A show-stopping number from “Bye-Bye Birdie”, in which I played Randi in 10th grade, is “The Telephone Hour”. Staged better in the theater than in the truly awful movie, it shows all the teenagers, posing in a multi-level platform-cubicle, gossiping on their princess telephones: “Hi Margie, Hi Helen, What’s the story, morning glory? What’s the word, humming bird” Have you heard about Hugo and Kim?” I loved being in that number, with one leg high up against the side of my box, showing my flexibility. “Did she really get pinned? Did she kiss him and cry? Did he pin the pin on? Or was he too shy?”

Real life wasn’t quite like that. Our house had two phones; one in the kitchen…not a private space. The other was in my parents’ bedroom, on the nightstand between their twin beds. I think it was a big deal when we got our first princess phone. After my homework was done, I loved to sit on the floor between those twin beds and chat for hours with my girlfriends. I’m not sure we had anything important to discuss, but it was fun to catch up on the day’s events, find out who would be going to the Friday night game, or the dance, any news of break-ups or new romances. Stuff like that. Visions of a cordless phone, answering machine or a cellphone was beyond my imagination. Actually being disconnected from the plug in the wall seemed like something from the Jetsons.

Do I miss this lack of connectivity? Not really. I miss the innocence of the era and what it represented in my life. Now that we carry little computers with us at all times, we can be in touch at all times. I was recently reprimanded by my husband, while he was still on Martha’s Vineyard and I was home in Newton, watching a movie one night, for not looking at my emails for a while. What was I doing, he demanded to know? (We’d had a mini-disaster at the Vineyard house that we needed to attend to…why he didn’t CALL me, well, that’s another story. But my phone didn’t ping, warning that a new email had come through, so he sat there, getting angry, rather than calling me!) Yes, we live in a hyper-connected world where we expect people will answer immediately; whether that is possible or not.

The AAA Trip-Tik is another vestige of those by-gone days that wasn’t as perfect as our modern GPS or Waze, but my dad was the master at following the orange high-lighted line to wherever we were going, whether it was up north to Lake Michigan for a vacation, or getting us out to visit his sister in Worcester (I thought that was such a funny word and mispronounced it the first time I saw it on a map). Our trips tended to go through Ohio, so we could visit Mom’s relatives along the way; her brother and nieces in Toledo, her sister and nephew in Cleveland. Then on to the East Coast to take Rick or me to Brandeis. Or pick Rick up at JFK airport upon his return from two years in Israel in 1972. So again, it makes me miss my father tremendously…his great driving and navigational skills (he taught navigation in the Army Air Corps in WWII), his generous spirit and love of family, his warmth and humanity.

While GPS had helped me tremendously (I have no innate sense of direction), I traveled constantly for business during my active working life, long before there was any navigational tool to help me find a new client in a strange city. When I set up the appointment, I would ask the client for directions to his company from the airport (as the common denominator, figuring that I could adjust once I got to my hotel). It is amazing how detailed the directions, with great landmarks, people used to give. I would also allow myself a half hour extra, in case I got lost, and in those days, gas stations actually had LIVE people, so I could always stop and ask for help, which I did, if I needed to. I have never been afraid to ask for help when the need arose. I was NEVER late for an appointment. That would be rude. I believe in good manners; in my professional and personal life.

The pace of life has sped up. We may feel nostalgia for what “used to be”. Technology has improved our lives in many ways, but it pays to remember how to be civil and patient.

 

 

 

” I want  lots of roses,” my sister said.

This was the first time she directly spoke about the inevitability of her death, acknowledging that some kind of farewell or celebration would be held for her. And she had a few ideas.

I grabbed a note pad and we started planning what would become a heartfelt, memorable, and musical celebration of her life. She was all about list-making, so I made a list of who she wanted to speak, which musicians she wanted to play, possible locations for the event, and a play list of tunes. We planned as much as we could together, but then she ran out of energy and the focus shifted to making sure she was comfortable. I think she felt assured that I could carry out her plans.

 

The night before my sister died, I had a conversation with a friend who was the Executive Director of Children’s Fairyland in Oakland. My sister had volunteered in the garden there for many years. I told my friend that we had begun planning a celebration of life, and my sister wondered if we could hold it in Fairyland’s amphitheater. Without a moment’s hesitation, my friend said of course we could. We didn’t know how timely this conversation would be.

My sister died in May, but events like the one she wanted take time to plan. And a delay gave me and my family time to process the tremendous loss. There were so many details to attend to first. Keeping busy and checking things off a list couldn’t offset the grief, but I found it made me feel better as I carried out my sister’s wishes.

I wanted to make sure my daughter, her favorite (and only) niece, could fly out from New York to be part of the celebration. We settled on a date in August, with enough time to find musicians, book a caterer, and create a program to reflect the life she’d lived.

I started thinking about how to make this event something people would be able to participate in, along with granting my sister’s wish for “lots of roses.” Because Fairyland is closed in the evenings, we had to have someone posted at the front entrance to make sure the people coming in were there for the service. So I asked everyone to bring a rose to make it clear they were invited guests. I purchased some large green vases (plastic because glass isn’t allowed in the park), and was lucky enough to have two friends volunteer to carefully place each rose in a vase as people filed into the amphitheater. By the time everyone was seated, all the vases at the edge of the stage were full of bright, beautiful flowers. She would’ve loved it.

My husband had the task of lining up the musicians, several of whom were friends. The drummer is a guy we went to high school with and has had a long professional career, but also knew my sister. In addition, we had a vocalist, a keyboard player, a saxophone player, and a bassist. Among the tunes my sister requested were: “People,” “Someone to Watch Over Me,”  “Here’s to Life”  and “Fly Me to the Moon.” I added “It’s Easy to Remember and So Hard to Forget,” which had been one of our dad’s favorites, and one of mine too because it reminds me of him.

My older son took on the duty of emcee, since he’s very much at home performing in front of crowds. Our speakers included my cousin, my husband, a high school friend, a long-time friend and former housemate, my three children, another long-time friend who stood in for the rabbi to read something in Hebrew, and me. It was a long lineup for people who were seated on concrete steps, but no one really complained (at least, not to me!).

I had hired a friend of my son’s to be stage manager and she was essential in making sure all the details were taken care of: coordinating with the tech people, the caterers, the musicians, the videographer–and keeping me from fretting about everything. I couldn’t have pulled it off without her!

My artistic daughter-in-law produced a lovely program that featured some photos, the cast of characters, a blessing I  found somewhere, and the lyrics of “Here’s to Life.” There were roses on the program too.

 

 

At the beginning of the service, my son asked everyone to turn to the person sitting next to them and ask how they knew my sister. It was her legacy, she said, to have connected so many people–and it’s true: she had a knack for getting people together and having them become not just her friends, but friends with each other.I wish I could’ve heard what they were saying as even more connections were made.

As the end of the celebration grew near, the stage manager gave a sign to my son; she could sense that the seats were getting a little hard for our guests. As soon as I finished my remarks, he thanked everyone for coming and invited them to continue telling stories and sharing memories with each other at the reception. The caterer (also a friend of my sister’s) and I planned the menu to include some of her favorite dishes from catering gigs she’d helped with over the years.

The musicians played “Fly Me to the Moon,” as people filed out toward the reception area. My son held out his hand, and led me into a dance. I danced with both of my boys, as I had at their weddings–a joyful way to wrap up a celebration of my sister’s life. She would have loved all of it.

So here’s to a life well lived:

Susie Elkind

April 9,1949-May 22, 2015

Saying Farewell to a Special Guy

My father Arthur was a very special guy.   He was widely knowledgable yet possessed an endearing naiveté;  a scientist by profession,  he was an artist and musician by avocation;  annoyingly stubborn at times yet always generous of spirit;  a profound thinker and also mischievous;  a punster and a teller of corny jokes,   my dad was a man of great inner strength and drive yet the most gentle of souls.

Raised in Liberty,  New York,  the Catskill town where my Russian immigrant grandparents had a farm and later ran a small hotel,  he attended the early grades in a one-room schoolhouse.   He was often skipped ahead because,  as he once told me,  he’d listen and learn the more challenging lessons the teacher was giving the older kids.

Always interested in science,   as an inquisitive farm boy he dissected a few unfortunate frogs,  and remembered accompanying the town doctor as he drove around the countryside in his Model T Ford making house calls.

Arthur went on to NYU Heights,  later my alma mater too,  and then to NYU Med graduating at age 24 – remember that one-room schoolhouse?

My dad was amazingly gifted in many ways,  as a physician and diagnostician,  an artist and craftsman,  and a self-taught classical pianist.   But what I was most proud of when I was a little girl was that he could ride a horse bare-back,  milk a cow,  and ice skate backwards!

Years ago I shattered a large glass bowl on my kitchen floor.   Shoeless,  I stepped on shards of broken glass and my husband took me to the local emergency room with a very bloody extremity.  But for all their skill and medical equipment,  they couldn’t get out all the slivers,   and I was sent home with an apology and an X-ray of my foot.

So I called my dad.   He came over,  held the X-ray up to the little lamp on my night table,   and as I lay on my bed he removed all the glass with a bent safety pin.

Throughout their lives both my parents were very proud of their Judaism although they were non-believers and unaffiliated.   Yet during a hospitalization a few months before he died,  my father and the rabbi who was the hospital chaplain formed a surprising friendship.   Over long conversations they came to know each other quite well,   and so when my dad died my mother asked the rabbi to officiate at the funeral.

And then on a sunny September morning we gathered to bid farewell to a very special guy.

My sister Laurie,  by then a research biologist,  remembered the trips the two of them made to the Museum of Natural History when she was a kid.

My uncle Stevie was now the only one left to remember days on the farm with my grandparents,  my aunt Fran and my dad –  his big brother Arthur –  who,  he told us,  played second base on a rag-tag team they called the Liberty Farmers.

My husband Danny spoke of his beloved father-in-law,  calling him a cross between Albert Schweitzer and Tom Sawyer,  and my son Noah remembered fishing with his grandfather in the Rockaways,  and trips with his grandparents to DisneyWorld.

And then my dad’s friend the rabbi spoke.

“Arthur may not have believed in God”,   the rabbi told us,  “but God believed in Arthur.”

So did we.

– Dana Susan Lehrman