As most language was eluding her, it was wonderful that she was able to profit from the memorization exercises of her childhood.
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Mother died three days before her 97th birthday. I described my relationship with her, and her last six days of life in much detail in What I Didn’t Tell You Then.

I knew the people at the funeral home in Detroit quite well. The owner, Herb Kaufman, lived around the corner from us in Huntington Woods. His daughter Ilene was a classmate of mine throughout public school and Temple. She married her high school sweetheart, Dave, who now ran the business. It was he I called as Mother lay dying, to make the final arrangements. He was kind and helpful. Subsequently, I dealt with one of his sons. They kept it all in the family.

Mom died early on the morning on August 14, 2010. Rick and I chose not to see her remains until we reassembled a few days later in Detroit. Both our families stayed in a hotel. Vicki was still on a summer internship in Silicon Valley and could not be called home, but David flew in from grad school in New York City. Rick and Annie drove in from Cincinnati and their sons came in from wherever they were at the time. We drew comfort from being altogether.

Mother had left Detroit to be close to me more than 15 years earlier and had out-lived her few remaining friends. We planned a small grave-side service, with cousins (many on our father’s side of the family, who came to support us). Two of Mom’s nieces and their husbands came in from Toledo. One high school friend of Rick’s came.

Legally, Rick had to identify the body, as we had not seen her after she passed, so we went together to Kaufman’s Funeral Chapel before meeting everyone at the cemetery and were led to a small side chapel where she was laid out in an open coffin, wearing the dress she’d worn years earlier to Rick’s wedding. She thought it was the prettiest dress she’d ever owned and was adamant about being buried in it.

I marveled at how well she looked, so different than the wraith I left behind a few days earlier. Now her hair was done nicely, the dress, indeed beautiful. “Mom, you’d be SO happy with the way you look!” This was her 97th birthday. I thought she looked great, perhaps a weird thing to say about one’s recently deceased mother, but it was true. She had never liked her looks.

Dave from Kaufman’s, no longer the youngster/boyfriend I remembered, came in to offer condolences. Next entered a bent-over, old man using a walker. I assumed he was at the wrong chapel, as there was a huge funeral going on in the large chapel next door. I squinted for a moment and realized it was Herbie Kaufman, come to pay his respects. I flew into his arms! Though classmates with Ilene, I was friendlier with his oldest child, Bud. We were in the school plays together and he was best friends with John, who dated and married my close friend Patti. Rick and I were so touched that he came here for us. I had brought a photo from John and Patti’s wedding which included Dave, Ilene, Bud and his date and their younger sister Patty, who was now deceased. Dave loved it, asked if he could take it to their office to make a copy (of course). Rick and Herb settled in for a chat about Reform Jewish congregations. I clucked like a mother hen. Below is the wedding photo with the Kaufman children included. Ilene is behind the groom’s shoulder. Dave, to the right with a great head of dark hair. This is June, 1973. Bud was John’s best man with the white carnation. Yes, I’m on the left in the pink. One of John’s Harvard suite mates has his arm around me. He came out the following year.

It was time to be driven to the cemetery behind the hearse. We said goodbye to Herb and drove to Temple Beth El Cemetery in Livonia, where so many of our relatives are buried. Since Rick was a principal mourner, he did not lead the service. His wife Annie performed that function for us. Our children read Psalms. Rick gave the first eulogy. He spoke about the disappointment of women of Mother’s generation; these bright, competent women, who could have done so much with their lives, but instead did club work. Not that the work wasn’t important, it just wasn’t as fulfilling as it might have been. Our mother was always in the shadow of her older sister (with whom she would be buried). Ann was the president of many organizations. Mother was insecure about herself in so many ways. It ultimately undid her.

I had thought for years about what I might say at this event. Despite all the tensions between us, I wanted to keep my remarks positive. I told the Anna Pavlova story, which was one of her favorites and demonstrated her love of dance and how she taught me to love the arts and creativity. I spoke extemporaneously and kept no notes, so cannot remember exactly all that I said. But I know I ended by saying that you know you had a good party when the three Stein sisters got up and danced the Charleston! I kept my remarks light and positive, filled with gratitude for the gifts of the arts she bequeathed me.

We said Kaddish, shoveled dirt on the open grave, retrieved our cars and went to my cousin Lois’s for shiva. Lois has always been a source of strength and comfort for me. The oldest of our maternal first cousins, she and I ponder large questions together. She and cousin Harriet Prentis had laid out a feast for all of us. Lois’ children were there. They had all been close and kind to Mother and it was good to see them. I remain in touch with them via Facebook. David is just my age and we are true friends.

Mother’s engagement diamond had always been special for her and me. After her divorce, she reset it in a cocktail setting which I never much liked, but she wore it proudly. The diamond came from her father’s jewelry store and I always loved it; an emerald-cut one carat beauty. As her mind disappeared, I had to take it from her to protect it. I put it in the safe in my house. From time to time, she would ask for it and I reassured her that I had it and was safe.

Two months before her death, our Vineyard house was burglarized. The thief stole various medications and four pieces of my jewelry, including my own engagement ring (our wonderful detectives did find everything except the engagement ring, which the thief sold to buy drugs). I bought a new ring with insurance money weeks before her death and at that time, finally had her stone re-set into a necklace, which I had always planned to do, but not until she was gone. I wore it to her funeral against my black dress. It seemed a fitting tribute.

During the shiva, we got calls from out-of-town cousins, wishing us well. We spent some time together, thanked Lois for always being gracious and present, then departed for our various homes. We had laid Mother to rest.

Part of the Jewish tradition is to lay the headstone sometime within the first year after the person passes. It is called an “unveiling” (of the headstone). Rick and I chose to come back to Detroit the following May for Mother’s unveiling. This I did as a day-trip. Rick presided over the ceremony. None of our children were there. The Featured photo shows the new grave marker, just uncovered.

After the unveiling, we took our assembled cousins out to lunch at a nearby restaurant, suggested by a local cousin. I reminded my brother that Mother had left us a nice inheritance and we treated our cousins (even those who weren’t at the cemetery) to lunch. We were delighted to have a chance to visit with everyone. Then, once more, it was time for me to catch a flight back to Boston, while Rick and Annie  drove back to Cincinnati. We did all we could to honor and remember Mother. Now we connected with our living relatives.

 

 

What does plowing a field have to do with knitting, one may ask. The answer: As knitters know, when knitting an intarsia pattern one reads the pattern from right to left, and in the following row from left to right. This type of writing/notation is known as boustrophedon.

The word originates from the Greek: as the ox plows, down one row in a field and up the next. If you have ever mowed a lawn, unless you went freestyle, you would follow a boustrophedonic method of getting it done. I have both mowed lawns and knitted pictures or patterns in this way. Although we normally read from left to right, knitters don’t think twice about “reading” a pattern the other way as well.

Some of the earliest knitted patterned objects date back to ancient Egypt. Not incidentally, hieroglyphs can be read in both directions. This is an example of a Coptic sock. It’s amazing what people can create with a pair of sticks and some cotton  yarn.

So, is knitting a brain puzzle? I say it is. A puzzle, a math problem, and a test of your patience. It has the effect of engaging both brain and hands and in the end someone gets a pair of socks or a sweater or a nice scarf. With a piece of graph paper and some creative thought, you can make up a pattern to knit, as I did here.

Not to brag, but I did create the universe for this ungrateful child who only wore the sweater once because he thought it was “itchy.” I am happy to report that one of my grandsons is delighted to be wearing it now. Since you start knitting from the bottom and work your way up, I began Earth at Tiera del Fuego and went north from there. This pattern is not to scale. Obviously.

 

 

 

 

 

 

If I’m not knitting, I like to do word puzzles. My daily pandemic SIP routine now includes the daily Jumble and a crossword puzzle (the easy kind). I’m also currently playing online Letterpress with my son. It’s a make-words-from-letters game, more cutthroat than Scrabble. I taught my kids how to play Scrabble and Boggle, but now I’m too much of a pushover for them to play with me. Plus, they have young kids and no time for board games at a distance. My older son is a puzzle fanatic and turned me on to a BBC Two quiz show called “Only Connect.” It will blow your mind.

But back to knitting. For me, it’s a craft and a challenge: I look at it both ways.

One more example:

This was a difficult pattern to keep track of. Thank goodness it was only a small baby blanket. It reminded me of seashells and waves and once I got the hang of the complicated pattern, I loved the way it turned out. But paying attention to the stitch count was essential with this one.

One for the little granddaughter because I loved the hearts and flowers. They don’t always come out perfect, but I have learned that I’m only a perfectionist up to a point.

 

 

When the sheltering in place began, I started a blanket for myself–just a small blanket to throw over my legs as I sat on the couch binge-watching whatever. I figured that the blanket, knitted in a circle with a squared-off border, was a big enough project to last me through what I thought would be a rather short period of being confined to the house. I greatly underestimated how long SIP would last. I could’ve made a much bigger blanket had I known I’d still be hanging around here for six months and counting. (Another neat trick of knitting: by dividing the stitches between three or four needles, forming a square or a triangle, one can actually knit a circle, which is how I made my blanket.)

Confusing? Maybe just a little.

So for me, knitting is a puzzle, a math problem, a challenge, and the occasional geometric anomaly. Which is what makes it a good brain exercise.

 

 

Cantor Gladys

Gladys and I both lived uptown,   she on Manhattan’s westside and I on the east.   Yet we first met not in the city,   but in Lakeridge,  the Connecticut community where we both spent country weekends.   And once we discovered we both loved Scrabble,  we’d play together as often as we could,  and then of course we’d talk.

And thus over Scrabble I learned Gladys’ life story. Her parents were Holocaust survivors,  and after the war were in a displaced persons camp in Stuttgart where she was born.   Two years later the family immigrated to the States and settled in New York’s Washington Heights where Gladys and her brother Abe attended yeshiva.

Then in eighth grade Gladys,  who was always a musical child,  auditioned for New York’s very selective High School of Music and Art and was admitted as a voice major.    And over the years she would sing in many choruses and choirs –  in English,  in Hebrew,  and in Yiddish.

While singing remained her avocation,  Gladys pursued degrees in psychology and education,  and enjoyed a long career teaching special ed in the city schools.   But after retirement,  with her husband Ken’s encouragement,  she followed her early passion for Jewish music,  and  in 2011 was ordained as a cantor.

Some years after Gladys and I met,  my sister Laurie died after a long battle with MS.   After the funeral and shiva Danny and I drove up to Connecticut and invited Lakeridge friends to join us that night to remember Laurie.    Gladys offered to conduct a small service,  and so as friends gathered in our living room,   she lifted her beautiful voice to lead us in prayer and song.

What I didn’t know then was that Gladys was battling her own devastating illness  – always a private person,  she hadn’t shared her cancer diagnosis with me.   About that time I remember she gave me two lovely jackets of hers saying she’d lost a few pounds and they no longer fit.  Only now do I realize what had caused her weight loss.

Then when several months passed and I didn’t see her,   I phoned.   She said she, Ken and their son Josh would be up in Connecticut soon and she’d call me,  but after weeks without word from her I called again.

We spoke for awhile but I sensed that my friend Gladys,  who had never been at a loss for words,  was anxious to get off the phone.  And now I realize she may have been in pain and finding it hard to speak.

I didn’t know that brief phone call would be our last,  that Gladys would die a few weeks later.    And now I regret I never told her she had a beautiful soul and how much I treasured our friendship.

So let me tell you now my Scrabble friend,   your memory is a blessing.

– Dana Susan Lehrman