would give to hear that infamous whistle beckoning me to come in just one more time- And Daddy this time I would come in right away!

When G-d grants you the “serenity to accept the things you cannot change, the courage to change the things you can and the wisdom to know the difference”- you poll vault into that spot. Lessons hard learned and satisfied reap the biggest of rewards.We didn’t burn our hand this time- oh yeah! 

We live the “life on life’s terms” more so than ever. When there are lots of players and lots of comings and goings we adjust our emotionality around the excitement of the pick ups. 

We have many, many young friends. “The Greatest Love of all is happening to me”–GRANDCHILDREN. They are climbing the ladder and we are there to give them a hand up, be a safety net if they tip backwards and cheer with bated breath as they achieve milestones.

Yesterday we were so lucky to be at Fourth Grade Zimiriah 5776. Our two oldest grandchildren sang their way toward middle school. With tears in my eyes I looked over to see my husband wiping his eyes too. “Winter, spring, summer or fall, all you have to do is call and I’ll be there yeah, yeah.”

We have come to realize with italicized definition “what you reap, is what you sow. 

“If you did good things in the past, you will get good things in the future.”- Mama said there’d be days like this- so mama if you can hear me they’re here.

On Wednesday we took Zachary- (and if you ask he will tell you thru a wink and a smile he’s 5 years old)- to the Botanical Garden. He and his two older brothers add Venus Fly Traps to our resplendent terrace. We rode around on the tram and added commentary to the tour guides words. He/we loved every moment. The cloud formations presented in grand feather-like shapes. Mama was smiling. I know. We took the plants, (yes they eat and chew thru teeth) home to the terrace. As we fed them and shared that knowing moment- an epiphany occurred. As obvious as we feed the plants, water the tomatoes and lettuce that Jack planted- watch the peppers grow huge- yes Alexei- you’ll see them later and I am running on in this sentence, marvel at the watermelon seeds which have blossomed for James. The alarming message was accepting the things we cannot change because, just for right now, we wouldn’t. #luckyus- indeed!

Mea culpa- I give up, give in and admit to my shortcomings. For everyone I’ve wronged I am sorry, for anyone I might have inadvertently pissed off I am regretful. Fair is fair and then you make an amends no matter what.So we show up, shoes shined and try our very best. Some of the people, some of the time as it goes. When you’ve  boomed ur way to the top of the roller coaster you get a broad spectrum view. The ride up the longest, the stay at the top the shortest, the ride down the quickest. We get one ticket! Profound as that may seem. L’shana tova tikatevu.

With the threat of stepping off a curb, being at the mercy of the other side of the weapon or drawing a bad luck health card –celebrating everything until further notice rings true. Doom and gloom- I think so. We are riveting with a hangover from just the “latest” tragic event. 100 plus people were on the way to the forum on a beautiful Saturday night. How grandly pathetic!

With no genius to the insight that we are a country riddled with time bombs for disaster, where do we begin? How does this end? So we begin today mourning and praying. There is hope that the there will be physical recovery for the survivors. And then what- a lifetime of emotional prison? Increments of healing that have no repair, just resolution.

We need to look after each other. Once again my beloved Bubby’s words come to mind. “Mamala look the other way-” if you get too close everyone smells (always chuckled at that one). “Forgive everyone everything” — well? We all have strengths and clay feet. Find your milieu and become a charter member of that club. Share your jacket with a friend in a cold movie. Give the last piece of cake and hug your dear ones – heart to heart- shout out to Aunt G. When there is one ticket left for the ride at playland – that too, give away. Embrace the knowledge you’ve done your best- and pray that it’s contagious. Go to the pulpit, bow your head and I repeat- L’ shana tova tikatevu.

“That certain night , the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air. There were angels dining at the Ritz- “And a Nightingale Sang in Barclay Square.” Words by Eric Maschwitz, music by Manning Sherwin. The song was written in 1939 in a French fishing village Le Lavandou right before the outbreak of the Second World War. Fast forward— On a steamy week-end eve you get dressed, put on your lipstick, turn off your music and walk out the door. You look forward to debriefing the week with a friend and meeting some new friends. You’re all set to chill in a high energy, safe haven club, on your local Barclay Square- the nightingales were singing. Dry martinis, familiar faces and music you listen to at home and know every word to. A perfect design for a five-star time. One would think. And then the World According to Garp doesn’t happen. No Lin Manuel, THESE senseless acts of tragedy are what is “promised.” Our promised land nearly 70 years after World War Two- on the the doorstep of World War Three. “Praising Isis, Gunman attacks Gay Nightclub, leaving 50 dead in worst shooting on U.S.Soil”– the headline in today’s New York Times. Yes, on U.S. soil, the same dirt that has a potential presidential candidate who made this horrifically designed tragedy about him. We scream in horror, we cry in disbelief as one more lunatic walks into one more gun shop and puts down one more stolen credit card. We then pay dearly for the laws that govern the strongest nation on earth. We pray for the insane and fund them in jail after they take away our freedom of choice, as to which place to dance the night away–that takes our Life away. In concentration camp like fashion we become prisoners of the loose cannon, suicide bombers who live to die. The adage of ” do guns kill people or do people kill people” is one big oxymoron. One avenue for slaughter is people buying guns. How long is congress on sabbatical from revising laws on buying over the counter rifles in a store that houses beef jerky too? Dear G-d please look in our direction. We need our backs covered and we are willing to double down for this.

When we get a part along the way, feeling thankful is appropriate and then taking center stage is dignified. Push aside the dialogue, the cluttered rhetoric and own your role. In 2007 we saw a movie directed by the artist Julian Schnabel – The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. The movie tracked the story of Jean-Dominique Bauby, editor in chief of the French fashion bible Elle Magazine. At the age of 43 he had a devastating stroke which damaged his brain stem. He was left bearing the sentence of a condition called locked in syndrome. He was almost completely paralyzed except for the singular ability to blink one eye. His mind was in tact and thinking and feeling his blessing and curse. We watched him suffer thru a living under water like state. He suffocated in body and mind. At the time we saw the movie my mother was dying. I sat there with one eye closed, writhing in emotional distress. My artistic license saw this through my mother’s eyes. I too closely related to this stagnation through strangulation. We left and I was drenched in mind and body. The idea of never being able to act on impulse , click our heals together and leap to our next activity –a form of death beyond imagination. When our spirit is stifled and our ability to grow exists only in concept we are anesthetized and left numb. With no hope in sight and the view of our plot terminal, it is then that we redo the metrics and doggy paddle our way out from under. Ah, freedom! In thru your nose, out thru your mouth.Fast forward to last nights victory speech. Distinguished with the countenance and bearing smacking of Madame President, Hillary took over center stage. With a fervent stance she portended the prototype of “temperamentally fit.”

Fair and square, no air brushing, no fixed numbers at the polls and no competition Hillary dazzled us with no bull–. Sighing relief, we marveled in the sincerity, fluidity and kindness of her words. We blinked both eyes and started gaining our visions back. Looking ahead with foresight, we could see the final act of debate ending. The curtain closed on this Wagner opera. The Macbeth of politics was circling the drain. She hugged her daughter and “presumptive”grandchild. Bill mouthed of his pride for her. “Forgive us Our Trespasses.” Religion and Politics and there we are.

From one generation to the next. Traditionally books are passed down to the next generation. We gave Toby-8 yr.old a beautiful book that my husband had on New York Landmark Buildings. Toby is curious, and extremely well versed in a lot. The beauty of this as I see it- he Feels how intellectually endowed he is. Oh, Toby, I kvell. So he proudly carried this large, rather heavy book out the door with a smile that sang to us. He proceeded to tell us that passing on books is traditionally what families do. Out of the mouths…The play was thrown on summer. Ok let’s do it. Good time to clean closets and do a Karma cleanse. As long as we keep following seasons and don’t limp into third base we’re good. Change is inevitable and the transition zaps energy and certainty. So we try to stock up on sleep, keep social connections tight and tie the laces on our sneakers. We sell homes, kids move on and 10 year old boys don’t want soooo many hugs. Ah-men! We try to pay attention so we don’t miss the opportunity to take a joker on someone else’s tray. Luck is recognizing opportunity as we have come to see.

And I quote- “If Plan A isn’t an option, kick the crap out of Plan B.” This piece of advice was given to Sheryl Sanders (COO of Facebook), by her dear friend. One year ago, while on a family vacation her husband Dave Goldberg died suddenly. He was on the treadmill and a heart arrithymia took his life. Her heart stopped beating as well. 

Adages galore come to mind. Life on life’s terms. Life doesn’t always go in one straight line- only the good… so we fall down seven times and we get up eight. 

When we are on the movie line and the sign goes up “this show is sold out,” 

 We view it as an easy paradigm for plan B. Next time we will order tickets on line and walk right in. We kicked in an alternative and appropriately watched La Cage Aux Folles. Our take away song because “we are who we are,” was 

“The best of times is now- so hold this moment fast, and live and love as hard as you know- as for tomorrow we’ll who knows, who knows, who knows. Wednesday we will start with watering the plants-they need us!

Recipe for long living, long ago. How many had grandparents who lived well into their 90’s? Maybe they knew Vic Tanny existed but they were too busy working hard, cooking and baking and smoking cigarettes to get to know him well. My Grandmother, (Bubby Chicken), for those in the know, led with an indomitable spirit. She had a startling  ability to push unpleasant thoughts down the block and across the street. She was too busy to worry about what so and so said or thought. With rolling pin in hand and her grater not far away she filled part of her days. I often wondered if she slept with her apron on as it was ever present and the first thing we noticed when we ran in for her endless Hug. 

We believe she was the prototype for the ” I’m gonna live forever, I’m gonna learn high to fly” lyrics. So, noodle and or potato pudding, apple cake, rugalach with raisins and jelly and her famous candy bowl filled with hard candies were things we came to depend on. We never knew how we would make it to dessert as we were left stuffed with carbs, salt, schmaltz and gribenes(for those in the know.) And- just in case, she had her trustworthy mylanta, gaviscon- or “here mamala have a tums” waiting on the counter next to the left over flour and right under an old plant that still had the ribbon and card on it from last Mother’s Day.

In the absence of probiotics, papaya enzymes, lactaid free whatever’s, Pilates, colonoscopies, portion controls, calories counts on products, my grandmother and her friends lived forever.

Were their stomachs better equipped? Was it not considered abuse to reach for the sugar and go for the salt first? Perhaps endemic to generations long ago who focused less on Vit. D levels and more on how good Halavah tasted, whether it was marble or chocolate covered. The conundrum eludes me, how about you?

A three pronged example of a lifestyle fast forwarded is a workout on the treadmill, a bullet green shake and dashing off to have our blood work tested after a 50,000 unit regimen to pump up the numbers. Bub, we all miss the high caloric, straddled with confectioners sugar way you celebrated life. By the way thanks for palming us the good luck gelt every time we left your side. 

I hope when I read this at 90, G-d willing, I am smiling. I pray that I used up whatever talents I had. I’ll then know my soul was soothed along the way by the things that gave me satisfactio…

Source: To My 90 Year Old Self

I hope when I read this at 90, G-d willing, I am smiling. I pray that I used up whatever talents I had. I’ll then know my soul was soothed along the way by the things that gave me satisfaction. Whether it was a piece of writing, doing an art project or cooking a couple of great meals I will be happy knowing I did these things over and over again. Please let my loved ones outlive me. Biding adieu to the precious people who helped my heart skip beats would be treacherous. An octave of my music stopped every time I lost someone- the pain excruciating. Selfish, albeit protective. When my time with someone was up I hope I knew when to walk away. In turn, I hope I quickly saw their part in my journey was completed when they walked. Lingering wasted time- to be sad was not to be productive. Perhaps I learned a lesson, or just my share of bad luck. When given the chance to assist those who were less fortunate I would like to be reading that I paid it forward. Whether it was a hand me down of medical experience or protecting a beloved through a stormy moment; I hope I gave it with love and honesty. I hope my relationship with my sister’s ultimately became very good for longer than it wasn’t so good. I loved them indeed. I hope my husband got that I did my best as a refugee of lost wars emotionally. I hope he felt the love through my actions. I pray my nieces knew my love for them was fierce in every way. I can’t imagine our grandchildren won’t just know how much they helped make my life wonderful. As I am reading this fast forward- my desire is to see that I made people laugh. Perhaps not everyone got my humor or saw the funny as I did- but I loved to laugh and got a kick out of silly. I know it kept me healthier and happier then be-moaning a fate not loaned to me. 

As far as jealousy, I hope I recognized how blessed I was. No one gets it all, but I believe I had a dose of great that propped up the not so great. If I hurt people’s feelings I hope they knew it was out of insecurity and with no malice or forethought. If I am reading that I became a fan of exercise, ate more vegetables and bettered impulse control I will be thrilled.

With all this said I hope that I found a place in my charity of choice where a good deal of who I was lingered. Giving was more rewarding than receiving. Carrying that thought with me allowed for the powerful self concept that kept me focused on the prize of my Life! And if I am unable to read this I hope one of you are reading it to me. I held you dear.

Boomer blogs are getting a reputation as self-help guides. So who doesn’t need help? Who can’t use some improvement? The boomer in us have boomed our way to figuring doing it better–Better. In the midst of a nightmare election on the front burner we are certainly living outside the Age of Aquarius. The war of words exhibits an affront to one and all. We end up temporarily siding with no one as we are stunned by the abuse and the disrespect through words. And you are having a problem showing your tax returns because? 

Not to tout the corpulent ego of Barry Goldwater, however and I quote “extremism in the pursuit of the truth is no vice.” The feeling of being overshadowed by an elitist enterprise, feels too close to the truth. How many billions does it take make you reel it in? Hey, the pre-millennials and your grandchildren are viewing this as the prototype of candidates running for the highest office. Really, boys and girls! This political stand still moment in time will be remembered as two bully’s fighting in a back ally. Don’t they know to let the other one at least feel they are winning. This was one well versed theorem of lyricist Richard Rodgers when he collaborated with verse and music. Let’s do it your way, no let’s do it yours. The strength of someone who has lived a very successful life cannot be overestimated. Well, you would think so. So where is Dale Carnegie’s book, or Erma Bombeck’s guide when we need them? Simpler times when “Please Don’t Eat the Daisies” was a mild warning. No longer do you see people dressed in evening garb at theater. Going to the Ballet and Opera was often a black tie evening and not just on the weekend. What happened to the dinner dates when it was no cell zone nights? How about the folks who gaze at the phone placed next to them every 17 minutes or every time an email, perhaps political in nature comes through? With the uproar in our everyday from the top down we have choices none the less. As the millenials are choosing to bunk in their parents basements over ramen noodle dinners, we are choosing to have ramen noodle dinners at home over sitting at dinners with people more interested whether Donald is over the Hill and why Bernie is still standing, than us. Make it a Carnegie and Bombeck day and like Bettie Ann suggested last week, download “Turn it off,” from Book of Mormons. Self-helped!