Whaddya Wanna Be Called?

Seth, Joyce and Zachary


What do you want your grandkids to call you? It’s not a question that you answer easily or even consider until the reality of being a grandparent hits you. And yesterday we met Zachary Alexander Jacobson, our new grandchild—who is absolutely divine, and smart, and beautiful, and fabulous. (My grandmother would say not to give him a ‘Kunahara’ (jinx) and say poo poo) But forgetting superstition, you all knew he would be. Anyway, over the past few months we have had a little time to think about this and we have, like when you name your own children, considered many options. At first we thought to go the traditional route, like grandma and grandpa. We tried it out for about 30 seconds but it didn’t fit. So we turned to friends for advice.

My friend Barbara wanted to be called Bubbie. It was a little bit of a surprise because in my mind I see my Bubbie, who always seemed old. Our relationship with her was wonderful but we did not see her everyday nor did we spend hours chatting about our lives. In fact, the most conversation I had with her was when she told me the challah I made needed more salt. According to all my Aunts everything needed more salt, but I could see how pleased she was that I was even making bread. I loved her but my expectations were not that we would be pals. In fact, when my parents went on vacation and my Aunts couldn’t take care of us we, we were left with Sadie, my fathers mother who I called Grandma.

She was a fabulous fun entertaining person who, instead of telling us stories (which she did with all the adults) and sing us songs (which she often did on any stage that happened to be in a place where she happened to be), always thought she had to discipline rather than play with us. Such a loss for us. Back to Barbara. She is youthful, energetic, and beautiful. Not my picture of a Bubbie, but for what must be good and probably memorable reasons, it’s what she wanted to be called.

Tina’s grandkids call her Ganya. Her granddaughter couldn’t say grandma and it came out Ganya. It sounds intentional and Eastern European. When I hear it I do think of a peasant with a shmata (rag) on her head—and that’s not Tina. But I like it. And I considered it. Then I thought, ‘If you have to teach a kid to say Ganya, it probably doesn’t work as well.’ And what would David be called Panya?

Marthena’s kids call her Donnie. When I asked her why, she explained that her grandmother was Donnie, for absolutely no good reason, but her kids called their grandmother Donnie, so it seemed natural for her grandchildren to do the same. I tried to have Edwige’s (my French daughter by choice) daughter call me Donnie, but it didn’t feel comfortable.

Was it much simpler in the past? And if it was, why was it? Maybe it’s because now there are often step grandparents involved and we think we need to distinguish between grandparents by giving everyone different names. Maybe because the expectations of grandparents were different and maybe because language was simpler. Who can tell? I think most of us called our grandparents Nana and Poppa or Grandma and Grandpa. My kids call my mom Nana. On David’s side our nieces call their grandmother from Salt Lake, ‘Nana Salt Cake’, and the grandma from Bala Cynwood was Nana Bala.

Kat and Bill are Nana and Boss. David really liked Boss and he might try it. I prefer he be called Poppie, because it sounds so affectionate and Hispanic, but it’s up to him. So what should I be called? I thought something close to an Auntie Mame kind of name. Something easy to say—so a child would say that name before any other—and something lighthearted and with spirit. Then Joyce told me her grandchild is going to call her Mimi. I loved that. It kind of flows and I liked the way it sounded; it seemed to fit. I asked Joyce how she came to that and what guided her decision and she said, “because really, it’s all about me.” As good a reason as any. We’re just sayin...Iris

Is China Ready?

Yesterday the New York Times had an article about China and the Olympics. It was about the difficulties the Chinese have in translating words, and how embarrassing the government thinks it would be for English speaking participants to read the language mistakes that are made. So there is a person who goes around reading signs and making corrections. Cute right? Based on my experience with the Government of China and big events, I believe translating the signs will be the least of the problems at the Olympics.

In 1995 I was the Director of Communications for the American delegation to the 4th International Women’s conference in Beijing. In this role my first task—long before the conference—was to go to China and decide if I thought they were prepared to host a meeting of about 35,000 women. It was a pretty heady job, but the Under Secretary of State felt I knew enough about events and politics to make the decision. In addition, there were a group of advisers to the Secretary General of the UN who would also be traveling a bit later in the month to decide if they thought China was prepared for a UN gathering of that magnitude. I was happy to hear that the UN was even concerned about a Women’s event, since they are probably one of the most sexist organizations in the world.

The first meeting we had, (Joyce Kravitz, the political appointee who supervised broadcasting at Voice of America travelled with me), was with the Director of Volunteers for the Government of China. She assured us that we would have enough people and resources to make the convention successful. They had available to them 4 million volunteers. I have never been a big fan of bodies over talent. ‘Less is more’ when you’re dealing with large events, but I figured that would mean each delegate would have 6 or seven people at their beck and call.

From that meeting we went to a meeting with the people who were building the site in Huairo, about 30 kilometers outside Beijing. We had a meeting and there were drawings but there was no actual ‘site’. The conference was only a few months away and there were no buildings in which to house the delegate meetings. In addition, there were not enough hotels to accommodate that number of people. The plan was to move Chinese people out of their homes and replace them with delegates. I was sure that was going to help improve east-west relations.

We did the usual tourist things, and were surprised that we were accompanied only by the US Embassy Staff. We expected that there would be Chinese watching our every move. And although it seemed we were unsupervised, when we went to a meeting with the Chinese Cultural Minister a few days later, they had an almost minute by minute accounting of where we had been, who and what we had seen. There were other things I found disturbing but not surprising: for example, we were not permitted to have Chinese guests in our hotel suites and, in fact, we were not permitted to have conversations with any Chinese person who spoke English. I guess they didn’t want us to happen on any dissidents. It was uncomfortable to feel like we were suspect, but not unlike the George Bush approach to invading our privacy—only in 1995 when you spoke to Bill Clinton, he only inquired what you were reading, rather than ask the library to give them personal information.

There were other small but not insignificant logistical problems, so when we returned home we reported that we didn’t think China was ready for the conference. Interestingly enough, the UN advisors felt the same way. We suggested they delay the conference until they could adequately prepare. The UN advisors said to change the venue because they would never be prepared. Despite protests from the US Government, the Secretary General decided to go ahead with the conference. And despite assurances from the UN pooh-bahs that the Secretary would attend, he did not.

We made our way back for the conference in September and it rained the entire time we were in Beijing. Our delegation of 40 stayed in an OK luxury hotel in the city where we had offices that were ill equipped and communication there was non-existent. It is true that we didn’t have cell phones then, but it is also true that now they have to provide a satellite that works -- and will that happen? No phones, no faxes, no way to be in touch with the media, no cooperation from the UN and the only Chinese we saw were security guards making sure we saw nothing. Oh, and the buildings they erected were Potemkin Villages and collapsed in the downpour. We were spied on, ignored, and when the Chair of our Delegation, Hillary Clinton, spoke, we were beaten by the volunteers who tried to prevent the delegation from getting into the auditorium. There is a picture of Donna Shalala, Secretary of Health and Human Services beating her way through the thugs. But the pictures everyone saw in the US and the rest of the world, were not the same pictures they saw in China. In China there was no mention of the conference or the first Lady’s attendance. It was like we didn’t exist—except if we happened to be ironing in the hotel (there was a no ironing sign at one hotel), then security appeared not only to confiscate the iron but all the clothing in the closets of the unsuspecting violator—who in one case was an elected official and Chair of the Australian delegation.

Now I know, you’re going to say it was over ten years ago and things have changed. And I think that’s true about business and tech people. But will the Government release prisoners, I don’t think it has not become flexible or tolerant. Under the best of circumstances, at an event of the magnitude of the Olympics, security is impossible to deal with. I do not believe the media will operate without difficulty and the people who come from other countries will feel unchallenged. It’s like the Hard Rock Café in Bejing. The kids who work as servers try to be like American kids, but their impersonations are based on something they’ve been told, rather than what they have experienced through meetings or visits with real American kids. It’s bizarre because you are seeing an impersonation of a type of server rather than a real server. They know the menu and the product but beyond that communication is impossible, and I think that’s perfectly alright with the government. So is China ready for the Olympics, my bet is probably not, but I guess we’ll have to wait and see and play politics and give corporations a chance to advertise and make money. Some things are universal. We’re just sayin...Iris

Really Tragic

Is it possible for the news to have taken a turn for the worse? I didn’t think we could ever get beyond Imus and Anna Nicole, Those were terribly boring news items but not tragic. As a parent, I am sick about the loss of al those children in such a horrible, senseless way. Not that the loss of children is ever sensible. The Virginia Tech story is certainly tragic but the media questions are, in a different way equally tragic—because they are so stupid. “Why didn’t you shut down the campus after the first shooting?” Why? Because they were ill equipped to understand the magnitude of what was about to happen. Their judgment was based on academic intuition. What academic institution would have the ability, except maybe NYU, where weirdo’s are always on the campus (because the streets of NY are the campus) to shut down 26,000 acres. I’m not making excuses but the campus police thought it was an isolated incident and who could ever imagine what would ensue. It’s a campus for God’s Sake – a hundred buildings, 20,000 students. It’s not like a snow day when you physically can’t get to school—what do you do? Do the police close down all the entrances and not let anyone in? They thought it was an isolated incident in a small town at a large school. They were wrong about that, but how do you shut down a place where people live? And how do you secure a place like that. I don’t think it’ possible. But I do think it is possible to ask smarter more important questions, that accrue information rather than try to skewer the Va. Tech police force. Now what happens? They install magnetometers and dynaflors in every building. If someone is nuts and wants to kill people, they will not adhere to security measures. So what do you do to secure a campus. Probably, the kids are the best bet, because they know who belongs and who doesn’t and more importantly, their ability to communicate far surpasses any official campus system. Other than the very moving stills, all the media chatter or rather clutter only diminishes the loss of these children and the pain their parents are suffering.

Here’s more bad news, (Oh when will it stop), my mother’s house is flooded. Obviously this is not like loosing 30 children. So put it in perspective. The storms in New Jersey left us with about an inch of water in the ‘rec’ room. Do they still call it a rec room or is it now the media center? The workout room? I can’t keep up. After all I am a grandma. But there is a ray of sunshine—the good news. She’s not living there so we don’t care what happens to the carpet in the basement. (I guess the term basement is still operable.)

We have had a very busy few weeks. Most of this we talked about but not everyone in our audience reads everyday—and some simply can’t remember (even David has started to repeat himself in blobs). First I finished the rewrite of our new book “So You Think You Can Be President? Just Pass This Test”. Then there were preparations for Passover. Then our Gefilte Fish Chronicles was broadcast on WNET in NY. Orders started to come in and David decided to become a fulfillment house (don’t ask). Then David shot video for my new company (early breast cancer detection related and soon to be announced) and we needed to get it edited and going. We ran out of cookbooks and had to reorder—fulfillment was on hold. My brother Jeff (Google: Jeff Groman) flew in from Seattle – he’s also a documentary producer and bicycle business owner. We did the IKEA hit, and bought furniture for mom’s new diggs. David and Jeff assembled everything. Jeff left, his wife Els arrived to help me set up the apartment. We hung pictures and made it a real home. Meantime on the oldest child scene, Joyce was having some contractions and her due date was nearing. Seth was on alert. On the youngest child front, Jordan is getting ready for her show and then broke up with her Beaux. No shortage of drama in our lives. Then we moved Mom into Victoria Mews. Els was fabulous. She has the kind of patience we all yearn for and years ago she had nurses training, so she actually knows what she’s doing. I had to go back to Va. for a day because I had several doctors appointments. We then returned to N.J. to relieve Els and make sure mom was happy. She is. The apartment is terrific, she’s making friends and even one woman, who yells at mom because mom is sitting in her seat at meals, (mom is first sitting, woman is second and is always early) is described as “but she’s so nice”. OK, so we have been a bit frantic. Then Seth called to say Joyce was in the hospital but not for the baby—for a migraine and they weren’t sure if they would keep her or send her home. They sent her home and at 2:30am she went into labor and they went back to the hospital. Much to our delight she gave birth to Zachary Alexander at about 3:30 and all are doing fine. So then came the rains in NJ. When we saw the water in the basement we simply shook our heads, decided to ignore it because it doesn’t affect mom, and went to say goodbye to her at the Mews, took Els to the airport (in the wind and downpour but her flight was supposedly on time), and drove into NY for meetings. David left this morning to drive to a speech in Northampton, I am leaving early tomorrow by train, meeting him in Providence and then driving to Plymouth to see our divine grandchild. Whew!

And what is my point? If I have to have one it is this; we are grateful (and happily exhausted) for all our work and busy days, and we thank God that our children are healthy, happy and we think most importantly safe. An event like the one at Va. Tech just reinforces my feelings that life is so tenuous and brief, we need to forget the crap and try to give each moment special attention. We’re just sayin...

Blue Skies

One of those weeks:

I suppose if I were truly the lucky person to be channeling Alistair Cooke, this would be the week to earn my chops. Cooke, one of my journalistic heroes (though not a photographer, I might add) wrote Letter From America for fifty years, recounting to clueless British audiences what was happening in the U.S. He did it by often recounting seemingly minor events, but tying them together in a way that made perfect sense, made a whole story. So, let’s try it.

A mere week ago, though it seems farther back than that, I was at that point which men well understand, and women can never comphrehend. Iris was in New York, and I was in Arlington. There was no food in the house. (That’s the part that guys understand. Oops, empty fridge!) We’d been away for the better part of ten days, and I’d returned home to get myself ready for a speaking trip to Athens, Georgia. So I made one of those Trader Joe’s pilgrimages which yielded what came to be known as the $52 pizza. Now it would be hard, save for a Batali NY restaurant, to find a pizza for fifty two bucks, but here is how I figure it: I bought dough, ready to roll out; salami (couldn’t find pepperoni), mushrooms, onion, and garlic. There was probably a bottle or two of wine, but all I can tell you is it cost me fifty two bucks to get out of there, and I don’t remember making anything but a pizza.

I rolled the dough out, later, flour abounding on the marble slab, and it looked pretty good. It puffed up nicely, but unless you have that 600 degree oven, they just don’t taste the same or have the right texture. So, fork in hand, I ate what was on top of, but very little crust of, said pizza.

For about four years I have been touring a small photo show, 52 images, called Measures of Time. My first show of just my own work, it was born when a college classmate, Wilber James, called out of the blue to say that since we were doing a 35th reunion, and I’d been to most of the good/bad/interesting places in that time, I should do a photo exhibit encompassing those years. He called five other classmates, and called me back in half an hour to say he had just raised $18,000 to pay for prints, catalogues, and framing. My kind of guy! That show has been to fourteen colleges in the ensuing years, and at each place I have gone and spoken to the photo classes, addressing anywhere between a hundred and four hundred students (and locals who sneak in). It has been a great run. Dave Metz of Canon cameras sponsored the traveling show, and as Dave has just decided to take a well earned retirement, it looks like the show will fold its tent unless we can find another sponsor. I speak pretty well, if I do say so myself, about the subjects in the pictures (normally Sports, Politics among others) and the place of photography in our society, but the tour has been richer for what I have gained from being in that photo-academic atmosphere, than perhaps what the students may have gleaned.

Fortified with pizza topping, I headed on Monday to Atlanta where I was met by Mark Johnson, the PhotoJ professor at UGA/Athens. We then drove to a northeastern neighborhood where 83 year old Carl Beck resides.
Carl was a paratrooper with the 101st Airborne, one of the Band of Brothers written about by Stephen Ambrose, and immortalized in the HBO series. He still fits into his re-issue ’44 Para outfit, and was one of the vets who jumped in Normandy in 1994, and again in 2004 (at the age of 80) to commemorate the D-Day landings. His house is a little museum of D-Day and Airborne memorabilia. And when you depart, he doesn’t say ‘bye’ or ‘have a nice day.’ He sends you off with the Airborne greeting: “Blue Skies, Dave!” Somehow whatever the immediate weather is, you feel that “Blue Skies” are about to be upon you when you get a greeting like that from someone like Carl. We carried on to Athens, and had a wonderful event that night, opening the show, and my speaking to about 200 j school and poli sci kids. They had some good questions, and sometimes the questions are better than the answers they elicit.

When I returned to DC on Tuesday, I was faced with a real issue: Wednesday morning I was due to show myself in court at the Arlington County Courthouse, and show cause why I shouldn’t be obliged to pay five hundred (yes $500) dollars for having accidently parked for an hour in a Handicap space last December. I guess we have all done it. Who hasn’t parked briefly in a handicap zone while dropping off a letter, or grabbing an ice cream cone. But that really wasn’t our case. Jordan and I had gone to the Apple store the week before Christmas to try and get a laptop repaired. No such luck with the iBook, but in parking we had found a spot which seemed too good to be true. (It was!) I was perhaps blinded by my desire to just get to the store. Jordan was blinded to pretty much anything that involved quarters and dimes. So, for whatever lame reason, neither of us saw the 7’ pole with the familiar blue Handicap label towering over head. It was, for an observant photographer, more embarrassing than anything else. We came out an hour later, hopped in the Miata and went home. It wasn’t (this is from my court testimony now… almost verbatim), Your Honor, something done with any purpose. When I noticed a green flyer on the windshield the next morning, I thought it was a pamplet from a firewood sales guy. They often blanketed the neighbor hood in flyers. But I opened it to see it was a parking ticket. Handicap zone. December 18th. Fine payable: Five Hundred bucks. Ouch! Hey.I would have been happy to pay fifty or maybe even a hundred bucks. But five hundred? That’s the better part of a mortgage payment. It seemed that it was just another case of the county raising fees to meet otherwise collapsing tax revenues. So I decided to throw myself on the mercy of the court and challenge it.

When my case was finally called at 10am (B for Burnett, I was first in line), I approached the bench wishing I had a little more Fred Thompson in my soul and a little less Pee Wee Herman. I was asked if my plea were Not Guilty or Guilty, and opted for Guilty with Explanation. I’d seen this judge be quite reasonable for the previous half dozen defendants, and thought “if I’m throwing myself on the mercy of the court, I guess this guy is as good for mercy as anyone..” So I gave him my spiel. “I am a good citizen, I have had but one speeding ticket in the 22 years I have lived in Arlington county, and while I am aware of the adage that “ignorance is no excuse” in the law, I would hope my case may be worthy of your consideration.” He fined me the five hundred (stomach tightens and I wonder what the hell I have been doing planning for this for weeks), and then suspended Three Hundred fifty of it (stomach reaction: decontraction…), so I was left with $150 plus $55 court costs. I basically made my point about the confiscatory nature of parking fines – that it seems to me that the county uses such fines as a way to raise revenue, and gives little consideration to other implications. I was happy to have dodged the bullet, as they say, in court, and somehow paying the two hundred bucks was almost a relief.

Happily Paying my reduced fine

Yesterday Iris and I drove back up to Jersey, including a stop at our favorite flea market, Cowtown, NJ, near the lower end of the New Jersey Turnpike. It remains an amazing little confluence of modernity in America. There aren’t many native born folks here, save for some city folk from Camden and Philly, but if you speak Housa/Spanish/Korean/Hindi, you’ll feel right at home. It’s a perfect example of what a writer friend once wanted to call the story of immigrants in this country – The Third World At Home. And truly it is.
The fryiing station at Danny's Steaks:Feel the Love!

You can buy about anything you need at Cowtown, and buy it about as cheap as you’ll find it anywhere. Sweet potato pie, envelopes, samurai swords, Amish inspired roasted chicken, and of course Danny’s Steaks: a little bit of Philly Heaven. The bread melts in your mouth, as do the other goodies which comprise the sandwich. Worth the detour.
The final bite


And then we were in Boonton. Rose, my mother in law, has moved this week into Victoria Mews. I’m not really sure what a Mews is, but I think it’s a kind of closed in courtyard. Her place is adorable, and she seems to be getting used to, most of all, not having to deal with the REST of the house. She mostly lived in three rooms – bedroom, living room and kitchen, and a boiled down version has been provided for her, along with help when she needs it. But the big call today was at 230 from Seth: “He’s out…”

He would be Zachary Alexander Jacobson. He would be the First Grand Child. He would be a future singer/writer/modelairplane lover.. well maybe you can’t have everything, but the point is, after a modestly uncomfy labor, Mom and Son doing fine, and Dad sounds OK, too. We’re off to Boston on Wednesday to see the family and have to recite that just about perfect welcome to the newest member of the family: “Blue Skies, Zachary!”

Grandparents Oh My!

David and I decided that the biggest mistake we have made (over the last few months) was not documenting my mother's move to Assisted Living. Oh my God. It’s hard to know where to start but if you have been following the blob you know that mom has had 5 or six caretakers — if you count Connie, who we hired twice — that were very nice people but not who she needed to care for her. It doesn’t matter because she is in a place where she is not only safe but where she is challenged to do things she has not done for the past year or more. She seems OK with what’s happening and although we all agree there’s a little “I hate this but I don’t want to be a burden,” in fact she loves the fact that there’s a lot going on and that she is busy and making friends.

But I’m not going to blob about that till some other time because today was a very important day for us. Seth and Joyce, my children, had a baby boy. Welcome to the world Zachary Alexander Jacobson. Six pounds fourteen ounces, blue eyes and dark curly hair. The best of an Irish Jewish kid. It’s funny because David’s grandma was Irish and his grandpa was Jewish so we know for a fact that it’s a great combination, and what more could we ask for but a great combination.

Toasting Zachary, Joyce and Seth at Rose's new digs.. (with Pam and Els)
It’s funny what you think about when this wonderful thing happens. The kids are surrounded by family and friends and that’s a good thing but I remember when I had Seth and I was so exhausted I didn’t have the energy to eat ice cream, my favorite food. I just wanted to get to know my kid and sleep — anything else was kind of an intrusion — but you never want to tell people you love that they’re intruding, so you go with whatever.

I can remember the first time Seth and I came face to face. I wasn’t breast feeding because in the 70’s there was more concern about the role of the father than about immunities or anything else. We decided not to breast feed so his dad could share the feedings. That was OK. I got to sleep a little and Allan got to know his kid — and not only at pretty moments. It made a big difference in their relationship — all good. But the first time they brought Seth in to see me — after he was clean and tidy — he was in this little glass case. I didn’t pick him up right away because I had never held a baby that small and I wasn’t sure what to do with him. So we looked at each other for a while, me in my bed him in his glass case and then I thought, 'what do I do now?'

I ran into the hall and yelled for a nurse. “Look” I said, "is there any possibility that I can practice on someone else’s kid? Like, there must be someone who has had more than one kid who wouldn’t mind if I diapered them or fed them or dressed them, I’ve just never done this before so" ... But they didn’t have a kid available. So I picked him up and took him into bed with me and started to sing, in my very off key voice, some Jewish melody without words.

He was a little kid, very mushed and not entirely sure he should trust me, but we got beyond that. I had a baby nurse — at my family’s insistence — and couldn’t wait until she left so I could actually have my kid to myself. There are episodes I can remember so well about being a new mom — like the time when I was coloring my hair and I thought Seth had gotten into the poison cleaning stuff under the sink. I was hysterical when I called his dad to report the accident. There I was, color on my hair, half dressed, racing to the drug store to buy Ipacac to make him throw up with, Allan calling everyone in the medical Brandeis medical community to insure he would be OK. He was fine. It took us years to recover.

When he was two, I was very thin and I would wrap a scarf, instead of a top, around my myself to cover my breasts. He wanted to cover himself in the same way. So he would scream until I would wrap a scarf around his top so we would have identical covering. I remember the hours we spent reading and the hours we spent getting acquainted. It never stops with a kid — you’re always learning and relearning who they are. You remember all the firsts and all the foolish. Seth hated the idea of the tooth fairy, so we would have to leave his teeth outside his room so the fairy wouldn’t invade his private sleeping space.

It goes on and on and I know what it’s like to be a parent for the first time, but what’s it like to be a grandparent parent for the first time? Do you give advice, comfort, support, what? We have no idea, but hopefully we will be quick studies. It’s such a different world from when we had our kids. It’s harder because the world is harder but Seth and Joyce have overcome so may difficulties that I’m sure they’ll be just terrific and I pray that we can measure up. So from MeMe and Boss (our grandparent handles) — keep your fingers crossed for us. We’re just sayin....Iris

I'm Rooting For Nibbles

Instead of Don Imus spending all his time saying he was a good person, what if he had said, You know, I’ve been thinking about what a schmuck I am and I’m embarrassed that someone who has my kind of media power could say the things I said, so I’m going to take a few weeks and really think through what I did. Then when and if I come back, I’d like to have more women and people of color on the show and I want to learn how to be more sensitive (without losing my humor) to the people I have offended.

If he had done it himself, instead of letting Alpo Sharptongue and Jesse Helms (oops I mean Jackson—but they’re one in the same.) become the power in the conversation, I bet he would never have been fired. The networks didn’t want him to go or they would have done it immediately. For them it’s all about the money. Now, what could these two civil wrong bullies have said to make the networks cave? My guess is nothing. It was the big foot of GM and other advertisers, (with the threats from Jackson and Sharpton) that caused the Imus demise.

The shame of all of this (and I don’t care about Imus as a self absorbed personality) is that he is a powerful figure with powerful friends and he could have made a difference with a real change and real conversation, for that jaded world of news/entertainment. Woe is all of us.

When Jesse Jackson ran for President I had the opportunity to see how he operated, because my company was hired by the DNC to choreograph a trip around the country with all the Presidential candidates. It was 1984. We leased two planes and I was the trip director on the one with Gary Hart, Jesse Jackson, John Glenn, Fritz Hollings--I think and there were others -- but who can remember so many names. Anyway, Jesse and his wife—who showed me a cool knitting stitch, were part of the traveling show. He was deliberately difficult about things that were uncomplicated. I had the feeling that he was new at playing Presidential politics and he didn’t know how to be Presidential—so he was just unpleasant. We have all heard stories about his conversations with CEO’s. Who knows if he strong arms them or embarrasses them into supporting whatever his cause, but he’s been pretty successful. Look at Imus -- I have often wondered what caused him to become a bully while a real leader like Rep. John Lewis, became so elegant and an important—not loud voice. Without rhymes, or tactis, just truth.

Which reminds me, one of our guest bloggers, Clay—who is very sensitive, sent me this hilarious ridiculous story I thought I’d share with you because it’s just that kind of a day.

Rogue Seal Devours Pit Bull
Key West, F. (April 12) - Nibbles the elephant seal is defying his tame nickname by killing and eating anything that gets in his path. Yesterday he attacked a small kayak and ate an eighty pound pit bull that was knocked overboard. Later that evening he then rammed repeatedly the pilings at Mallory Square during the nightly sunset celebration causing the cat trainer "Hugo" to fall into the harbor. It was only due to a daring scuba diver who fired a spear
into Nibbles that caused him to spare Hugo. Nibbles was last seen heading toward Sunset Harbor with a twelve foot long spear sticking out of his backside and howling for all he was worth.

What does this story have to do with Sharpton or Jackson or Imus? Well today Alpo Sharptongue said that there is nothing wrong with hip hop music. The lyrics are fine and it is a wonderful art. Nothing bad about hip hop. No siree. Nothing bad about calling women ho’s. Not a thing. The seal story is not even close to being as ludicrous as the behavior of these supposed Black leaders—who by the way could use a good dose of Nibbles. We’re just sayin...

I'm a Good Person

“I’m a good person.” So says Don Imus. At least he has said so every morning since this Rutgers Bruhaha. I mean the guy has started every sentence he says with, “I’m a good person.” I’m a good person and the sun is shining today.” I’m a good person and my cereal was cold this morning.” “I’m a good person and 16 troops were injured in Iraq.” I’m a good person and I hope Harold Ford is OK.” I don’t know why he hopes Harold Ford is OK. Harold Ford probably just doesn’t want to talk to him. Harold Ford is probably the only guest who has decided that Don Imus is at best a racist and at least a sexist and he doesn’t want to participate in his shameful nonsense anymore. At least I hope that’s why Don Imus can’t seem to find Mr. Ford.

Does giving to a charity make someone a good person? Don Imus makes about $25 million a year. I think it’s easier to be a good person when it’s not painful to be charitable. That doesn’t mean that his charity work with cancer kids or his advocacy for vets, or his profitable ‘green’ thing is meaningless, but giving without having to make a choice between your welfare and someone else’s does have consequences that might lead one to question the “I’m a good person” crap. Maybe that’s not clear, so let me explain. If I write 10 checks to a variety of charities that total $250,000, I am likely to think “look at all this good I am doing for all those unfortunate souls.” If I advocate for better conditions for vets on my radio show, I am likely to think “Look at all the good I’ve done for all those unfortunate souls.” If I spend ten days at a ranch with my name, which I promote, and from which I broadcast, I might think “Look what I’ve done for these poor unfortunate children. I must be a wonderful guy.” After a while, and maybe despite the things I say publicly, I begin to believe I am so terrific, and I am doing such good things, that I am entitled to say anything I want to say, regardless of how distasteful or unkind, because I am a good person – after all, look at my record, my history, my checkbook.

David Burnett is a good person. Today he went to the Arlington Courthouse and threw himself on the mercy of the court because he got a $500 parking violation for unlawfully occupying a handicapped space. He never saw the sign, nor did Jordan when she went out to put money in the meter. (But that’s no surprise.) David is a good citizen, a kind human being, and a wonderful father. He has served on jury duty, he writes letters to our city council, he does not litter, and he is not apt to use racial or sexist slurs — because he really is a good person. I am not saying that we never tell an ethnic joke or make fun of someone who has no taste in clothes, but we don’t do it on a radio show and we would never excuse this kind of entitled behavior by saying, “look at my record, I have given hundred of thousands of dollars to charities-- of course I make millions and I do allow guests on my show to talk about tits and ass and mostly they are all white males – but I’m a good person."

Rose Groman is a good person. She is a woman who has spent her life caring for others. Her children as they grew and her husband who had Multiple Sclerosis and was totally disabled by the time he was 45. She fed him, lifted him, put him on the toilet and yelled him to sleep at night (that’s the way they communicate in my family—see Gefiltefishchronicles.com) She did her best to supplement his income and his Veterans pension by becoming a beautician (we had a real hair dryer in the basement and dyed my friend Joyce’s hair green), and she sold Banff Knitwear -- a designer knitwear company owned by an uncle, (I still have all the sequins knit dresses—to die for!) As a young woman she worked for the Boonton Jewish Center as a volunteer and then as a volunteer at St Clare's hospital in Denville. She didn’t have any Black friends but there were care givers who helped her with my dad every day and she was always respectful of the work they did and of who they were as people. I never heard her tell a racist joke and although she thought women were smarter to marry rich and not have to work, (she was not wrong on that one), she was proud of all I and my female cousins achieved. Admittedly, when I suggested she have her hair done at the Mews (the assisted living facility) because it would be easier than going to her regular beautician — she suggested I look around the room at the people who did have their hair done at the Mews. But that’s about as unkind as she gets. I discovered that despite her meager income from Social Security and Veterans benefits, over the years she has contributed to more than 30 charities. While it’s $5 here and $10 there, she had to make choices about buying something for herself or giving it to someone more in need. Rose Groman is a good person.

And there are other people who can legitimately call themselves good people – but my list of those people is much too long for this blob. Suffice to say, they have given of themselves without having to be thanked or even noticed. They are teachers, organization people, mothers, daughters, (go to goodaughters.net) photojournalists, writers, business people and corporate wonks. They spend their lives trying to make things better, as opposed to trying to make a point about being a good person. Are you sick of the “good person” stuff? So am I.

Here’s something you might find interesting. The highest form of Tzedukah (charity) in Judaism is to help someone help themselves. And, here’s the most important thing about it, when you give you need to do it without any notoriety. Real charity is about being kind and selfless. That’s how one qualifies to be a good person. We’re just sayin...Iris

Are We Talkin Cart, or Horse Here?

It is tough to figure out the bottom line on the Imus spectacle this week. Agendas become fueled when a chance for victory, however specious, raises its head. The Rutgers women’s basketball team is a tough bunch who fought their way right to the end of the tournament, and who are not, I suspect, pushovers. They clearly saw something as the season came along, and became theirs, and could, until that last game, nearly taste the victory. Fate was unkind to them. Yet nothing will diminish their effort. And for Rutgers, to have a great football team, and basketball team in the same season, it’s a richness for Exit 9 of the Turnpike. So when you start to take into account all the shootings from the hip which have taken place in the last 3 days, it becomes difficult to figure out just where Right lives.

Imus, as we all learned from the 1999 TV Correspondents dinner – when he ripped Clinton, Peter Jennings and various other media darlings, New Orifices. People got all bothered for about ten minutes about his crass style, but lets remember that they invited Imus (track record from 1969.. hey folks , No Surprize!) not Dr. Bergen Evans. And it seems that every day Imus manages to annoy someone with some silly ass dictum, myself included. Yet he serves a real purpose in a Media Culture which gives never more than 28 seconds to tell the most complicated and complex stories. No one else will give Kerry/Lieberman/Richardson/Buchanan 15 minutes to actually have a conversation. I truly believe it says much more about the stupidity of our media system that Imus has to be the one venue where a real conversation, albeit, an often kiss-ass one, can take place.

The real issue, I suppose, in light of Rev. Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson’s call for his firing, is whether it’s just time for these two gents to scoop up a little more media attention, or do they care about the way black women are portrayed in our cultures. Not culture, but cultures. I'm well aware of that fact that I'm a bit square, though I try not to be, but there are things I just don't GET> If you have cable , just turn on the Uncensored RAP music channel. You will find more anti - black women remarks and descriptions in five minutes of listening, than in a year of Imus. BET, the cable channel runs tons of music vids which are not exactly PTA material. Talk about sending messages to kids? Maybe there are a few other places to start. I would feel less annoyed about Jesse’s rant (did he resign from politics for his Hymie Town remark?) and Reverend Al – who, it must be said, was one of the few clarions of intelligent banter during the 2004 Democratic primary debates – who, as far as I can tell, has never repented for slamming the white cop who he falsely accused in the Tawana Brawley fraud a dozen years ago. I wonder what Tawana’s opinions are on all this.

Five years ago I spent a few days with one of the top college football prospects, a young man of 21 who was about to be drafted into the NFL, given a contract of thirty something million bucks, and who arrived at the NFL hotel in New York with a small but dedicated, and truly amusing, posse. Included in his entourage was his 7 months pregnant girl friend, a beauty he knew from school who was already part of the family. I spent a lot of quality time with this young man, a smart, and thoughtful kid who was about to be drowned in the culture of cool. At one point he took me aside and said to please “don’t take pictures of my girl friend (who was very obviously preggers). I don’t’ want to lose my Ho’s.” My jaw probably dropped a foot or two, but I just took it in. And we carried on the rest of the weekend. The way he said it was almost endearing, as if Ho’s was just another moniker for Groupie or Chiquita. Maybe it’s me (I’m sure it is.. you know.. old, white, uncool) but there was a moment that I just couldn’t imagine referring to any women you might actually be even a little fond of, to as a Ho. Go figure, the old Jew from Utah just doesn’t get it. But perhaps a bit of introspection, and finding what the elements are in our society which encourage otherwise upright, cool, talented guys to refer to comely women as Ho’s would do us better than slamming Don Imus, who was, let’s face it, doing a really bad imitation of a Hip Hopper. Really really bad. I mean, have you seen the guy dance? It’s like me at Jazzercize. They see you move once, and you’re not invited backl. We’re just sayin…David

Imus in Trouble

It took me three days to find out what Imus actually said about the Rutgers women’s basketball team. Apparently, when he was commenting on their victory he said something like “there are a lot of nappy headed ho’s out there.” Well, I guess that wasn’t a nice thing to say. This morning CBS and MSNBC decided to suspend him for two weeks. I agree it was a terrible mistake and he has apologized for the entire three program hours every day since he realized what a stupid ugly thing it was to say. (It's become overwhelmingly tedious and self serving). And while it was not the first time he has said something offensive, the times dictated that his sponsors do something about it.

What is remarkable is the racial divide this event has produced. And although it was not a murder like OJ Simpson, it is breathtaking how many blacks want him to go permanently and how many whites have stepped up to say, “he’s a good guy, who said something terrible and the suspension is enough. I think It’s all about the money and the media. Jesse Jackson has a new platform. And he loves being the "Black" voice of moral outrage. This time, however, his outrage is tempered only by his hypocracy. Have we forgotten when he was running for President and referred to New York as Hymie Town and then refused to admit it was a racist comment. He 'rhymed' about how he meant it in a loving geographic statement—or some such crap, we allowed him to get away with it because he was black. We do the same with Al Sharpton--another more acceptable hypocrite.

Imus is often a self serving sexist racist schmuck but he’s no different than so many radio talk show hosts-he just has more interesting guest, some of whom are good friends of ours, some of whom are idiots. You have permission to speculate about which are which. To tell you the truth (this is merely something I say when I want you to think my truth is your truth), I am more offended by the ongoing banter about the attractive women with big boobs who work for the station and by the two dworks who do imitations of notable people (like Bill Clinton, Jimmy Carter, A Beach Boy and the Pope) who are mostly white. I find it offensive that as supposed comedians, they are simply not funny. I find it offensive that his talent free wife and brother have so much air time. Imus was on his way out the door until he did the White House Correspondent’s Dinner a few years ago, and took off on President Bush1—who was in attendance and not happy. People loved that and became his friends and guests.

Percentage wise, there are very few women and fewer African Americans in leadership positions in the media.. And those who are in senior positions will never speak up about it. There are all kinds of Black and female organizations that supposedly advocate for their constituencies—it’s not enough and they are never considered when people get promoted. If you look at the Imus staff you will find he has one or two senior minorities or women as producers. I’m not sure how many of them make policy decisions because I suspect that happens among the people you see on the show. But it’s certainly not limited to the Imus show.

When I was at USA Networks the CEO was one of very very few women who founded and ran cable network or any media conglomerate—I guess Sherry Lancing was her counterpart in the movies. In fact, Kay was probably the only woman who was in that position in television. She had created a corporate campaign called “Erase the Hate.” Developing the campaign became a big part of my job. But you can’t just tell people not to respect individual differences, you have to each people the reasons for respect at a young age – before they are taught to hate. And the campaign shouldn’t be about money, which is hard to explain to people who’s job it is to make money. So we were the “Erase the Hate” network with the most racist sexist successful program –World Wrestling, It happens and you just do the best you can to make your points and try to make the world better. But the other thing is that you have to realize that, as “Ave Q” says, “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist.” We just are, it’s impossible not to be because we tell truly funny jokes that attack all different kinds of people. Constant political correctness is boring and unrealistic. Being politically incorrect does not make you a racist, it makes you not smart enough to talk with people who may be as irreverent as yourself. Being a racist on TV or in the media is stupid. And beyond that, with an Imus, it means you feel entitled to blurt whatever comes into your limited mind on or I suspect off the air.

Imus is a boys show which some girls watch –mostly those interested in the political guests. Because it is the only morning show where the guests have more than 30 seconds to talk about major world issues—only Star Jones gets more than that on the network morning shows. I don’t want Imus to get fired. I love picking on the white male turkeys who host the show and I love screaming at Imus when he says or does something ridiculous or self serving. If they are going to rethink the show they should leave the ‘salon’ approach alone and find a way for Imus to stop acting like a sophomoric high school boy when he decides how and who he’s going to talk to. And really, he needs to have more honest conversation with Black and Female guests. We’re just sayin...

A Love Letter to Helen

When we were kids my mother didn’t have much time for us. She was either busy with my dad, her sisters or trying to make a living. Sometimes, when I think back about those years I feel like she could have done better. But the truth is that my brother and I are fine and we learned to survive on our own and we were always cared for—if not by one of my aunts, by Helen Costello.

Helen, Me, and Mom
Helen took care of the house and actually, all the contents including the people. And I don’t just mean Me and Jeff. She took care of anyone who happened to be there. Like my cousins Stevie and Sheila, and all my friends. In fact, when we were in high school the principal OK’d our leaving school grounds to go to my house for lunch. Actually, it was more than lunch because Joyce, Pam, Laurie, and I scheduled study halls before and after lunch so we spent two or more hours eating tuna fish sandwiches and watching soap operas. Helen prepared the mid day meal and we all sat around talking about the drama on TV. She was with us for most of my young life. I can remember when I was little and my mom would get mad at me and try to give me a swat, Helen would pick me up and we would run into another room. No one was allowed to touch me—not even my mother.

Yesterday, Helen and her wonderful daughter Marsha came to visit mom at the rehab center. It was fantastic to see both of them and listen to them talk about old times and old friends. It’s amazing that some things never change. Helen still calls my mother ‘Mrs. Groman’ and as many times as mom says, “Please call me Rose”, Helen doesn’t.
“It’s a matter of respect”, Helen once said. I didn’t exactly understand that but in those days that’s what people did. When I thought back, I remembered that my grandparents and all the grandparents of my cousins called one another Mrs. Dubroff, Mr. Smith, Mrs. Schultz, Mr. Kaufman, and on and on for all eight of their in-laws. First names were much too familiar even though they had all known each other for over forty years.

When Jordan and Seth were little some of their friends called me Mrs. Burnett—I didn’t care but their parents insisted. Which was amusing since at Jordan’s school, the kids called the teacher by their first names, but the teacher and the parents were Mr. or Ms. Oh well, a name by any other name is still a name.

Back to Helen and mom. They had kind of circuitous conversation. Neither of them hears very well and Helen forgets what she said before. Neither of them is very good at names, so it’s easy to understand that names were too complicated. Even when mom had no problems with her memory she was never good at names. For example, my cousin Sheila had a friend named Sheila Falduto. For my mother she was always Shirley Falduto. We corrected her for a while and then we all started to call Sheila, Shirley. Anyway, Helen is a year older than mom. I always thought she was younger. Maybe because she moved around so quickly, maybe because in my young mind, people who worked for you were supposed to be younger, and maybe because she was my pal more than a parent. I loved the time we spent together. She was there for me when I was happy and when I was sad. Helen didn’t care if I was in a bad mood or I was sulking (this was often the case), she still kissed me and hugged me and loved me without parameters.

When I think about what it was like to grow up in my house with my family I have good memories and an occasional questionable memory because my dad was disabled and life was not uncomplicated. I guess yesterday for the first time in my somewhat long life, it struck me that I was actually very lucky growing up because my aunts were always around, my cousins Honey and Rosalie were great fun and there to guide me through the horrible tweens and chaotic teens, and I had Helen Costello as a caretaker, a parent, a pal and a role model for what respect really meant. We’re just sayin....Iris

Short but Sweet

Today is Easter Sunday, and I'm sure there are millions of families gathering all over the world, spending some time with each other, and investing some sit down time with a roast ham. From what I read, there is something about Baked hams on Easter which seems to really make for tradition. Kind of like Passover but without the Ham. Well, as there is a long standing (try two thousand years, Dave!) connection of Passover and Easter, - the last supper was a Seder meal, I believe - I wanted to share with you all the latest post on the GefilteFishChronicles site from Amy in Philadelphia. There is something very special when people reach into their hearts to make the kind of connection she writes about. Maybe she says it for all of us. I have a feeling that a lot of Easter suppers were put together just like Pesach was in her family. Read, enjoy, and think of those who you'd like to be with today, but couldn't. That is what phones are for.

from Amy in (formerly)Philadelphia:

To Make Pesach

“I read about the Gefilte Fish Chronicles in the New York Times and made it a point to catch in on Sunday eveing. And am I ever glad I did! I sat and watched the show laughing out loud and tearing up at the same time. As I watched the ladies so lovingly recall Pesachs of the past I was reminded of my own Grandmother who 'made' the holiday until she couldn't anymore. Then, the torch was passed to my mother and aunts with a small read purse containing enough cash to buy what was needed to 'make Pesach.' My mother and her sisters would first shop for weeks, and then stand in our kitchen up to their elbows in chopped liver and gefilte fish, while my Grandmother sat on a chair, often directing! The very same banter coming from Peppy's kitchen could be heard coming from our kitchen as well! Dicussion over how fine to chop, discussion over how much, discussion over just about everything! However, at the end of the day, when everyone arrived for the seder to sit at the long snaking table reaching from our dining room, through the living room and into the foyer, there were smiles, and a few tears too. Like Peppy and her family, thoughts of those who weren't there to share in the joy of the holiday were always in the forefront of their minds. But for my grandmother and for my mother and my aunts, especaially after Mom-Mom was gone, the point of it all was to 'make Pesach' so everyone could be together. The film sent me home again to a time and place that doesn't exist anymore, and it made me appreciate those wonderful family memories with my parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins. Thank you so much for preserving a small piece of our rich history. The Dubroff family is every family. Mazel Tov for bringing so much joy to so many with this beautiful film. I can't wait to share the DVD with my mother. She will cry. ”
Amy • Short Hills, NJ (formerly Philadelphia)

She's just sayin...

and

We're just sayin... David

Planting Too Early

It’s very cold in the east. I hope no one put their plants in the groundlast week because it’s likely the weather will kill them. What a happy thought. I remember when we first moved to Arlington I planted lots of flowers around the second week in April and by the third week they were gone to plant heaven. My neighbor, soon to be in our lives as ‘Pop Pop’ Trainum, came through the fence in the backyard shaking his head. “Never plant until May 1st.” At age 87 ‘Pop Pop’ decided that his grandson, who was supposed to be cutting down one of the almost dead trees in our backyard, didn’t know what he was doing, so ‘Pop Pop’ grabbed the chainsaw and did it himself. He just knew about gardens and yards and trees, so they always had the best tomatoes, the most beautiful flowers, and bushes that were easily the most shapely in Arlington.

April 7, 9 a.m. Arlington, VA
The Trainums, Jordan’s surrogate grandparents, had lived in Virginia for over 70 years. He had been a lawyer who worked for a Government Agency, and she was a teacher. They were devout Christians, and, I am told by their son, that they didn’t care much for Jews. But we never saw that and they certainly knew we were Jewish. They were wonderful, generous people and fabulous neighbors. One year David was shooting a Time story about grandparent-grandchild relationships. He took a picture of Jesse (Mrs. T.) reading to Jordan on our back porch. It was published a page and a half in TIME, and everyone in Arlington was raving about the fact that Jesse Trainum was a star. And for all the Burnetts, she was.

Jesse, died when she was 87. She got cancer and was gone within six months. Charlie (‘Pop Pop’) lived to be 100. He stayed in the house for two years after Jesse died but then moved south to live with one of his children. He wrote to us every Christmas until he died, and the message was always the same. He liked being with his kids but he missed his yard and his garden. I think about them every time I walk out the back door and whenever I think it’s time to plant, I see Pop Pop shaking his head and repeating, “Not until May 1st.”

I finished the shopping for mom’s new apartment. It’s very cute. She’s moving in Monday so if anyone wants to send a note she’s Rose Groman, Victoria Mews, 51 N. Main Street, Boonton Township, N.J. 07005. Anyway, I started to go through all the stuff in the house to figure out what might make her feel at home without feeling her home was empty or different. There is so much crap in the house, even I couldn’t get through it—and I am the queen of “toss whatever is not attached with a nail.” I mean I can’t even stand to have a piece of mail on my kitchen counters but here, it’s like the junk mail is alive and reproducing. The kitchen stuff, bedroom stuff, collectables, clothes, shoes, furniture, Christmas goodies, and catalogue items, are endless. There is nothing that has any value, but if you could add up the thousands of $2 items, the contents of the house would be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Only it’s not because as we say, it’s just dreck. This house might be an e-bay dream but I can’t imagine anyone would make a purchase—not even on e-bay.

Part of the problem is that for years, mom had nothing to do but shop. Our attic was “the store” all my cousins went to when they needed to give a gift to a friend. When my Aunt Helene was alive they would spend one day going to a store, and buying a variety of things. The next day they would go back to the store and return whatever they had purchased. One day buy, one day return. Then Aunt Helene died and Aunt Sophie wasn’t as fond of the shop-return exercise. Besides, she had a husband and a life. Mom had shopping. So when it wasn’t much fun to go to a store (which she continued to do—the Dollar Store being her favorite) she shopped by mail. Stuff like you see on TV at 2am but in the “onion chopper/slicer/dicer” category. So every few years we would clean out the attic and the cellar and before we had finished clearing the decks, another load of stuff appeared. I did admonish her for the non-stop buying but David said it was her only fun so to leave her alone. I couldn’t, but she ignored me. As my mother always says, What is, is.

Here’s what I have learned. It’s time to downsize. I never want my kids to have to go through this. We collect stuff all our lives and then when we get old, we have to discard it in some way, because our space gets smaller and our attention span shorter. The whole thing gives me the willies. And when I look around my house I know that the only thing of value are the people who live there. And I won’t ever want to throw them away. We’re just sayin...Iris

A Tiny Blob on a Big Day

A short blob:

Where do I start? It was a heck of a day. The Ikea delivery people, to whom we had to pay an extra $85 to deliver at a reasonable time, actually showed up at a reasonable time. They were at Victoria Mews (the new assisted living facility) at 10am. So Jeffrey and David began the ‘assembly required’ process at an early enough hour that they could finish before Jeff left at 5am and David at 6am the next day.

Jeffrey, Iris and the Ikea bound hammer
But the day was not without challenge. For whatever reason, mom’s doctor decided she needed to have help with her medication. One assumes that means that an aide comes in and gives her a pill. Not so. It means that all the pills have to be dispensed from a bubble pack. Where does one get a bubble pack? Not at the VA, which provides all mom’s medication for little or no cost because she is the dependent of a WW2 Veteran. Too bad the Iraqi Vets don’t get the same compensation. Here was the problem. The VA does not dispense in bubble packs. The Assisted Living facility can’t dispense unless there are bubble packs. One has to find a drug store that will take the pills from the VA and bubble pack them. And it wasn’t that simple, but I’m too tired and you would be too bored if I went on with the pill saga. The bottom line was that I found a wonderful druggist (Steve Rosen) who said he could make it all happen.

When I returned to the facility, (wrists in tact—no knife marks), Jeffrey and David had made significant progress with the assembly required. Mom decided she didn’t want to take any furniture from home. I’m not sure if she wanted a new beginning or she wanted to know her things were still at home, but the boys worked very hard to get the place in shape. It’s a great apartment. Mega windows with lots of light and very convenient to all the activities. We think it’s going to be a positive change for her – but it took a while for her to understand it was an apartment not a nursing home.

Jeffrey IN the dumpster, recycling the Ikea cardboard
What we have all forgotten over the years is that mom is the ultimate social being. Even at Merry Heart—the rehab center—she has become the social focus for all of the patients. She makes sure everyone is being attended to and having a good time. She participates in all the activities and has paintings on her walls to prove it. But the most important thing is that she has gained 6 or 7 pounds, has physical therapy every day, and now wants to be a well person. For the last 6 or 7 months she didn’t care. Now she does.

It was a difficult day for oh so many reasons. Mom’s move is not without drama. Jordan is depressed and feeling like her life is without purpose (It’s not), and Karen was diagnosed with breast cancer. I feel confident that everyone will be OK. We will help Jordan to deal with the reality of her life. And that’s not easy when you are 21 and trying to find your way. Mom will be surrounded by people her own age and people who will take care of her. And Karen, who is a most remarkable human being, with an incredible attitude about life, will be OK because, not only does she have a remarkable attitude but she is an integral part of a group people who are the premiere breast care experts in the world. As the CEO of the cutting edge breast health company, with whom she is working said, “There was no need for you to be a test case—it’s above and beyond what we expected you to do.”

But what is, Is, as mom always said. So we need to deal with the cards we’ve been dealt—by the way, mom and I played gin the other day and the cards I was dealt had nothing to do with winning. And if we put on our big girl pants and get on with it, I know we will find a good way to find happier life. And despite the difficult day there was some very good news --Joyce and Seth said they think a baby is pretty close. A ray of sunshine! We’re just sayin...Iris

Pesach as Usual...

Over 98,000 people viewed “The Gefilte Fish Chronicles” on Sunday night. We only have numbers for the 7:00 broadcast, not the 2am or 4pm broadcast on the following day. But the channel 13 (PBS) people were pretty happy about those numbers and ecstatic about the review in the Times—as were we.

We had about 60 people for the seder last night. It was not without some drama. We tasted the fish when it was finished last week and I thought it was fine. However, Aunt Peppy tasted it after she got home and was not happy. She and thought it had no taste. We are talking about gefilte fish which, for me, always has no taste. It’s merely a vehicle for the horse radish.

Honey & Rosalie - in the kitchen
Well, there was lots of hysteria and Rosalie, being an incredibly good sport decided to throw it all away. But then she realized how much work and expense it took to get it to the “doesn’t fall apart when you boil it stage” and she took all the fish stock we made, put it up to boil, re-seasoned it and carefully dumped in all the fish. She cooked it for about another hour and then decided enough was enough—or as we say at the Seder, Daiyanu.

Nana and Jordan, a surprize last minute arrival
The fish was terrific. Even Jordan, who doesn’t like her fish gefilted—ate it with gusto. She admitted that she had never tasted it before because she was afraid of the jelly. Yes, there is usually some gelatinous residue that covers the fish after it has been refrigerated. But alas, it was perfectly clean.

radish, schmaltz, gribenes.....heaven!
There was nothing frightening to interfere with the enjoyment. Further, the chicken was garlicy and wonderful, the cholent was actually seasoned and tasted great, the matzah balls were fluffy, and the stuffing was superb. All in all the food was a hit. You can find the recipes in the “Gefilte Fish Chronicles Companion Cookbook” but you won’t find the drama.

Three generations of Dubroff girls
Tonight we had a smaller crowd. We were only 20. When we arrived, Aunt Peppy was already there. She was wearing a green sweatshirt. Mom was wearing almost an identical sweatshirt. It was pretty scary—but I’m never surprised about the “twin” thing. When we were kids I would call my cousin Eden (Aunt Peppy’s eldest) to find out if her mother had been injured because my mother was complaining about a pain that didn’t make any sense. And sure enough, her mother had fallen or knocked about or something. So the fact that they hadn’t spoken in 24 hours and were dressed like identical twins (they are fraternal) was pretty funny.

The Twins in Green
Anyway, tonight, because we were so few, it was pretty relaxed and we all took turns reading from the Hagaddah—That’s the prayer book for Passover. When there are 60 people you rush through the book in hopes that you will stay awake long enough to get to the food. When there are 20 people, you have time to savor the meaning of the holiday.

Like you can really get into what Rabbi Eliezar said about the plagues. “ How can one show that every plague which the Holy One, blessed be he, brought in Egypt upon the Egyptians was fourfold in character.” What the hell does that mean? I have been reading this for over 50 years and I have no idea what Rabbi Eliezar was saying or who Rabbi Eliezar was to say it. Then there’s three pages worth of explanation about the plagues. So there you are, waiting for your Seder meal and right before you eat you read about Blood, frogs, vermin, beasts, cattle disease, boils hail, locusts, darkness and the slaying of the first born. They seem a bit weighted to me. Like I don’t mind the hail but the boils really gross me out.

There are too many “thou’s” and lot’s of repetition of “this refers to” without referring to anything. But there is one place where “And it is said” that the girls were all right and only the boys would have to die. An historic first. There’s lot’s of symbolism and many explanations of why we do things, but the bottom line is that the Egyptians weren’t nice people, it sucked to be a slave and we sent locusts, beasts and boils to punish them for not allowing us our freedom. Be still my heart. Jews willing to camp out in a desert for forty years – no frills, food or discount shopping.

Sydney and her Nana
It was a wonderful evening. Kerry and Karen joined us which made it even nicer. A breath of fresh air is always welcome. And here’s the thing. We always finish the Seder. I don’t know any family that eats and then prays again. Actually, the only other time I can remember doing that was when I got married the first time, we ate and danced and were in the middle of having real fun when the Rabbis decided all the celebration was to be suspended until after all the praying was done—it just didn’t happen. But praying after the Seder is easy and it was all made better when Dickie read the final prayer. It went something like this: “Ended is the Passover Seder and the Gefilte Fish Chronicles. According to custom and the Gefilte Fish Chronicles we were worthy to celebrate it this year. O pure one in heaven above, restore the Gefilte Fish Chronicles in your love. And lead the Gefilte Fish Chronicles to Zion in joy.” We’re just sayin...Iris

Twas the Night Before Pesach....

Sometimes things just seem to work out. About three years ago, having been amazed for years about the way Iris’ family threw itself into Passover preparations, I asked Aunt Peppy if I could video tape the process. At that time Peppy, her older sister Sophie, and my mother in law Rose (Peppy’s twin) were the three whirlwinds who worked over six weeks preparing all the food, and the tables for the Passover Seder. No small feat since the usual attendance was somewhere between 60 and a hundred. They made all their own food. There was NOTHING store bought. It was very old world, very much like “momma and poppa” did it in Brooklyn in the early part of the century when they began raising their family of seven sisters and a brother. In 2004, Jim Robinson and I, (he, another son in law, and photographer) spent the days leading up to Passover with video cameras in hand, trying to capture the sense of anticipation and work (yes, plucking 17 chickens IS work!). We’d hoped to produce a nice little family movie, something that in the future all the kids could look back at and see what the traditions of their family were. For so many of us there are vague memories of life in our early years, and maybe some of those memories are very strong. But it seemed to me that this was a great way to bridge the gap between generations in the family, and that we could provide a gift for the youngest members of the family.

Once our video editor Dick Swanson, a former LIFE photographer, and a guy who knows a ‘story’ when he sees it, started to piece bits of video together, we were amazed at what we had. It really seemed to be compelling. It was much more than a home movie. The project went through a second round of editing with Stephanie Daniels, a friend from Jersey City, who tweaked it here and there and really made a film out of it. We showed it around, and this winter found a sympathetic reaction at the biggest PBS station in the country, WNET, Channel 13, in New York. Tonight, the night before Passover, Channel 13 broadcast the film over the greater New York metro area. Far more than I can say are the reactions of people moved to write, on our website. I sort of joke about being the Director of a project following a family which cannot, let’s face it, be directed: The Dubroff family directs itself, and all the rest of us can do is try and keep up.

Here are a few comments from tonight. And yes, when you feel people reacting in such emotive, and genuine ways, you know that something, indeed, must have worked out. We’re just sayin… david burnett
Comments from www.gefiltefishchronicles.com “

Thank You!
“Thank you for preserving our memories. Sadly, the traditions are fading away as we lose the generations of our parents and grandparents. How wonderful it was to hear the voices and see the expressions. It brought me back to a different time. I was so moved that I want to share my feelings with my grown sons so that they will understand their heritage better. I will be able to by giving them your DVD and Cookbook. Thank you again. ”
Judy • Connecticut

Adopt Me...please!
“Your wonderful show brought me to tears. Seeing all the love and togetherness made me miss my Mom, sister and brother who are gone now, but with me in spirit always. Who would have thought that watching sisters cook, kibbitz, argue and put together a meat grinder no less!! could be so entertaining. God Bless you for making this for all of us to share. I'm Irish through and through, but I'm getting that cookbook! I have to make that cholent!”
Joan • Middletown, NY


My husband cried
“My husband and I just watched this remarkable movie on television on and he cried! Both our mothers are gone and Passover is all about family - especially mothers! We wish we had that many people to invite to our home for Seder.

Judy Cohen • Staten Island, NY

Reminds me of my family
“I just caught the tail end of this on channel 13 here in NYC. The phrase "the cousins", from my parents' generation, was also a phrase I heard while growing up and into my early 30s. I too never thought it strange I know some of my second and third cousins, visiting (or, in this age, emailing) them on a somewhat regular basis. Our seders were rocking, but we never had more then 30 people (excluding the few of my grandparents' generation that were larger, but those ended sometime in the early 70s & I barely remember them).
With my parents' generation retiring or passing away, the larger seders are a thing of the past (though my wife and I got about 25 people from both sides of our families into our house a few years ago). However, sone traditions remain. One of my mother's first cousins moved down to DC decades ago, so we only saw them once a year, either at Passover or during summer. Sure enough, last summer, as tradition dictates, my family and I went down to visit my second cousins and our children, third cousins, had a wonderful time. We may not see each other as often as we like, but we're in each others' lives. ”
Mike • Manalapan, NJ


I LAUGHED AND CRIED AT THE SAME TIME
“The most beautiful, menschlich, humorous, goosebumping, somewhat salty from my tears, gorgeous documentary, THAT EVERYONE CAN AND SHOULD LEARN FROM, how to go trough life -- it brought vivid memories from my own family, my dearest Grandma Persida, (Bless Her Beautiful Soul) and my youth in Yugoslavia... THANK YOU, YOU THREE SCHOENE MAEDLE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH !
Yours, Vladimir K. :) ”
Vladimir • New York City


Thank you for making me part of your family!
“I am alone this Pesach. I was feeling sorry for myself, but after watching the show, I feel full and exhausted, just as if I was there. I still miss the old timers cooking and kibbitzing, but the show was the next best thing to being there. And now, I'm feeling a little peckish! I'll order the book and dvd. Again, thank you.
-Lev ”
Lev • Brooklyn!!!!!


South Florida
“I was born in Newburgh and lived there my whole like until three years ago. Of course I know all the Newburg Dubroffs. My mom and Peppy were good friends. Unfortunately our local PBS station doesn't seem to be showing "The Gefilte Fish Chronicles." I hope they'll change their mind. ”
Beverly (Buz) Neumetzger • Boca Raton, FL

Fun with Fish

Iris:
Over the past few days we have been having a wonderful time. Who would ever have guessed that after years and years of establishing ourselves as notable journalist and communication strategist, our fame would come from a fish story. But it has been so much fun we hardly notice an absence of political acumen.

...On the Joey Reynolds show....
Last night we were invited to be guests on the Joey Reynolds show. If you’ve never heard Joey he’s quite a NY character with a pretty big following. Friday night is his ‘Jewish hour’ show. Last week we were in touch with his producer, Myra Chanin, who is a star in her own right. Her cookbook “Mother Wonderful’s Cheesecake and Other Goodies,” and her books about her mother, are hysterical. She was generous in the time she gave us and a wonderful addition to our segment of the show.

The esteemed US at the Esteemed Joey Reynolds microphones
There are “Jewish regulars” who appear on the show weekly but they were stuck in traffic because there was an accident on the ramp of the Lincoln Tunnel, which tied up traffic in the City for hours. We were very lucky in their delay, because apparently, the regulars never let anyone else talk. So Joey had only us to talk to—and we were very entertaining. I have the CD if anyone wants to listen. We brought horse radish and matzoh for Joey, and everyone was blown away by how hot it was. What can I say. We were a hit.


This morning, while I was at a creative meeting for BreastCare, David called to say that the New York Times had reviewed the show. What a Valentine. You can read it here.

Being in the NYTimes is really a trip. It’s hard not to tell everyone you see. So when I finished my meeting I got a copy of the Times and immediately shared it with the concierge at 55 Wall Street, where the meeting had been. “See this” I said, “This is me” She thought it was very cool and we high fived. I shared it with people on the subway and on the street. Yes, it was a bit presumptuous to be waving the paper in peoples’ faces, but it was too much fun to stop.
I met David at the Comfort Diner on 45th between 2nd and 3rd. one of our favorite places and David showed it to the waiter who showed it to the owner, who gave us a Comfort Diner cookbook. We promised to send him “The Gefilte Fish Chronicles Companion Cookbook”, so he would not only be able to cook comfort food, he would have access to cooking from all the brown food groups.

* * * * * *

David: There is a big difference between having a credit line in a publication, and being mentioned in an article that publication writes about you. I have been published in the Times and the Times Sunday Magazine over the years, and for the most part the reaction is a very quick high, followed by a quick tempering of the joy of seeing the credit line, and usually, within hours, you’re back to where you started the morning. Today was quite unlike that. I sent a DVD review copy of the Gefilte Fish Chronicles to the Times TV reviewer about three weeks ago. Normally its like tossing it into a long dark tunnel. Seldom does the response come back right away, if at all in situations like this. I suppose if they feel it necessary to ‘ask the director’ something about the production, motivation, or some other minutiae, you might get a call. But this was just one of those times when, as the WNET/Ch. 13 broadcast date (tomorrow, Sunday, April 1, 7pm) approaches, I’d hoped we might get a mention. When I logged on this morning, I had two emails from friends offering kudos for the review. I immediately found it on the Times site, and it was as much fun seeing it online, as it was later, holding a paper in my hot little hand. I shared the review with the booth next to us at the Comfort Diner (“… I don’t usually do this, but TODAY, my wife and I are reviewed in the Times!”.. ) and they kind of dug it, too. It has been fun hearing from several friends who saw the paper long before we did. There was that faint air of similarity to Burt Lancaster’s character in Atlantic City, the old retired gangster who, as he passes the wretched front desk of the crummy motel where he lives, sees on the old black and white a news piece about a murder, and is compelled to share with the desk girl .. “ I did that.!” Last night’s trip to the Joey Reynolds show was a trip in its own right.

More kachers have sat in front of those microphones than you can imagine. Sitting next to me was Mickey Freeman, who once played Private Fielding Zimmerman on the Bilko TV show, and who was has been a comic for six decades.He sat next to me with his jokes scribbled on 3x5 cards, shuffling them as the hour went on, keeping the fresh material. (“I had a booking – 9 days at Mount Sinai! I had such a rare disease, they didn’t have a FEE for it yet…”) Pure borscht.

Mickey Freeman, at the mike
Well, actually the Borscht was in the horse radish which the Joey Reynolds team kept (against our advice) sniffing. Ouch. It will burn your nose, people, so be careful. So night has fallen on Gotham City, and this morning’s New York Times is starting to be used to wrap fish and other trash. Tomorrow there will be another paper, and our review will just be a little noted moment of journalistic triumph. But the best of all is the fact that I’m called the Director. The Director of a documentary about a family which cannot be directed. Not bad. No, I mean it. YOU try directing that family. Can’t be done. All you can do is try and keep up. And keeping up isn’t so bad.
We're Just Sayin' .......