I am going to turn this prompt on its head. Rather than discuss something I saw a parent do that I swore I’d never do, then did, I’d like to give two examples of behaviors from the older generation that I found offensive and I DID NOT do, guided by advise from my father, which I shrugged off when he offered it to me, more than 30 years ago but have found to be great advise, in retrospect.

In the 1960s, in the Reform Jewish movement, girls were not called to the Torah as bat mitvot. Women’s rights came to the movement a few years later. We were Confirmed into our faith in 10th grade and the service, held on the Jewish holiday of Shavouth in early June, was a big deal. Most kids in Sunday School, stayed around for this ritual. Mine took place on June 1, 1968.

You can see how many of us were in the class. The girls wore white dresses under the white robes. Our rabbi (who, several years later, performed my marriage ceremony, along side my newly ordained brother) is in the back. I’m in the front row, just to the right of center. The holiday celebrates the giving of the 10 Commandments to the Jewish People. Our class wrote our own service. I was a class officer and key author of the service. Family members came in from out of town to be in the congregation to witness the ceremony. It was a joyous occasion. My parents held a big party at our house later in the day.

After the service, we returned to our home to rest and get ready for the evening; a catered party. I undressed in my bedroom to take a nap, as we were hosting this large event. I left my slip out on my bureau, knowing that I would put it on again in about an hour. I saw no reason to put it away. Even with my door closed, my mother entered my room without knocking, saw the slip laying out, became angry, muttered under her breath (but loud enough for me to hear…one of her favorite tactics), “That piece of shit!”, folded it and put it in my drawer, stormed out of my room.

I lay there, quaking with rage. How could she enter the privacy of room, why was she incensed by this one thing, knowing that I would dress again shortly, why did she call me something vile, knowing that I’d hear her?

Shortly thereafter, I got up, got the slip out of the drawer, got dressed and went on with the party. My grandmother was still alive, but just barely. In her name, my aunt gave me a beautiful heart-shaped garnet ring set with a tiny diamond under it, which I proudly showed off that evening. We went on like nothing had happened. That was Mother’s M.O. She blew up, then pretended nothing had happened. Do we look a little tense in the photo below?

 

I later spoke with my father about this. He shrugged it off, told me my mother had mental health issues and asked me to forgive her. I couldn’t. I’m not sure I ever did (which is why I did not write about this incident for the “forgiveness” prompt). Don’t get me wrong. I was always a good daughter. When she needed care, I moved her to Boston and took care of her for the final 15 years of her life. I just couldn’t get caught up in her drama. Perhaps I did forgive her on her death bed. I thought calling me that vile name, particularly unprovoked, was unforgivable and I vowed to never do anything like that to any child of mine. I never have.

My father-in-law had a basic shyness about him. He was smart and prided himself on knowing a lot of facts about subjects he’d studied. I first won his approval when Dan and I were dating, about to become engaged and I went to their Newton home for dinner every Sunday night. Sitting to Erv’s left, he asked if I knew the original name of the Royal Ballet (in London). I replied without hesitation, “Sadler Wells”. He was impressed and I passed muster.

He loved babies, but he played with youngsters in a teasing manner or some sort of rough house that didn’t always suit my hyper-sensitive children. They enjoyed his intellectual side; shooting off rockets with him, learning about computers and science and the like, but neither of my kids liked to be teased in any way.

The Pfaus moved away from Newton in 1977, first to New Orleans, then to Hamilton, NY, ultimately retiring to Marco Island, FL. When Jeffrey was 3 1/2 months old and David just turned 4, we visited them in Hamilton over Labor Day weekend. It was a five hour drive for us. Jeffrey barely slept and nursed every hour and a half. I was tired, but we looked forward to being with them. Gladys had been a big help to me when Jeffrey was born and Erv loved the bris.

Friday evening, Gladys decided that Dan, David and I would go into the village (they lived on a hill right outside of town) to see the art opening of a friend, after I’d nursed Jeffrey and put him down. David played with plastic connecting beads, which were hinged. He had them in a circular shape. He sat on a couch between his grandfather and his father. He was very shy and sensitive, cried easily. Erv wanted to engage him, but did so by taking away his toy and playing “keep away”, which made him frantic. He did not enjoy it. Also, the beads came apart. David started to wail. Erv couldn’t understand why David didn’t like this form of play, put the beads back together, but not in the same pattern, now they were “S-shaped”. David wailed harder. Erv was convinced he had put the beads together properly. Gladys wanted to get us all out the door RIGHT THEN, to make it to the gallery on time, so added to the frantic scene.

Dan scolded his father for the way he handled David, which he thought was inappropriate. Erv did not like to be spoken to in this manner, not even by his successful, first-born child. We hustled the fretful child out the door. He calmed down in the car. We spent a little time in the gallery, congratulated Gladys’ friend, came back to the now-quiet house.

We got David ready for bed. We thought we were past the earlier scene. David said good night to his grandfather, who was heading up the stairs and didn’t respond. We didn’t think much of it.

We all assembled for breakfast the next morning, but Erv was sullen and didn’t speak, even when directly spoken to. Slowly it dawned on us that he was taking the posture of an out-of-joint school girl and not speaking to any of us, not even his four-year-old grandson, who was long past yesterday’s incident, really loved his grandfather (he rarely saw my father) and really wanted to engage him. Erv would not engage. He got up and walked away. We were all flabbergasted, including Gladys. We couldn’t believe he could be so petty and immature. But he persisted throughout the day. Dan would have none of this, huddled with me in our bedroom and decided we should pack up and leave.

Gladys was equally as frantic, trying to reason with Erv. He would not budge. She feared if we walked out the door, there was no healing this rift and we would be lost to Erv forever. She negotiated back and forth between father and son throughout the day. I stayed out of it, as I felt the argument was between Erv and Dan and would do whatever Dan decided. We had the car all packed, ready to leave when Erv finally said something small and insignificant to Dan, but it was enough. Dan responded and they were again, on speaking terms.

We sat down to breakfast on Sunday. There was still uncomfortable silence. I asked Erv something about fishing. I don’t care a thing about fishing, I just wanted an icebreaker and it worked. He launched into some long response; more than I could possibly care about. Gladys understood what I had done, pulled Dan aside, “Do you know what a gem you have there?” He probably never will.

Things flowed smoothly after that. A few days after we got home, I spoke with Erv on the phone, trying to explain my bright, sensitive son. “We think he is gifted”.” Come on…he’s not a genius”, was the reply from my father-in-law. “I didn’t say he was Mozart, but he’s very bright. Gifted is technical term.” Erv didn’t live long enough to see that little boy get his undergraduate degree from Stanford  in physics and a PhD in Computational Neuroscience from Columbia. Yes, he’s very bright. Erv has been gone 19 years and ultimately got along well with both my kids.

Shortly after that episode, I recounted the story to my father, who had moved to Laguna Beach, CA after divorcing my mother, so we didn’t see him often. He was horrified. His response: “Just hug him and tell him you love him.” “Oh Dad, that’s so simplistic.”

Can you feel me rolling my eyes? My father dealt with a lot in his life, from a bipolar mother, institutionalized when he was 12, to the neurosis and ultimate mental breakdown of my own mother. He always tried to look on the bright side of life and keep a positive outlook, and, yes, to love people no matter what, particularly those close to him. He came east to visit for Yom Kippur in Oct, 1989, when the Featured photo was taken. It was the last time I saw him. He died about two months later, alone in a hospital in California.

As my own children became more complex and more difficult to deal with, his words have always come back to me. And I have tried to stay calm, not lose my temper and just love them.

 

 

 

And so it goes.
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Ken Sarason and Connie Stein were introduced by their oldest sisters, who were good friends, fellow members (and past presidents) of the National Council of Jewish Women in Detroit. The couple had their first date in February, 1946 and married four months later, in a small ceremony, attended only by immediate family, in Toledo, Ohio (my mother’s birth place), on June 16, 1946. They were both 32 years old. My father, recently returned from the war, had been a dashing bachelor-around-town. My mother, though bright, cultured and attractive, was considered something of a lost cause; insecure and unsure of herself. Dad fulfilled his promise to his late father by marrying a Jewish woman. Three of his five brothers had not. One had converted to Southern Baptist and been forsaken by their father.

The new couple settled in Detroit and Dad went to work in the automotive industry like most of the rest of his family. On February 12, 1948, Richard Samuel Sarason came into this world, on Lincoln’s birthday. The family was overjoyed. It was also the year Israel and Brandeis were born; a momentous year.

Grandpa Stein, (our Sarason grandparents were both deceased before either of us came into being) paid for Mother to have a baby nurse for six weeks. Jean James was a Scots woman who never married, helped when both of us were born and even stayed with us when our parents vacationed. She always gave us Christmas presents, came to Rick’s Bar Mitzvah and my wedding. She called us her “wee little treasures”. We adored her. This is me in her arms (probably 7 months old), but is the only photo I have of her. I loved her brogue and always wanted to visit Scotland, in part, because it was her homeland. I fulfilled that dream in 2013 with this photo tucked into my journal.

Rick was a placid baby; bright, curious, eager to please and learn. I’m told he knew the marques of every car he encountered as he and Mom strolled down the street. He talked at an early age. She played all her classical music for him and he listened intently. He named his stuffed lamb “Prokofiev” and slept with it every night. Our pediatrician once remarked that he thought Rick has been vaccinated with a phonograph needle. He was an adorable little boy, younger than the other cousins, admired by the family, and had all the attention for a long time. He also was alone with our high-strung mother for almost five years. Until I came along.

Elizabeth Ann Sarason completed the family and the generation of cousins on December 10, 1952, almost five years younger than Rick. My mother once told me when she learned she had given birth to a son, she was happy for our father; when her second child was a girl, she was happy for herself. She was 39 years old when I was born. Her oldest niece, Lois, gave birth 21 days later, so I have a cousin one step down on the family tree who is exactly my age.

Rick was none too pleased to give up the spotlight. Jean-Jean came again to help out. Given how I saw Mother around my own children (she was afraid to hold them), I once asked Dad how she coped with her own babies. Dad told me she had a lot of help during the day and we were his as soon as he walked in the door at night. He was a warm, gregarious man, who delighted in his children and grandchildren, though didn’t get much time with the next generation, as he died more than 30 years ago.

At first, Rick viewed me as a threat to his household supremacy and with suspicion. I was born bald. He assumed I was a boy. Don’t girls have hair, after all? He called me “Boop-de-boy”. But of course, he was mistaken. When I took my tentative first steps, he would look to see if anyone would notice, then trip me. Once, I hit my head on the leg of a chair, wailed in pain, and bear a scar above an eyebrow from the encounter. But I adored him and followed him everywhere. He was off to school before I was sentient. I was now everyone’s favorite and he did not like it one bit.

We are so far apart in age that, in terms of influence, we are virtually in different generations, from a developmental perspective. Yet, as I grew older, I wanted to do what he did and be with him as much as I could be. We did have our own friends, but I wanted to tag along with him too. I was sort of a pest. We listened to music together, made up stories together, if he was sick in bed, I sat outside his room (we were ahead of our time at social distancing) and kept him company.

We each had little rocking chairs. I sat in mine, outside his room, and rocked hard – so hard that it tipped over. He laughed and laughed. I was delighted to get that reaction, so of course, did it again, but this time, did it with more force and crashed into the spindles of the stair railing behind me. He laughed even harder, but I was really hurt. I ran to my bed, putting my hand on injury. I felt something moist. Defying our mother’s orders to stay away from my feverish brother, I ran into his room. “What do you see?” “You better get Dad.” I called out to our father, who looked at my head. He tried to patch me up with a Band-Aid, but the blood kept coming. Our worried mother called our doctor, who told Dad to take me to the ER, where I had four stitches in my head. Rick didn’t laugh so hard at that.

By the time I was five we got on famously. Though more aggressive with my brother, I was a very shy child, a real skirt-hugger. I remember in kindergarten, a little boy chased me around the room, I slipped and cut my lip and cried unconsolably. The teacher (whom Rick had also had) got him out of class to come and calm me down. Rick took on the role of my protector. He has a fierce intellect. I liked to be with him and followed him around. As I’ve said, a pest. Five years is a huge age difference, developmentally, but he put up with me for the most part and we played well together and he frequently allowed me to tag along.

I have always looked up to him and admired his many talents, though he has an innate shyness as well. I once described him as also bearing Mother-scars. He was alone with her for the first five years of his life. I was alone with her after he left for college; grades 8-12 for me. I’m not sure which of us bore a greater burden. At a certain point, I understood what a neurotic she was and distanced myself from her, spending time with girlfriends or older, near-by cousins. I became adept at finding mother-surrogates.

I missed Rick so much when he left, Mother, who was terribly afraid of dogs (instilled in her by her own mother, a remnant of Russia, where the Tsar’s army would turn the dogs on the Jews), finally allowed me to get a dog as company; not quite the same as a big brother, but some solace.

When he left for overnight camp, Mother and I would go to some pleasant place, like the exquisite gardens at Cranbrook, and write him long letters. I loved visiting him at the National Music Camp in Interlochen, MI and couldn’t wait to be a camper there, myself. He started there in 1961. I followed in 1964. Here we are on my first day that summer (in a rare shot of me with my glasses on; I began wearing glasses at the age of eight, contact lenses at thirteen). I am not yet wearing the camp uniform of corduroy knickers, as my cabin hadn’t been marched to “Uniforms” to get them (they were camp issued, two pairs for each female camper and had to be worn at all times when we were in class or on Main Campus; after about 70 years, the practice finally gave way to wearing shorts on hot summer days, after a little girl passed out).

Since Rick was in High School Division and I was a Junior Girl, our paths didn’t cross at all (except when I saw him in his shows. I also got very sick that first summer and spent a week in the infirmary. He came to visit me once). The next summer, I “became a woman”, at the age of 12. During our rest period, the whole cabin trooped up to the camp store so I could buy the necessary sanitary products. With my purchase in hand, I saw my brother, hanging around with some friends at picnic benches near the store, I ran up to him, full of excitement, held the paper bag aloft and crowed, “Guess what’s in this bag?” And proceeded to tell him, in front of all his friends. That was too much for him (probably not in good taste, either, but I was excited and wanted to share the news with my big brother, delicate as it may have been). He harrumphed and waved me away. Still a pest.

As I mentioned, Rick left for Brandeis as I entered 8th grade. He had been the person who helped me with my homework if I needed help, or I bounced ideas off, when I wanted to puzzled something through. I really missed him. Rick is very sensitive and super-smart. One of my mother’s sisters predicted I would flunk out of school without him home to help me. Of course, rather than defending me, Mother repeated that comment to me. It infuriated me.

So, as a way to prove my aunt wrong, I proceeded to get straight “A’s” for the next five years. I’d show her! There was no email or easy way to communicate in those days and I longed for each vacation when Rick came home. We’d stay up late in the night, talking about life; ours specifically, but things in general. We grew very close. Though I was an outstanding student, I was not allowed to take final exams early, so did not go to his Brandeis graduation in 1969. That was the beginning of student unrest at Brandeis (many graduates wore stoles with fists on them). I missed it all, including seeing him win prizes recognizing his academic achievements.

Though we would not overlap at Brandeis, I didn’t want to follow in his footsteps there. I thought about applying to Boston University, which had a good theater department, but an older friend from my temple, originally from Boston, asked why I’d want to go there; it was just a big city school with no campus – I could stay home and go to Wayne State. NOOO! Way too close to Mother. Even U of M was too close to home.

I got into U of M, Northwestern and Brandeis. I chose Brandeis, and off I went in the fall of 1970, just as Rick continued his rabbinic training at Hebrew Union College in Jerusalem. I wouldn’t see him for two years. Our father bought each of us portable tape recorders, thinking we’d record messages to one another and send them back and forth, but that didn’t work out. I finally visited him in the summer of 1972, as I described in Holy Land, Smoly Land. Two years of college had changed me in ways Rick couldn’t imagine and the visit was less than successful, though it was nice to see him. It just wasn’t an ideal way to reconnect after so much time apart.

Rick came back later that summer, the family drove east to meet him. With him back in Cincinnati I could now call him and did if I couldn’t think of a topic for a paper (or just wanted to procrastinate). We’d talk for hours and finally, I’d get down to my paper. Talking with Rick is always the best. He has excellent insights on everything and I deeply respect his opinions on most subjects.

He was ordained two weeks before my marriage. His first official act as a rabbi was to co-officate at my wedding. It made that day even more special. And though he was married many years later, his first child was born nine months before mine. I am so happy that those two cousins are good friends, though one lives in London and one in Chicago.

I still love talking with Rick. We never have short conversations. He’s the best big brother I could imagine.

 

 

Pitcher and Bowl

I’m a sucker for pitchers and bowls.

Pitcher and bowl sets were first found in Victorian boudoirs where they were used as wash basins before the advent of indoor plumbing.  They’re still sought after as decorative pieces,  and I’ve always loved them.

A few years ago I was in an antique shop and was admiring a lovely set.  I said to the dealer,    ”I love this one,  and in fact I collect them.  But I have so many now, I wouldn’t know where to put another one.”

”If you were really a collector,”  she told me,  “you’d buy it first and worry about where to put it later.”

She was right,  and so of course I bought it.   And now I have at least a dozen pitcher and bowl sets,  and each one has it’s own pride of place.

The last set I bought was on a summer‘s day a year or two ago.   We were driving down a country road when I suddenly yelled STOP!   My husband slammed on the brakes thinking there must have been a wild turkey or a fox on the road.  Then he saw what I had seen – the sign on the tree with the best two words in the English language  – YARD SALE. .

The car had barely stopped when I was out in a flash and halfway across the lawn.  For there amid a jumble of old furniture and dented pots and pans,  I had spotted my new pitcher and bowl,  and not for a minute did I worry about where I’d put it.

– Dana Susan Lehrman