My Game Mother

When I was a child my grandmother owned a small hotel in the Catskills where my family spent idyllic summers.  Sadly when I was 11 she was no longer able to run it and the hotel was sold.  But when I think about the hotel, it seems only yesterday we were all there.

My father worked in the city during the week,  and drove up to join us on weekends.  On Friday nights I would stand beside the Neversink Road watching in anticipation for the headlights of his car.

My mother Jessie ran the hotel office and sat at a big roll-top desk with lots of little cubbyholes and drawers that I never tired of opening and closing.  But when she wasn’t paying bills or checking guests in and out,  she often could be found on the hotel porch playing cards.

In fact my mother was the only woman in the men’s pinochle game,  and I remember watching in fascination as the men, many with thick  European accents, called out the card tricks,  and talked and laughed under a cloud of  smoke that billowed out over the porch.  To this day,  the smell of cigar smoke conjures that happy memory.

And I also remember watching her play Mah Jongg with the women at a table set up out on the lawn, and the sounds of their voices,  and the click of their coffee cups,  and the clack of their ivory game tiles.

It was not only at these tables that my mother was game,  she was game at life,  willing to try everything and succeeding at most everything she tried.  She was a talented artist, an inspiring teacher,  a good cook and baker,  could knit and sew,  and was an outspoken political activist,  lecturer and undeterred writer of letters-to-the-editor.  She also once wrote a musical  theatre parody.

Yet as accomplished as she was,  Jessie was not vain.  She cared little for fashion, and although she colored her hair when it began turning grey,  she wore little make-up.  But during her last hospitalization she surprised me.

She was critically ill when she asked if I would have the hospital hairdresser come to her bedside to color her grey roots.   Of course I said  I would,  but it wasn’t to be.  My mother died a few days later,  just short of her 80th birthday.

But in my mind’s eye I still see her on that porch,  a young woman playing pinochle with the men,  and not a grey hair on her head.

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

I  joined Advanced Systems, Inc. in mid-April, 1978. It began with a two week training program in Elk Grove Village, IL,  where the company was headquartered. I sold follow-on contracts for video training and ancillary products to the data processing industry to existing clients (this was so long ago, it wasn’t called IT yet). Some clients had never been seen by our company after their initial sale years earlier. I had to learn about our products and sales techniques; how to write a proposal, craft a financial argument for extending or rewriting the existing contract and in far too many cases, win back an unhappy client who felt neglected.

My manager then put me up in a flea-bag hotel (though in a nice location in Lincoln Park) to look for an apartment, while coming into our downtown office a bit and get my bearings. After those few weeks, I had signed a lease at 424 West Oakdale in “New Town”, north of Diversy. The neighborhood had a large gay contingent and my boss thought I’d be safe there, coming in from traveling late at night. Also, my best friend’s boyfriend lived two blocks away.

Dan did not move with me. He stayed back in Boston, sold our condo in Acton and moved in with friends in Brookline. We commuted for 16 months, seeing each other every few weekends. But he and his brother rented a U-Haul and the three of us packed up some furniture, my clothes and my car and drove west to Chicago. They helped me move into my one-bedroom apartment, which was in a “4 plus 1” building. It had parking under four floors of apartments. As we were unpacking, my friend Christie kindly put us up in a two-bedroom suite in the Playboy Towers on Michigan Ave with round beds and shag carpets everywhere. Dan’s brother thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

I got settled over a weekend, then went to work for good. I worked hard. During the day, I was in front of clients, traveling several days a week. I did paperwork on Sundays, even occasionally going into the office to write a proposal if necessary. Saturday was my one day for ME! I took a ballet class in the morning, perhaps saw a movie, got together with Christie for dinner or a concert. She, her mother and brother treated me like family. I was included in every family event during my time in Chicago. It made my transition so much smoother.

My territory was all of Illinois (we all had some local accounts so could stay home one day a week), and Indiana. Indianapolis was the largest city in my territory and I went there often. I stayed downtown in the Hilton on Market Street. It didn’t look like it does in the Featured photo. At the time, it had a large garage on the first several floors, entered from the ground floor into a circular ramp that took you up, up, up to the parking floors. I entered the lobby from the garage. There was a fancy restaurant on the top floor. As was the style in those days, it revolved slowly, giving a panoramic view of the city. I never went there. I also didn’t order room service. I ate alone in the coffee shop. Our expense accounts were limited. We were allowed breakfast and dinner; lunch only if entertaining a client.

I had three clients within a block of the hotel: Bell of Indiana, Blue Cross/Blue Shield, and Farm Bureau Insurance. Very convenient. The hotel was right off I 70, so convenient for getting to almost any other place too. I always tried to rent the smallest car on the lot, but that last week of August, I was unable to. The only car remaining was a Mercury Grand Marquis, which was a huge car for me. I had a difficult time seeing over the steering wheel. It was almost Labor Day and I presume people were traveling.

I had been on the job (fully working) about three months. Blue Cross of Indiana was ready to pop. I brought a contract with me from Chicago, ready to conclude the deal. It was the end of the month and my boss (who was also the VP of the Mid-West region), and his manager, over-all VP of Sales, were eager to close as much business as possible. They knew this was in the pipeline.

I saw my contact, the training manager, on Wednesday morning. He liked everything I told him and gave his approval, but he wasn’t the contract signer. I learned my first important lesson – find out who has the REAL authority and meet with HIM! My guy said he’d meet with the boss later that day and call me at my hotel (also no cell phones in those days). I got word that all was fine and the VP wanted to have dinner with me that night in the revolving restaurant and would bring the contract with him. I agreed to the plan.

I had one more business appointment that day. As I came back into the garage and entered the curve of the ramp, my eyes hadn’t adapted to the light, coming from bright sunlight to the dim garage. I also couldn’t see the front end of that boat I was driving. I hit the front right corner of my car on the curve of the wall (not doing any real damage to the car), my head was thrown forward and I hit my nose on the steering wheel. The parking attendant left his booth and ran to see what had happened. He knew me well, since I’d been a guest at the hotel often over the past several months. “Oh no, not you”, he cried! “You are in and out of here so often. Can I help you?” I was bleeding slightly, trying not get any on my good business clothes. He gave me his home phone number and offered any help, including taking me to a local clinic for an X-ray. He took the car and parked it for me and took me to my room with an ice pack on my nose. After conferring with hotel management, he took me around the corner to that clinic for the X-ray. I did have a hairline fracture. They got me some aspirin. I think they were trying to avoid a lawsuit, but this wasn’t their fault. I appreciated the kindness.

Once back in the room, I put my feet up and kept the ice pack on. I really didn’t swell much and did not get black and blue. I just had a bit of a headache. I called the office. My manager was in Elk Grove Village with his boss. I called there. I told him that I did not have the contract in hand, but would later that night and would deliver it as soon I flew in tomorrow, but one little question: how is our insurance? I slightly broke my nose! Whoops and hollers were heard at the other end of the phone, “Betsy broke her nose!” “She did what?” “She gave blood for this contract!” Much was made of this by the two of them. They liked to tease me.

I met the VP of Data Processing at the Top of the Hilton at the appointed time. He had a folder with the contract, but said he’d hand it to me at the end of dinner. He wanted to prolong the evening. We went to the salad bar first and he made little quips about vitamin E (I was too naïve to understand that vitamin E supposedly makes one more potent or increased one’s sex drive, or some such nonsense; he couldn’t get away with BS like that today). I tried to ignore his comments, sat across the table and tried to have a conversation about the contract, our company, his life, whatever else I could think of to fill the time with a total stranger.

We got through dinner. I told him about my earlier car accident and that I had a broken nose. He did give me the contract (I picked up the bill). He insisted on walking me back to my room. I learned another important lesson that day. My throbbing nose gave me an excuse when he was also throbbing and I bid him goodnight. I learned to NEVER allow a client into my hotel FOR ANY REASON! I was 25 years old and had a lot to learn.

I flew back to Chicago the next day and made my way to headquarters in Elk Grove Village where both VPs awaited me and my contract with open arms. It was unusual for someone to bring in business as quickly as I had, so I was to be commended. But they were dying to see my nose. They were disappointed that I wasn’t bruised and bandaged and loudly proclaimed as much, though were also slightly relieved that I hadn’t destroyed my face.

Life did get better and I got wiser. I did a lot of growing up during my time alone in Chicago.

 

 

This time I was prepared. I knew what they wanted: not only smarts, but big energy, personality plus.
Read More

Long-time Retrospect readers may recall my story Bridge Over Troubled Waters about how I played bridge for many years, mostly in high school and college, and my conclusion that I was a much better bridge player when I was stoned. I ended that story with the following passage:

“Once I had my first baby, 32 years ago, I no longer had the time or the interest, and in fact never played [bridge] again. Friends who play now tell me the game is very different from how it used to be, but I haven’t been motivated enough to find out what changes have been made. The game I now play on a regular basis, every Monday afternoon, is Mah Jongg . . . but that’s another story.”

So now here’s that other story.

It all started in 2013 when my friend Helen, for reasons known only to her, decided to give my life some direction. We didn’t even know each other that well. But she knew I was retired from practicing law, had only one child (a teenager) still at home, and didn’t have any hobbies. First she invited me to join her book club. That was easy and fun. I already knew how to read, and I got to meet some interesting women who I might never have met otherwise.

Then she invited me to play mah jongg. It wasn’t in a private group, like the book club. The game was held at our synagogue, in the library, every other Monday afternoon. I said I had never played before, and she said that’s okay, the women there will teach you.

Mah jongg is a game like no other I have ever seen. It is played with tiles, not cards. There are three suits, but there are also winds, and dragons, and flowers. Most importantly, there are jokers, which are like wild cards and can be substituted for any other kind of tile, but only in a group of three or four of the same tile. There is a printed card that changes every year, that gives all the different combinations of tiles you can make to get mah jongg.

The first time I played, there was so much information to absorb, I felt like my head would explode. I remember saying This is harder than taking the Bar Exam! I probably should have read an instruction book, or at least watched a youtube video, before I went, but it never occurred to me, because I had no idea it would be so hard.

Later I did get a book, which was helpful. But only playing every other week, I would forget a lot between one time and the next. Eventually we started meeting every Monday instead of every other Monday. I guess a lot of people were having the same problem. So I have been playing every week for about five years now, except on Monday holidays (secular or religious) that cause the temple office to be closed. Attendance varies from week to week, there can be anywhere from three to fifteen women playing at tables of three or four. Many of the women grew up with mothers who played mah jongg, and that was how they learned. Some of them even have their mothers’ old sets. But my mother only played bridge. I don’t think she even had any friends who played mah jongg, because I don’t remember ever hearing of the game when I was a child.

It’s a wonderful game, and I’m now totally addicted. Like many games, it’s a combination of luck and skill. When I lose, I blame it on bad luck, and when I win, I assume it is because of my skill. So either way it’s good. I belong to a Facebook mah jongg group where people ask questions and debate strategies. I used to take pictures of my tiles every time I mahjed, but after a while there were too many, and I didn’t think anyone else would be interested in seeing them. The Featured Image though, is one of my most impressive mahjes. It is a closed hand, which means you can’t pick up any discards off the table, and it is made up entirely of pairs, which means you can’t use any jokers. So I was very excited when I made this hand!

It has been fun to see mah jongg show up in movies and TV shows recently. Maybe it was there all along, but I certainly never noticed it until I started playing the game. There was a lot of buzz about the mah jongg scene in Crazy Rich Asians, because it is a pivotal plot point in the movie and changes the relationship between the young American woman and her Chinese boyfriend’s tiger mother. I was so excited for this scene before I saw the movie, and I have to say that it went by much too fast. There is also a mah jongg game in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel during season 2 when the family goes to the Catskills for the summer. Midge sees her mother-in law playing in the evening, and when she comes back the next morning, the game is still going on! I don’t think anyone I know is fanatical enough to play all night!

As to my friend Helen, I see her every month at our book club, but she only comes to mah jongg sporadically. After she brought me into those two activities, she tried to get me involved in two more of her hobbies, knitting and climbing. I actually tried knitting, and started on a pussy hat to wear to the Women’s March, but I kept making mistakes, dropping stitches or whatever, and I finally gave up. Helen kindly finished the hat for me, so I did get to wear it for several marches. But the climbing was an easy “no” for me. The idea of going to a special gym where they have walls that people climb all the way up to the ceiling did not sound like fun! I’m waiting to see if she has any more plans for me, but it’s been a while, so maybe she’s finished.

---

Note re story title: I never get the blues from playing mah jongg. It’s a song by the Atlantic Dance Orchestra from 1922.