I am the youngest of three. There was a two year gap between the birth of child number 1 and child number two in our house, but at the ripe age of 34, six years later, Bumma found herself expecting for a third time. Bumma, for 84, is still a lovely looking woman, but in earlier days, she was absolutely stunning. She had a healthy, earthy glow about her, totally natural and fresh (especially given the fashions of the 50's...) My elder brother recalls how kids in the neighborhood would come to our house just to look at her and bask in her warmth.
I wasn't a terribly big baby, but as the days moved into summer, Bumma recalls how graceless and cumbersome she felt. Her body was not the slim shape she was so accustomed to. Summers in the Washington DC area are sticky and hot. She lumbered through her days, feeling slightly elephantine and clumsy, and even recalls that she couldn't fit through some doorways if she was sideways. She's a little slip of a thing--5'2' at her peak, maybe 100 pounds soaking wet.
One evening, she and my father were out with friends, when they saw a Hawaiian dancer. Bumma was captivated by the flowing motions of the dance, the gentle sway of the woman's hips and enchanting movements of the hands and arms as the dancer danced her story. The hula clearly called to my mother, a daughter of Jewish immigrants, who was born and raised in Brooklyn and Brighton Beach. The soft music of another beach and the islands ensnared her heart.
And thus, after I was born, my mother learned to hula dance. She and her friends met to take lessons. Mildred Kushner became so entranced that she formally changed her name to Milanii Lee. Bumma didn't go to such measures, but loved the dance. She was never brave enough to dance in public, but would dance at home, for my father. Each day, she'd practice in front of the mirror. I still remember sitting on the floor watching her...the long mirror in her bedroom, the rays of sunlight streaming through the window, dust motes dancing in the beams--and my beautiful mother swaying in the rhythm of the music. On rare occasions, she'd take out a grass skirt she had acquired somewhere and dance in that. The fronds had a swish and whisper that added to the cadence of the dance. It was magical.
Bumma recalls how she'd look down at her youngest child, a golden headed girl, sitting on the floor next to her. And as Bumma moved her arms and hands to tell a story, the little girl at her feet also waved her little arms in time to the music.
It was one such day that the phone rang while Bumma danced. The call came from her elder brother. Her beloved mother, Ida, was ill--comatose. Years later, when Bumma was telling the story of her mother's death, I asked her if that was the time she stopped dancing and cried on the phone. I was two. I still remember. Bumma left that day to be at her mother's side.
Ida died that weekend. Bumma never danced the hula again.
ALOHA OE
© 1878
Lyrics & Music: Queen Liliuokalani; English lyrics © 1923 arr. By Chas. E. King
Despite the common story that the Queen composed "Aloha Oe" while imprisoned in the Palace during the overthrow of the monarchy, George Kanahele in Hawaiian Music and Musicians states it was common knowledge at the time that she wrote the song during a horseback ride to the ranch of Edwin Boyd in Maunawili, inspired by the giving of a lei to one of her party by a Hawaiian girl at the gate of the ranch.
ALOHA OE
Queen Liliuokalani
English
Proudly swept the rain cloud by the cliffs,
As on it glided through the trees
Still following ever the "liko"
The "Ahihi lehua" of the vale...
Farewell to thee,
Farewell to thee,
Thou charming one who dwellst among the bow'rs.
One fond embrace,
Before I now depart,
Until we meet again.
Thus sweet memories come back to me,
Bringing fresh remembrance of the past
Dearest one, yes, thou art mine own,
From thee, true love shall ne'er depart.
(Chorus)
I have seen and watched thy loveliness,
Thous sweet Rose of Maunawili,
And 'tis there the birds oft love to dwell
And sip the honey from thy lips.
Proudly swept the rain cloud by the cliffs,
As on it glided through the trees
Still following ever the "liko"
The "Ahihi lehua" of the vale...
Farewell to thee,
Farewell to thee,
Thou charming one who dwellst among the bow'rs.
One fond embrace,
Before I now depart,
Until we meet again.
Thus sweet memories come back to me,
Bringing fresh remembrance of the past
Dearest one, yes, thou art mine own,
From thee, true love shall ne'er depart.
(Chorus)
I have seen and watched thy loveliness,
Thous sweet Rose of Maunawili,
And 'tis there the birds oft love to dwell
And sip the honey from thy lips.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Monday, April 1, 2013
On Wellness
The Springtimes of my childhood were filled with forsythia and dogwoods, the soft velvet of pussy willows, the return of robins, hungry for worms after their their long flight north. The days were marked by the greening of the trees, and by daffodils, pushing their heads up from the thawing ground. Spring brought a cleansing, as homes around us cleaned and cleared in preparation for Pesach. Being ecumenical in the approach to life, my friends and I dyed eggs, while wondering where the Afikoman would be hidden, if we we would be the one to find it, and what our prize would be.
In the springtime of my fifth year, my mother took me downtown for a special girl's day, to buy a new dress to wear for the holidays. It was fabulous to have my mother all to myself, not having to share her with big brothers, father, dog, and whatever else could grab her attention. We were headed to Hecht's, waiting for the light to change to cross the street. There was a bus at the corner, loading passengers heading into DC.
Red light to green, and a flashing walk sign; look right, then left, then right again. I pulled on my mother's hand to cross the street.
"Not yet, Mamele, let both buses pull away from the curb. We don't want to step between them. The driver of the second might not see us."
I looked again. There was only one bus. What I was witnessing was one of the first manifestations of my mother's Multiple Sclerosis. It's called Diplopia, or double vision. The disease that would hound her heels, but never conquer her, had grabbed the brainstem, creating lesions, and causing problems for her cranial nerve.
Over the years, my mother's MS tried various ways to take over her life. But she was amazing. She charged forth, living her life fully and with flair. People used to say to her her how hard it must be to be sick. "I'm not sick. I'm one of the healthiest people around. I just happen to have MS".
Of course, the same knuckleheads would ask me if it was hard having a mother who was "crippled", because she used canes, or braces, or walkers, or wheelchairs to help keep herself mobile. What a ridiculous thing to ask! She was my mother; we rode the curves life threw us together. That was the life we knew. Any other type of life was not reality. I grew up with her coming to terms with what living with MS meant, but not being defined by it. I knew no other way. She was my mom, and she was terrific.
These thoughts recently came to mind in two conversations with an old friends, who found me online. For one, it was after a gap of close to 50 years, but she found articles that led her to me. She remembered the vision trouble my mother had in those early days of MS, back in Silver Spring. She said, when we reconnected by phone, "I know she was sick, and had such problems seeing, but there was always a twinkle, a sparkle in her eyes. Coming to your house was coming home. Like walking into your brain and feeling just right."
The other friend and I reunited via Facebook. He is living with a life-altering disease. From what I can tell, he is facing it with courage, and reaching out to help others who suffer from severe neurological insults. In my mother's last days, when she was ravaged by the cancer that hastened her demise, we made a pact to face life with "courage, caring, laughter and love." It was only after she passed that I realized that was how she faced all her days.
Apparently, courage, caring, laughter, and love are a legacy she passed on to her offspring. I see it in my brother in great abundance; it was a way of life, too, for my elder brother before his death. And with my wonky health challenges, I do my best not to be defined by the condition. I'm not always successful, but even if I have to curtail an activity, or adjust to accommodate and stay safe, I try to keep going. It's not that I'm strong, or special, or smart, or wise, or any of that crap. I'm Ruthe's kid, and I'm living life as she taught me to do. I try to look twice before I cross the street, to not step between buses, and to walk forward, with a twinkle in my eye.
In the springtime of my fifth year, my mother took me downtown for a special girl's day, to buy a new dress to wear for the holidays. It was fabulous to have my mother all to myself, not having to share her with big brothers, father, dog, and whatever else could grab her attention. We were headed to Hecht's, waiting for the light to change to cross the street. There was a bus at the corner, loading passengers heading into DC.
Red light to green, and a flashing walk sign; look right, then left, then right again. I pulled on my mother's hand to cross the street.
"Not yet, Mamele, let both buses pull away from the curb. We don't want to step between them. The driver of the second might not see us."
I looked again. There was only one bus. What I was witnessing was one of the first manifestations of my mother's Multiple Sclerosis. It's called Diplopia, or double vision. The disease that would hound her heels, but never conquer her, had grabbed the brainstem, creating lesions, and causing problems for her cranial nerve.
Over the years, my mother's MS tried various ways to take over her life. But she was amazing. She charged forth, living her life fully and with flair. People used to say to her her how hard it must be to be sick. "I'm not sick. I'm one of the healthiest people around. I just happen to have MS".
Of course, the same knuckleheads would ask me if it was hard having a mother who was "crippled", because she used canes, or braces, or walkers, or wheelchairs to help keep herself mobile. What a ridiculous thing to ask! She was my mother; we rode the curves life threw us together. That was the life we knew. Any other type of life was not reality. I grew up with her coming to terms with what living with MS meant, but not being defined by it. I knew no other way. She was my mom, and she was terrific.
These thoughts recently came to mind in two conversations with an old friends, who found me online. For one, it was after a gap of close to 50 years, but she found articles that led her to me. She remembered the vision trouble my mother had in those early days of MS, back in Silver Spring. She said, when we reconnected by phone, "I know she was sick, and had such problems seeing, but there was always a twinkle, a sparkle in her eyes. Coming to your house was coming home. Like walking into your brain and feeling just right."
The other friend and I reunited via Facebook. He is living with a life-altering disease. From what I can tell, he is facing it with courage, and reaching out to help others who suffer from severe neurological insults. In my mother's last days, when she was ravaged by the cancer that hastened her demise, we made a pact to face life with "courage, caring, laughter and love." It was only after she passed that I realized that was how she faced all her days.
Apparently, courage, caring, laughter, and love are a legacy she passed on to her offspring. I see it in my brother in great abundance; it was a way of life, too, for my elder brother before his death. And with my wonky health challenges, I do my best not to be defined by the condition. I'm not always successful, but even if I have to curtail an activity, or adjust to accommodate and stay safe, I try to keep going. It's not that I'm strong, or special, or smart, or wise, or any of that crap. I'm Ruthe's kid, and I'm living life as she taught me to do. I try to look twice before I cross the street, to not step between buses, and to walk forward, with a twinkle in my eye.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
The Hope Factory: A Novel, by Lavanya Sankaran (Publication date April 23, 2013)
The Hope Factory is a gently told novel that takes the time to craft characters, settings, and situations, all grounded in reality and believability. Two interwoven tales: the first is that of Anand, who simply wishes to expand his business, by expanding his factory. The second story centers on Kamala, one of the servants of Anand’s family, a single mother, subsisting on a small income, trying to carve out a world for herself and her teenage son, who seems to be running with a bad crowd.
Unfortunately for each, life can become complex and difficult. In Anand's case, politics and conflicting loyalties move in to muck up the land sale. (Having experienced India politics through family who lives there, I can attest to the good job done in the depiction.) For Kamala, the precarious balance of her world and economics is threatened by changes in her rent, and in the needs of her son.
This is a story of real people, with real needs, worries, hopes, and concerns. The characters come across as such. I found the second half of the novel moved more quickly, but that the first half needed the pace it did to set the stage and create the world. The end was a bit abrupt, but true to life. We rarely wrap episodes of our existence up into neat little packages, but they tend to slide, with hope, into the next day, the next challenge, the next phase of life. And sometimes, the next adventure.
I received this book via the Early Reviewers program of LibraryThing. Many thanks to LT and to the publishers for letting me into the Bangalore of Anand and Kamala.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Repurposing is the bane of my existence
re·pur·pose
/rēˈpərpəs/
Verb
The endless possibilities presented by junk from my attic, which make it impossible to discard anything.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
When Ukrainian Eyes Are Smiling
St. Patrick's Day, for the past 29 years, makes me think of my honeymoon. Javaczuk and I were married on the Eastern Shore of Maryland on the Ides of March, 1984. Through the workings of fate, my mother, brothers and their wives were all with us on our honeymoon (that's what happens when you sneak off to get married during a family reunion.) We were staying in some cabins on Ball's Creek, where it intersected Broad Creek (I kid you not.)
Two days after we wed, the family consensus was to head to Tilghman Island for a pretty renowned seafood place, sure to satisfy the oyster lovers in the family. And so, we set off and drove from our creek over to the island for a feast -- to Harrison's Chesapeake House -- on St. Patrick's Day.
So, at Harrison's, they were having a huge St Patrick's Day party. So huge, that they weren't sure they could accommodate our group of 5 Nadels and 2 Romanczuks. For while we covered a fair number of nationalities within that group (Ukrainian, Scottish, German, more Ukrainian, and some Hungarian) we didn't have any of the green in our heritage. As we turned to leave, my eldest brother threw his arm around my shoulder, and announced in a loud voice not to worry, little sister. We'd find somewhere else to celebrate the marriage.
Someone overheard him (as I'm sure was his intention), and we quickly found ourselves at a table, with a buffet of oysters, served 20 ways. Plus there were other delicacies: fresh shrimp, crab, fish, all from the Chesapeake Bay. We laughed and ate. Drank and ate. Toasted the new bride and groom and ate. Ate and ate. Sang along with the rather drunken band playing Irish tunes, and ate. People sent us drinks and toasted us some more. I made it through about 5 or 6 ways to have oysters, and then had to undo the button on my trousers and let the zipper out a little, so that I could breathe. I was totally stuffed to the gills with gills, and molusks, and other delights of the sea.
As I watched the room through a rosy glow of abundant food, drink, family, and love, the band leader came to our table. He said he wanted to offer us a toast. Javaczuk and I smiled at him. The fellow then hauled me to my feet, and pulled me to the center of the room with him, where he began a drunken toast, and an even more inebriated version of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." The whole room sang along, toasting us, (my groom at the table with my family, and the oyster-filled bride, being clutched by a soused Irishman, in front of 100 people singing to her.)
And what was I doing? I was hoping my unbuttoned, unzipped trousers wouldn't tumble down. I am convinced they were held up by the miracle of St Patrick.
Two days after we wed, the family consensus was to head to Tilghman Island for a pretty renowned seafood place, sure to satisfy the oyster lovers in the family. And so, we set off and drove from our creek over to the island for a feast -- to Harrison's Chesapeake House -- on St. Patrick's Day.
So, at Harrison's, they were having a huge St Patrick's Day party. So huge, that they weren't sure they could accommodate our group of 5 Nadels and 2 Romanczuks. For while we covered a fair number of nationalities within that group (Ukrainian, Scottish, German, more Ukrainian, and some Hungarian) we didn't have any of the green in our heritage. As we turned to leave, my eldest brother threw his arm around my shoulder, and announced in a loud voice not to worry, little sister. We'd find somewhere else to celebrate the marriage.
Someone overheard him (as I'm sure was his intention), and we quickly found ourselves at a table, with a buffet of oysters, served 20 ways. Plus there were other delicacies: fresh shrimp, crab, fish, all from the Chesapeake Bay. We laughed and ate. Drank and ate. Toasted the new bride and groom and ate. Ate and ate. Sang along with the rather drunken band playing Irish tunes, and ate. People sent us drinks and toasted us some more. I made it through about 5 or 6 ways to have oysters, and then had to undo the button on my trousers and let the zipper out a little, so that I could breathe. I was totally stuffed to the gills with gills, and molusks, and other delights of the sea.
As I watched the room through a rosy glow of abundant food, drink, family, and love, the band leader came to our table. He said he wanted to offer us a toast. Javaczuk and I smiled at him. The fellow then hauled me to my feet, and pulled me to the center of the room with him, where he began a drunken toast, and an even more inebriated version of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." The whole room sang along, toasting us, (my groom at the table with my family, and the oyster-filled bride, being clutched by a soused Irishman, in front of 100 people singing to her.)
And what was I doing? I was hoping my unbuttoned, unzipped trousers wouldn't tumble down. I am convinced they were held up by the miracle of St Patrick.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell
Having experienced adolescent first love, there's really nothing poetic about it. It's awkward. All those hormones rushing about and bodies changing. Just a mess. But when you add in social circumstances that heavily weigh the scales to the "sometimes life really hands out bad stuff" side of things, love can get complicated. Eleanor and Park are about as far apart as two people can be in most ways -- except they both are smart and have incredible hearts, with huge capacities, and untapped depths. The gentle unfolding of their friendship and love is a lovely thing to witness. The language of the novel is fluid, beautiful, and laced with imagery that makes the reader stop to pause to absorb it all. The story is told from alternating points of view of Eleanor, large, lumpy, colorful, living in an abusive family situation, and Park, half-Korean, passably popular, into alternative music, part of an close knit extended family.
So much about this book struck home: the whole kids can be really cruel bit, sibling love and sibling rivalry, the awful things people do for love in bad relationships, and the beautiful, heartwarming ones done for love. If you've ever been fat, or short, or skinny, or had the wrong hair, or wore red shoes that the other kids laughed at, or were the new kid, or wore clothes that weren't the current fashion but not because you wanted to or even knew the difference, or were not the usual in any way, you'll be able to identify with "Big Red" as she struggles to find a place in a new school, where the only faces who smile back are those on the edge of the crowd, too.
I seriously loved this book.
Here's a link to a NYT review by John Green. Yes, the same one who broke my heart and made me cry over Hazel and Gus.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
The Troubled Man, by Henning Mankell
It was a little disconcerting when I first started reading, because the last one in the series I read was actually the second book, where Kurt met Baiba. This one takes place 15 years after he last saw her. I hadn't realized, when I started reading, that "The Troubled Man" was announced as the last Wallender book. Now I'm sitting here snuffling and wiping tears away, as I absorb that I've lost yet another old friend and favorite series. The story was a good mystery, but the personal details of Wallender's relationship with Linda, Mona, and Baiba really got to me, as did his fears of following in his father's footsteps. I, too, have the worry of losing my memory as I age, and felt that Mankell did a beautiful job putting the reader in Wallender's thoughts and fears. I have read the series out of order, so still have a few books to go back and read -- thank goodness.
Goodbye, Kurt. May you live your final years surrounded by the love of your family. You've earned it. I'll miss you.
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