Emis, 5771

(and yes.. Emis means 'truth'....)

In this the year 5771 (I think), the decision I have made is to find some truth somewhere. You might think this is easy. Surely there is truth in nature. And there is truth in our love of family – but that’s a bit esoteric. I’m kind of looking for people, who we trust to make decisions about our lives, and find some truth in what they say. But that’s not always easy because no matter how frustrated you feel about finding a message, sometimes you not only can’t discern if they are telling the/a truth, because you can’t understand a damn thing they say.

Take for example the Tea Party jargon. It begins with a simple premise; as a candidate or a member of the party you want to “ rid the country of the politics of destruction.” That’s what O’Connoll, the Tea Party nominee for Joe Biden’s Senate seat said at her primary victory speech. Which would be fine, if only we knew what the “Politics of Personal Destruction” means. And I think that is exactly the point. People are so frustrated about what appears to be the lack of leadership (not only in the White House – which simply needs to kick some Republican tuchas) but everyone from small town councils to the Congress—both houses.

We want too much to believe that someone else can make a difference for us, that we will listen to whatever they say, make it what we want it to be, and then have disappointed expectations when it simply doesn’t happen.

If you listen to what the newly created Tea Party is saying, you will find that it is no different from what most of the Republican Party is saying, but they are doing it without the endorsement of Sarah Palin. You would think the woman would be greatful to the Party for having dressed her up, taken her out of obscurity, having made her a national figure. But alas, when you have an ego the size of the State you once governed, you never think anyone did anything for you. Further, you want to be a big fish, no matter the size of the pond – like the Tea Party. And you certainly don’t want anyone to understand any message, because that would limit the kind of colorful rhetoric you use to get attention. There’s no truth in the rhetoric because there is no message –just clever phrases that will always elicit some response from the audience.

For me, the creation of a Tea Party, or any organization that defines itself by what they are not –Democratic or Republican – might win political races but never succeed. One lesson I learned working in two Presidential Administrations (other than duck and cover), is that unless you know how to work the bureaucracy, nothing can change -- because you have to be inside to actually understand how to get things done. You might call that the politics of personal destruction, I call it common sense.

Any person who wants to be a leader, or make a difference, cannot pick and choose from a menu of options. The Government is not a Chinese restaurant, one from column A and one from B. For example, you cannot want Government out of your life but then accept Medicare or a social security check.

In my never ending quest to figure out if candidates are saying anything truthful or even remotely sensible, I continue to get back to a place where I think we all need to take some responsibility for ourselves, which we do by voting. We also need not only to do some discriminating listening, we have to ask how something is going to get done – just how will the job be accomplished? The government can’t do everything for everybody –unless we stop policing the world. But we wouldn’t want that anyway. What we need is a definition of the words used by the people who want to run the government, so that we can understand where we are going and how they want us to get there. And that is Emis. We're just sayin'....Iris

T'ain't What It Was

Some of you might think this blob is a promotion for an airline, which it could be –but it is not. It is, however a story about travel. Today was college football season, and we watched Michigan wipe the field with the Huskies of Connecticut. The game, took me back a fe years to a game I attended at Penn State when I was in High School. (I was watching the game with Tracy, whose children all went or are going to Penn State,

It was September and a guy who I worked with during the summer invited me to spend the weekend in State College Pa. My parent, though reluctant to let me do that (I was still in high school), agreed that trust was trust, and if they trusted me it didn’t matter whether I was in Boonton or “Hondrikavah.” (It doesn’t matter how you pronounce it, it isn’t an actual location but merely a place created by my aunts, to make a point about a something being in the middle of nowhere).

The train took eight hours. When I arrived, Jay my friend, drove us to his apartment. It Hadn’t occurred tome that I would be staying alone with him – not in the girls dorm. He thought I was eighteen. This was not the case. (Are you getting the point). Never one to be found out, I did not tell him how old I really was. The lie continued, but I did confess that I was a virgin, terribly innocent, and intended to stay that way. He was annoyed but did understand.

He slept on the couch –or maybe I id. Who can remember? It was so long ago, I almost fell off the dinosauer on the way to the game. Penn State was playing West Point. Did I mention that when I was in high school we would go to West Point for dances and special events. (There were no women at the Point and so they imported us. My friend Joyce Mitcko – who was one year my senior had once gone out with the cousin of a Cadet and somehow she got on the special invitation list.) Anyway, having survived my first night alone in a boy’s apartment, and not paying much attention to anything but that, we arrived at the stadium. (Did I mention that I dated quite a few Cadets). In fact, it wasn’t until the third or forth Cadet, that we walked passed yelled “Hey Iris, are you here with the enemy?” that I realized Jay was not happy about what he perceived, as “a story” fabricated about my sexual innocence. “How is it that you know so many of them?” he said – implying that I had lied about the treasured virginity.

We stayed for the game. He was fuming. And I, having been wrongly accused of being a slut, rooted for West Point and never spoke to him again. That night, I slept on the couch.

As I mentioned – this was quite some time ago. It was a time when you got all dressed up to travel to anywhere – even ‘ Hondrikavah.’ It was a time when you wore white gloves, and a dress, to get on a plane, or train or go to the theater. Travel was glamorous, exciting, and enjoyable. Even an eight hour train trip to the middle of nowhere was fun.

Nothing stays the same. The airlines are thieves. A long train trip is expensive, and usually for large families who got a special rate, are afraid to fly, or who can’t sit comfortably in one airplane seat. And the cost of gas makes driving prohibitively costly. In other words, my attitude about traveling has changed considerably over the years, and I have come to realize, that I do not need to go everywhere I have not been. That being said, and making little sense at all, David is on his way back from Paris and Z got a new big boy bed. We’re just sayin’….Iris

(note, because of an editing error by the editor (editor's note: ME!), this post is a few days delayed from when Michigan won a football game.)

An Additional Burnett Blob to Keep You Amused

We're happy to announce that Jordan Kai Burnett, of late to be found in Hollywood (the California variety, not the Floridian) and her roomies have started their own blob. We thought it only fair to share the geographic and genetic richness, and would implore you all to check out http://westwordly.wordpress.com/ which just went live a few days ago. Jordan Kai and her roomies rotate the writing, but the cool thing is they are pretty much all East Coasters, and their view of the Left Coast will surely amuse you. Thanks for having a look.... We're just sayin'.... David

I did fix the link, i think.. that is.. you may have to copy it. but it should work...

Last Minute

We all know people who wait until the last minute to make decisions about whether or not to accept invitations the they receive, because they are always waiting for the ‘best’ offer, before they decide how to spend their time. There was a time when I referred to them as “bestoptioners”. They waited until all the options were presented and then the one they felt was the best option was the one they accepted.

The technology has made it even easier to wait until the last minute to make a plan. For example, when it’s Thursday and I ask my kids what their plans are for the weekend, they look at me like I’m nuts. “It’s not the weekend yet, Ma. How do we know what we’re doing?” I am not opposed to last minute tasks, but there are times when it makes me crazy -- like getting to the movies, a meeting or the airport last minute.
Last Minute: Peachy keen
Having lived in the DC Metropolitan area for many years, last minute was not something socially acceptable. In Washington, people never stop doing business. They go to work, then they may go out to a cocktail party (where they work), and then they go to dinner (where guess what.) On the weekends, they want to relax and plan their schedules around what would advance their career, or their yard, so plans are made long in advance.

OK, maybe I’m exaggerating a little. Our friends knew we were never able to get ourselves together, so if we called and invited them over, at the last minute – they were neither surprised nor insulted. But generally speaking, it’s not something I understand.

I guess, for me, there is a difference between waiting until you find the best option, and being spontaneous. That being said, planning something with friends that is last minute can be wonderful. As it was for the spontaneous Burnetts this weekend.

John and Anne and Jeanne and Jon
The Cutler's front yard, at midnight, lit by a very full moon (Ricoh GX200: 60sec. f/2.8)
There we were, driving what seemed like endlessly, from DC to NY. We got a late start, the traffic on 95 was terrible, and David was falling asleep at the wheel. Finally, we pulled off the road and had an iced coffee. At that point we realized we were on route 40, near Baltimore, and even though there are traffic lights, it was a stress free ride. Just before we reached Delaware we decided to call our pals, the Cutlers –who have been known to call us five minutes before they get to NY, to have dinner. We rang them and confessed that we were doing “a Cutler”, and we thought we would drop by for dinner and a good nights sleep. They couldn’t have been more gracious. We spent the evening, had a terrific dinner and a good nights sleep (Which, because they are night owls started at 2:30am). We got up, went out to breakfast – changing restaurants only once, and then made our way to our next location – The Plimptons of Princeton.

Having not actually made it back to NY, we arrived at the Pimptons, unshowered and with a dearth of clean underwear. Luckily, they are laid back and most understanding and we didn’t smell, much. We arrived mid afternoon, waited until 5pm to have a cocktail, had the best salad we’ve ever eaten, fell asleep at 10pm, awoke at 10am, had some good laughs, played with the too fabulous Lola (dog), and were on the road again.
the fabulous, shoe nipping, hilarious and wonderful LOLA, with her masters' feet nearby
It was, as they say in 1930’s musicals, a grand two days – pretty last minute but without any hesitation by any of us. On the ride home we even decided to turn onto roads that we had absolutely no idea where they led. We’re determined to try last minute again –so watch out, if we have your address, you may be on our list. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

The Greying of the Salt

When I was a kid, newly of the licensed driver variety – and this would be 1962/63 – I was enthralled with that amazing place west of Salt Lake City a hundred miles known as the Bonneville Salt Flats. They were usually referred to on the radio reports, which were substantial in those years, as “western Utah’s famed Bonneville Salt Flats.” It was THE place to race fast cars in a straight line. In the 30s, as automobiles started to actually put some horsepower and speed into their wheels, the racing folks ran out of space. The sands at Daytona Beach were used for years. Sir Malcolm Campbell, the first of the truly modern drivers, ran his Bluebird streamliner nearly 300 mph there. But eventually the beach just wasn’t long enough to afford the necessary acceleration and more importantly, deceleration, with speeds over 300. Local driver Ab Jenkins, whose car, the Mormon Meteor still stands at the Utah state capitol, set a number of records in the 30s for long distances on a giant oval course. It was only when Malcolm Campbell ran the first 300 mph run in 1935 that the world started to pay attention. Within a couple of years, two other Brits, George E.T. Eyston (don’t you love people with two middle names?) and John Cobb brought big, hunking beautiful cars to the flats, and essentially dueled with each other for the record. By the beginning of the war, Cobb was the record holder with 368 mph. After the war, with a revamped “Railton Mobil Special” powered by two aircraft engines, he became the first man to drive over 400mph, and set a two way record of 394.2 mph. As anyone racing today can tell you that is FAST, especially when you are doing it on four wheels. The record stood till 1963 when Craig Breedlove averaged 407mph in the Spirit of America jet car. One driver, Mickey Thompson, ran 406mph in 1960 but was unable to make a return run, that being the recognized requirement to lessen the chance of someone getting a wind assist. Various racers upped the records (there was one for wheel driven cars, and one for jet/rockets) over the years, till a dozen years ago the British came back with a twin turbo jet car which ran over the speed of sound. The Brits have prided themselves for decades on holding the records, always able to point to British engineering and design.



Americans have been fond of speed too, not surprisingly. Our own home spun versions have taken a slightly different approach. Our guys tend to be real gear-heads, in love not only with the speed, but the mechanics, and mechanical beauty of it all. In the late forties, a group from southern California began coming to the Salt Flats in August every year, holding what would become “Speed Week.” The Southern California Timing Association was a group of racers and folks with clipboards who kept coming up with the most amazing classes of cars… from Streamliners (obvious) to Lakesters (originally designed as open-wheeled cars who started out life as P-51 fighter belly tanks, engines and wheels added) and roadsters (think “Hot Rods”) of all varieties. Literally hundreds of folks seal off those days in August each year, knowing there is no where else on the earth they would rather be. The Flats are a harsh environment: long (15 to 20 miles), desolate (nothing grows there), and hot. During the day the heat can easily reach 110 degrees, and there isn’t a helluva lot of shade to enjoy. Bring your own.



I usually think of racing as a young man’s game. If you look at Nascar, most of the drivers are in their 20s and 30s, with a few older, but largely in that age group. On the Salt it’s a different story. Perhaps it’s because they just know of nothing else to do, or maybe it’s because being a gearhead is just something you never tire of, but an surprisingly large number of the folks this year were within 6 or 8 years of my own age. The salt may be white, but the folks on the salt are grey and silver. More than once I noticed a Social Security zip code. I didn’t poll the group, but I suspect the number of Vietnam vets is inordinately high, as well. Most of these guys had that look of having spent time in a foreign land as some point, courtesy of Uncle Sam. (I don’t know exactly what that look IS, but I think I know it when I see it.) The camaraderie and friendship is deep and wide. Unless you’re planning on stealing someone’s secret plans for their rear-end gear box, you’re welcome in all the pits. All the racers love to share stories about their work, their cars, and their lives. I keep wondering if there is anything in my life which attracts the same numbers of alte kachers as Speed Week. I hadn’t actually attended Speed Week for four decades, though I have been to the Flats to see some Land Speed Record attempts, the last of which was the Budweiser Rocket Car some 30 years ago. It did seem like just yesterday that I was bouncing around Wendover, the oddly schizoid border town nearest the Flats. In the mid 1960s, before ax murders were as popular as they are now, I’d drive to Wendover, spend a day on the salt getting a horrible sunburn, and sleep in my car, the venerable 1960 Plymouth, swatting mosquitos away from my ears in what was probably the least comfy sleep of my youth.
The Enola Gay hangar at Wendover Air Field
I took refuge away from the tiny crowds at what was the old Wendover Air Force Base. During WWII, this was the place where the heavy bomber crews trained, and in particular, the crews of Bockscar and Enola Gay, which dropped the first nuclear bombs. Then, even more than now, Wendover was a place where you might actually be able to keep secrets in tact. Nothing around for a hundred miles.

Now, when you drive onto the Salt it is a place to behold. As far as you can see a mottled white surface, writ hard and crusty from days of baking in the nearly tropical sun. Once dragged by a big heavy metallic net behind a State of Utah dumptruck, the pathway is marked by orange mile markers. When it’s a true LSR (Land Speed Record) run they usually run a single black line straight down the track for 10 miles. It’s so far that when you are at mile 4 or 5, you hear the car coming before you see it. The curvature of the earth combines with a mirage effect to make it very hard to see until it’s just a couple of miles away. The cars are built low to the ground, generally, and minimize their air resistance. It remains a site to behold, and the sharp crackle of engines starting at the Start line is a sound you won’t soon forget.



One of the cars on display this year was the newly redone, for the third time in 50 years, City of Salt Lake. Originally designed and built by a Salt Lake garage mechanic, Athol Graham, the car ran upwards of 344mph in Dec. of 1959. He figured a local boy had as good a chance at owning that record as someone from Pomland. A year later, at the beginning of a big year of record attempts, Graham drove the car again, this time a victim of instability at 300+ mph. He crashed and was killed on the spot. His wife Zeldine rebuilt the car, and it was run again in 1963. I was a part of the pit crew. (They were clearly hard up.) Again the car crashed at some 300+mph, but this time the driver, Harry Muhlbach, walked away unscathed.
The Spectre, nudging the 400mph barrier, but not quite there
Nothing beats the heat like two-flavor Hawaiian shaveIce: $6 for a large, worth every penny

The wreckage sat in a field in Nevada for years, only to be recovered by Athol’s son Butch, a house painter in Salt Lake. Though Butch had only been 2 when his dad was killed, he was imbued with a sense of what the car was about, and what it meant. Working in his garage the last couple of years, he’s put it back together, lacking for now, only the Allison Aircraft engine, to power it. Somehow, even fifty years later, the City of Salt Lake looks like an aerodynamic dream machine, its red rippling across the Salt.


The lasting impression I have of this year’s trip to the Salt is that so many of my contemporaries are still in it. Once a Gearhead, always a Gearhead it seems. I love these old guys, and I love listening to the roar of their cars as they drive into the edge of the horizon. And to the edge of the horizon they go. We’re just sayin’….David

Am I OK?

Am I OK? My friend Soozie would say, “relative to what?” The question is not IF I’m OK. The question is how am I feeling, (happy ,sad ,hungry), or looking (fat, thin, curly). And am I measuring that by time, place, or emotional health.

So, in answer to the question and without further ado, I don’t know. I seem to be incapable of eating anything healthy, or for that matter in small amounts. When I look in the mirror I see some old hag looking back at me. (When did that happen?) I’m spending a great deal of time thinking about the past instead of looking toward the future. This is dangerous because, as my mother would say, “dead’s dead” (What is past is past – it can’t be changed.).

Three years ago we took Mom to Seattle. On the way home I cried for 5 hours and with the help of four, or more, Bloody Marys, coped with my distress. We thought we would deliver her west and probably never see her alive again. But that was not the last time I saw her. Putting her under Jeff and Els’ care added three years to her life. Now I am on my way home from Seattle, having packed and either tossing, or giving away whatever was left of her things. They were only things. But still, it was not an easy task.

I am not crying this time, and I’m not sure why. Clearly, this time I know for a fact I will not see her again. Maybe I’m not sad because I think she really is in a better place with far more people she loves and who love her. Not only family, but great friends from childhood and when she and dad were just starting their lives together in New Jersey. With this in mind, we received this note from a dear friend who expressed what we all felt:

August 15, 2010
Dear Iris and Jeff,
Since recently hearing of your mother’s death, (via Seattle) I have struggled to find words of comfort for you, while also conveying a celebration of your Mother’s life. If I had known, it would have been an honor to bid her farewell with your friends and family. Yes, she was a colorful character ~ a special lady who brightened so many lives. Rosie brought so much life to Everything... She knit that neighborhood together, long after we “grew up” leaving our block behind. She cared for my parents with a warm and kind selflessness, while ignoring their self-centeredness.
When in Boonton, I often did stop by to say hello. She made me laugh, feel loved and hugged and, of course, she fed me ~ The gefilte fish ~ I tried only once ~ but for kugel and blintzes, my Tupperware was in the car! What I will most remain in awe of, was your parents’ love. Rosie would kid around with your dad and hug him and kiss him as if she were a new bride; never as a caregiver, tired of that devastating disease that attacked her Milton. They will remain a model for all of us.

She often told me (as an adult) I looked “delicious” and I loved it, but doubted it. BUT, when Rosie told my children THEY were “delicious,” I knew she got that right! My grandsons already know they are delicious too, just one more little detail of her amazing legacy!

Since tracking you down via “We’re just sayin’,.” I feel like a groupie. I keep reading and re-reading reminders of her stubborn “ let me tell you finger wagging” and of looking ravishing and dazzling in the gaudiest of jewelry. And I can hear her raucous laughter ~ If she laughed, we laughed, hers was so contagious. I always left feeling happier than when I arrived.

I also reread you answerless questions on how we grieve. I read way too many books, before I decided they all seem way too generic. Grief is the most personal of experiences, and like parenting, it appears there is not a one size fits all volume. From where I sit, it is day by day for the remainder of our lives. You spoke of feeling empty, of not connecting the dots and of tears waiting to fall. Maybe it comes in waves. You answered your own question quite accurately, it may not intensify, but it will always be there. It lurks in some odd spaces of our subconscious and maybe the sound of dangles will bring some of your tears to the surface. I think you will find and be surprised by the “triggers.” (A glimpse of a well worn, woolen Phillies cap, worn catcher style, gets me every time! ~ but them I am able to smile and reconnect to a joyful memory of my son, Adam, in his most cherished possession..)

I did view and delight in “The Gefilte Fish Chronicles” ~ Rosie with her rosy glasses. And now, with your blog/blob, you have painted a wonderful memorial that brings joy and tears each time I read it. There will only ever be one Rosie Groman, and she will forever have a place in my heart.

Iris and Jeff, I cannot imagine the depths of your grief. May your paths be shaded with many more visions of her life than of her death.


I couldn’t have said it better myself, and probably won’t even try. We’re just sayin’…Iris

And so, 90 Years....

Dear Mom,
I’ve been trying to call you but your phone has been disconnected. I tried to write to you but my letter came back. And I would have e-mailed you but you never did understand how the electronic post office worked. Remember when we tried to explain it to you and you still thought Jeffrey had to go someplace to pick up the (e)mail. Remember the first time you saw the kids on an iChat and you thought you were watching a video until Joyce asked you how you were feeling. You said “she can see me? The kids can see me? Look at how I look. I should have had my hair done.”

Technology kind of passed you by. We did finally get you to play poker on line, but you beat the machine so often that it wasn’t challenging. And it certainly wasn’t like playing with Aunt Helene, Aunt Sophie and Aunt Peppy. It was no fun yelling at a machine that wouldn’t yell back.

Remember when you left for Seattle and I asked you if you wanted to stop by and see the house one last time. You refused. “That is what was,” you said. “I’m going to do what is.” After you were settled in the West, we cleaned up the house and put it on the market. There was so much stuff. It’s amazing what you collected in 57 years. And don’t worry, what we couldn’t sell we gave to charity – like your clothes. Honest to God, Mom, there were pants and dresses that still had the tags on. We’re just waiting for Hagar pants to go out of business, because without your monthly order, I’m not sure they can survive. Anyway, there are many, many people who will stay warm this winter. You must have had 25 coats, 75 sweaters, and we didn’t even count the pants. They just kept coming and coming out of that basement closet.

We sold the house. Joyce and Ronnie worked tirelessly to make sure that happened. They wanted you to be able to support yourself wherever you were. Being independent and able to care for yourself was always a priority. Which reminds me, I’m sorry about the driver’s license but after you hit the parking meter on Main Street, with all the kids in the car, we thought it was just too dangerous. Oh, and before we left the last time, we hid pictures of you and dad, and Jeff and me in the basement closet so we will be a part of the house for all eternity.

So after 90 years, all that’s left of your life is a carton full of things to give away. Whew! It’s not easy having to go through all the leftovers and deciding who gets all the things that only have value to a few of many people. Like, who gets the long black shirt with the over sized diamonds. Or the myriad of leopard skin scarves and robes and jackets. Who gets the sparkly glasses and the plastic onions, which we promised we would never throw away. There are things with which we cannot part but we it’s too painful to see them.

But unlike so many families who lose an important person, we will always have you on “The Gefilte Fish Chronicles”, waving a knife, fighting with your sisters, and laughing at some secret you all shared.

I’m going to stop calling you. Aunt Peppy says it’s time to move forward. Now we have to think about what we write on your headstone. I’m thinking it should say,
“Beloved wife, sister, mom, aunt, Nana, and Gigi. (Great grandma). She always glittered.”

By the way, send our love to Daddy. Hope you two will forever dance with the stars. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Getting Betty'ied

A few days ago, David and I were watching his 1990 video tape of the “Gefilte Fish Chronicles,” part I. Being from Salt Lake, he was always fascinated by the Battalion strength turnout shown by the Dubroffs when organizing a holiday get-together. It is a bit different than the 2005 version which you might know, because you never see any of the Seder, and the sound is a bit muffled (home video that was then state of that art.) That’s the bad news, but the good news is that you do see much more of the cooking and you hear stories about my Grandparents and family, no longer geographically located on earth.

Anyway, I don’t want this blob to be maudlin because Aunt Peppy says Shiva is over and it’s time to get up and move on. Anyway again, (pretend this is not repetitious), there is a great deal of talk about the past and who did what, when, and how. Like the fact that Grandpa apprenticed as a butcher when he was a young boy or maybe he learned to be butcher in the army. When he was a cook, or maybe he was the chef to the Czar. (There were the usual Dubroff sibling disagreements about time, place, and position).

What we do learn is about how the family weddings were paid for and some funny stories (funny now) about my Aunt Betty – the eldest child. The one who came across the ocean with my Grandmother, as a baby. All the other children were born in the US. When Betty got married, in Grandpa’s butcher store, it was so cold that the windows froze. However, when she and Uncle Lou walked around the candles (seven times), her veil caught fire and, after pulling it off and dousing her with water, her hair also froze. Or, if you are truly loyal fans, you may remember (from the Gefilte Fish Chronicles Cookbook) that Betty was credited with making her meatloaf with chicken. It is after all, a ‘meat’ of sorts. And it was delicious. But when someone wanted her meatloaf, and she didn’t have the time to make it, she would never refuse, she would simply delegate the task, sometimes to her treasured Bessie and sometimes to one of her sisters – never Uncle Jack.

After they left Brooklyn, four of the shtetl moved to Newburgh NY and four of them to Boonton NJ. This, however, did not prevent any of them from getting Bettyied. Aunt Peppy tells the story of how Aunt Betty was asked to be the Cub Scout leader of her son Harold’s troop, and she happily agreed. Then, the next morning she called Aunt Peppy and informed her that she was sure Peppy would enjoy the experience. Peppy laughingly recalls that she said “But Betty, I don’t even have sons,” and Betty simply assured her it wouldn’t matter. “But I didn’t know anything about boy things,” Peppy recalls. “So we all had a great time, but the Cubs never learned enough to become Boy Scouts.” Cousin Dick Zodikoff, life long pal of Harold's, and fellow Cub Scout, admits that at least once they "set the field on fire," and forced the Fire Department to save the day. Peppy's culpability has never been questioned, since, after all, boy things differed greatly (especially in the area of misdemeanors) from girl things.
Betty, surrounded by husband Lou, and her Poppa.
When I was getting married and Aunt Betty wanted to buy my trousseau, we planned a day and time and the stores we would visit, and then she ‘Bettyied’ the job to my beautiful cousin Elaine. This of course, was wonderful, because Elaine was young, had little daughters, and very good taste. As my mother would have said, it “was what was.”

Being Bettyied was not only accepted, it was expected. It never mattered who got the job done, as long as it got done. Being Bettyied is usually fun and at the very least keeps us all connected. No one ever gets angry or upset about assignments. Although sometimes the assignment is not convenient or to our liking, it always gets done – often by Bettying someone else.

And yes, getting Bettyied has been passed down from generation to generation. For example, last week when my cousin Sheila needed some follow up done for a party, she called and Bettyied me to do it. Then she called me back and said “I just Bettyied you, and I am still laughing about it”.

Getting Bettyied, for any of us, is a loving tribute to the fact that we will not hesitate to help one another in any way possible. It is also a loving tribute to the Aunt who accepted any job, task, or assignment, and then immediately Bettyied it to someone on whom she knew she could always depend. And that’s the really nice thing about family. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Little Orphan Irie

Little Orphan Irie

Does the title of this blob pull at your heartstrings? Do you want to burst into rousing rendition of “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow.” Nevermind. No need to feel bad. I wasn’t an orphan for most of my life. This “status” as they say on “Facebook, is recent and forever, so I’m still confused by it.

When I was a kid my mother made me call my grandmother once a week. After a while, rather than becoming rote, it became more painful. The conversation only lasted for a minute and it was about nothing, because I had nothing to talk about that I thought would be of interest to her. Let me affirm that I loved my grandmother. She was a wonderfully entertaining person – generous and a good cook. It wasn’t that I dreaded having to converse, it was that I hated being told what to do. That should come as no surprise to anyone who has known me for any or much of my life.

In the past, the telephone was the primary way to communicate. It may still be, for people of a certain age. But with the availability of e-mail and texting, (yes you do use a phone but you never have to talk or listen to a real live person. Actually, about two months ago my daughter informed me that I was not to leave voice mails for her. She wasn’t going to pick them up. To which I responded, “OK, then any important information I have for you will never get to you.” She changed her mind and does pick up as well as talk. But it still drives me crazy to call her and get voice mail – but if I text her she’ll answer within 20 seconds.

Moving on. The telephone has always been a complicated part of my life. When I was working “on the road” for political campaigns, the only people who called me were the people who wanted something. It was always unpleasant. And yet, it was also the only way I could communicate with my son, who I loved and missed desperately. Which was always a joy. So it was not uncomplicated. I hated the phone and I loved it. I dreaded it and I depended on it. My reluctance and passion for the phone has never been resolved.

There came a time, when mom was failing, that I called her all the time – just to make sure she was OK, that she hadn’t fallen, and that her aides were doing their job – driving her where she wanted to go -- and she was eating all her meals. When she moved to independent living, my calls were not as frequent, but she was having a great time so she didn’t mind. Then mom moved to the west coast and I promised her that I would call her everyday at around 6pm – 3pm her time. And I did call her everyday. The conversation was limited. It went something like: “Hello mom, how’s the weather, in what activities did you participate, and how do you feel?” Talking wasn’t the point. I heard her voice and she heard mine. It was a solid daily connection, everyday for three years and three or four times weekly for about 10 years. No one told me I had never wanted to disappoint her, so when I couldn’t speak to her, I would leave a message.

It is around 6, that I feel particularly vulnerable. I go to pick up the phone and then I realize she’s not going to answer. She’s not there. Really, she’s not anywhere. This does not mean I don’t talk to her, but when I do, she doesn’t answer. It’s mostly at those times that I feel particularly sad, lonely and like little orphan Irie. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Woe Is Us

Why is it, that when someone close to us “passes,” “moves to a better place,” “bites the dust,” or, ( I felt the need for a little levity), we feel the need to tell everyone we see. And I don’t mean just people who know us, or the late beloved. (“They’re not late. They’re not coming.”) But people who we have never seen before, like a construction worker pounding some into a building, the dentist’s new assistant, or a person standing on the street collecting signatures for some cause.

At first I thought I wanted people to feel sorry for me. That was simply wrong. The people who express their love and support and remind us to celebrate life, are far preferable. The people who do an “oh, poor you,” are usually the same people who then dive right into “Oh, poor me,” For example, “I know you lost someone very close to you, but it doesn’t begin to compare to the depth of the tragedy that I felt when my, dog, father, cousin, friend, favorite teacher …. died.”

There could be a reality show in this. Why not go from funeral home to funeral home but instead of asking those who are grieving how they feel, you simply ask anyone in the crowd:
1. How they feel about dying.
2. If they have every experienced anything similar.

There was a time when I believed an absolutely hysterical TV series would be to go to a condo swimming pool in South Florida and ask any elderly person sitting outside, how they are feeling – it’s got to be better than “The Real Wives of …” and “Jersey Shore.” When we asked my grandmother how she felt, regardless of the state of her health, she would always say “better.” You might think that this is ‘a glass half full’ response, while in fact, it was merely a way to start the conversation. “Why grandma? Weren’t you feeling well?” To which there any number of answers:
a. If you called me more often you would know.
b. Yesterday wasn’t go great for me.
c. The doctor was not happy about the results of a test he took last week.
d. I must have eaten something this morning that didn’t agree with me.
e. At my age, you would expect me to feel fine all the time.
f. Don’t worry, it’s just another way God has to remind me I’m falling apart
g. I’m better, but you should hear about Mrs. Schwartz. It shouldn’t happen to a dog.

And those are just a few and still at the starting point. You can only imagine what the possibilities are for the rest of the conversation.

Anyway, back to feeling sorrowful. It’s almost like you think that sharing your sorrow will bring some kind of relief. Some kind of catharsis. While you know the first response will predictably be, “I’m so sorry.” You want to be able to respond beyond “thank you.” You want to be able to say things like, “she was a colorful character,” or “I know I am going to miss even those tedious telephone conversations, when I could hardly hear her because the TV was so loud and she refused to lower it, especially if she were in the middle of a Hallmark movie, or “Judge Judy.” It seems impossible that after all the years she insisted on having some kind of relationship, and all the years you spent together fighting or laughing or crying or telling secrets, that she’s no longer around to be interested.

Then there is the feeling that you need to explain, almost forgive whomever you tell, that you know there are those who are suffering more – like the loss of a child or a spouse or a person who was sick and in pain for a long time. Not sure why any sorrow needs to be measured, but just like it’s hard to be in a room with friends who want only to share silence, it’s equally hard not to comment on the depth of your pain. And I know that, having lost my dad over 20 years ago, the pain never goes away. The absence of a person who you loved deeply, may not intensify, but it’s always lurking – waiting for you to see someone with a similar smile, or style, or dress or reacting in the same way they would have reacted to some situation. And that person is sometimes your children, but more likely it happens when you look in the mirror.

And how do we deal with this loss. My Aunt, (mom’s twin), says she believes that half of her went into the grave and that half of mom stayed with her. (Click on this link.) In “Tuesdays with Morrie”, Mitch Albom writes about an Indian tribe who believed that the person who died became very small and was always sitting on your shoulder – giving you ongoing advice and with that, of course, a headache. As my Aunt Peppy says, we don’t really know what faces us when we die, so we should make something up that makes it as easy as possible to live with the loss.

Contributions to the Gefilte Fish Chronicles Project may be mailed to:
Burnett
220 E 54
apt 3j
NY 10022

It Seems Familiar

The soldiers walking in front of me smelled like West Point. It’s hard to explain the smell except to say, when I was in high school we would spend weekends dating cadets – and all of them smelled the same way. There are those times when a smell or a color or just a sound can take me back to a time or an event in the past. I guess that’s what’s meant by déjà vu – the feeling that you’ve been there before?

There has been so much déjà vu this week. Perhaps it’s because my mom’s death is so much like the end of an era, or maybe its because after all our years together there was hardly an event at which she (and all my aunts) didn’t have some presence – even if it was just in my head. Often it was in person and someday I’ll tell you about Rose and her friend Cynthia, at the Democratic Convention.

Today, I spoke to Aunt Peppy two times. The first was because I called her to say hello and how are you. The second was when she called me, before she ended her “Shiva” (time in mourning). She wanted to remind me that at the end of the Shiva period, the mourners get up, go outside, and walk around a bit. That signifies that you are getting on with your life –without the person who passed on. And so, I read Kaddish, (memorial prayer for the dead), and walked to work, hoping I would feel better. Or at least feel something.

And I did feel sad and lonely, but it didn’t have the kind of depth I expected. I am not going to whine about what I feel or don’t feel or what I have and don’t have. My memories of my parents are vivid in my mind. My memories of my mother, although not without some drama, are mostly hysterical. She was a role model for being a “character.” For not giving in to the traditional. And for taking the road less traveled. My life, both personal and professional, has been much the same. And to some degree, so have my children’s lives – because of her.

What I do have, that almost no one who has lost their parent has, is her legacy. Not money, we had none. And not things (her taste was never my taste), but “The Gefilte Fish Chronicles.” I have her at her best in a documentary. I have her voice in the “Chronicles” companion cookbook, and I have all of her siblings’ spirit in a developing musical theater show. She and my Aunts and Uncles have had quite an impact on families (not only Jewish), throughout the United States and Canada. If I want to visit with the essence of all of them, I can turn on TV, slip in a DVD, laugh and cry and remember.

Many people have asked if there was a way they could make a donation in her name. If there were a disease or religious organization that she championed. Not really. But it was very important to her that the “Gefilte Fish Chronicles” remain a part of the national conversation –so she and all the aunts and uncles could be the role model for family and celebration. So I guess if you want to contribute to something that gave or would give her, and her still very much alive twin Peppy, write a check to “The Gefilte Fish Chronicles.” It will help us to keep spreading the word, and to keep the flame of family (ours and everyone else’s) alive. And like her Kaddish candle, still burning. We're just sayin'....Iris
Peppy speaks about the Chronicles

Zero Intolerance

This has been quite a couple of weeks. No excuse for not writing, but it’s the only one I have. My mother-in-law, the irredoubtable Rose Groman finally decided she’d given this life a pretty good spin, and headed back to see her husband and sisters, all of whom missed her, I’m sure. The sense of absence – of missing something no longer there, whether it be person or thing, is often hard to describe. Where there was once someone ( Rose) , doing something familiar (chatting, cooking veal chops, watching a game show) , but who is there no longer, is a tough reality to grab on to. So much of our lives are filled with the kind of repetitive moments, or at least the security of the familiar, that large gaps left by someone’s passing make difficult to grasp. You keep hearing the voice which you know won’t be spoken again. Out of the corner of your eye, little tricks are played on your mind, as you could swear you heard or saw something which could only have come from that person. Then you have one of those instant double-takes… Wait. Rose is gone. It couldn’t have been her.

We spend so much of our lives dwelling in the unproductive and uninteresting sides of things, the pursuits of material which ultimately seem so banal and uninviting when the real soul of life needs to be measured. The one thing I suppose I am sure of is that I’m not, inspite of my chronological qualifications, ready to assume a role as ‘adult.’ While not afflicted with severe Peter Pan syndrome, I nonetheless have preferred living my life as a naïf, someone who continually remains open to the possibility of positive change, with that flicker of child like belief that the ‘grown ups’ won’t really screw things up as badly as they seem to be. Well, yes, they do seem to be pretty on their way (or, since they are my age and younger) on OUR way to doing so. I’m continually reminded of how our generation, the baby boomers, have squandered the joys inherent in thought and common sense, and instead, in some kind of desire to avoid responsibility, just throw back all the basic questions of right and wrong. Yesterday, my brother in law Jeff, a mere 5 years younger than I, accompanied me to a ‘Food Emporium’ grocer to pick up two beers… not two six packs, but two beers (albeit the Fosters hand-grenade sized ones.) The young woman at the cashier asked to see I.D. Now, if you are alive, and breathe, and know how to punch a time clock (which I’m sure all the Food Emp. Employees do) you couldn’t possibly think Jeff or I were under the age of 21. It’s simply not humanly possible. But to do so would require the tiniest bit of that combination of intellect and giving a damn, along with an infinitesimal power of observation. I understand if Jordan were to order a drink in a café or buy a beer in a store, how she could, indeed should be ‘carded.’ But to have completely abrogated the concept of “common sense” which is now so uncommon, is to show to that same younger generation that adults are thoughtless idiots, incapable of even making the most elemental, simple, and basic decision. We see it in our lives everyday. “Zero Tolerance” ought to just be called “No More Common Sense, Please” as all it does is create more idiotic rules and interpretations of how to live a life.

For years I thought the coolest gift you could give a 13 year old boy at his Bar Mitzvah was a Swiss Army knife. A blade to cut a tree branch when camping, the can opener and bottle opener so you could eat, a small saw for securing your hammock, and a screw driver when the electrical box needed fixing. The corkscrew, for later years use, was kind of self explanatory. But now, if you were to even think of giving a kid a Swiss Army Knife, one of the dozens of newly formed anti terrorist squads, dressed to the nines in their recently purchased millions of dollars worth of Kevlar black uniform and SWAT teamwear would descend upon the poor kid before he could trim the string on his box kite. Once again, the things we knew and cherished and appreciated are now just blocked off from everyday life by some new rule. I’m ready to apologize to the kids’ generation at this point. Rose, and her compatriots, got us through the end of the depression, WW2, and the Cold War. What have we done? Well, very little, I’m afraid to say, and most of that not so good. Yes, we have cell phones, email, and instant messaging. It all has its place and can be incredibly useful, although I fear that having given everyone the chance to stare at their cellphone as they walk down the sidewalk or enter an elevator, we have lost many further chances to just interact with each other “in person.” As someone who starts conversations in elevators with strangers, I fear the ‘stare at your cell phone” syndrome will make such chit chat even more difficult as we move forward. (You call this Forward?) So, I’m sorry our generation didn’t just decide to KNOW the simple difference between what is right, and what isn’t. In the end, it’s usually not that hard. As Rose would have said, “Smart, smart, stupid.” Yes, at some point, the self-appointed geniuses just crap out, and their inherent self-important views of the world dissolve into a bit of nothing. My belt is fitting a little loose this morning, and I’d like to fix it. Where do you think that Swiss Army Knife leather punch is, anyway? We’re just sayin’… David

How You Feel

Has anyone written a book about what it’s like to deal with an important death? I know there have been books on death that talk about the grieving process and what happens after, but has anyone talked about how difficult it is when you feel empty? When you can’t connect the dots.

Many of my friends and family have said that it’s normal to feel nothing, but this is too much for me to comprehend. I am waiting for someone to tell me that mom is not dead. That when we thought she was starving herself, she was actually getting up in the middle of the night and sneak eating. But I was there with her during the night, and she just continued not to eat or drink. She made a decision which, with the help of the hospice people, we needed to respect. Not easy for a Jewish mother, not to try to force feed whomever –but I didn’t. It was important for her to feel in control. It was important for her wishes to be respected. She was just tired of sitting around doing nothing but hoping dad and her sisters would take her.

This woman, who enjoyed nothing more that a good Judge Judy, a Golden Girls Marathon and a few exciting “Price is Right” episodes, lost interest in watching TV. She just wanted to be with dad and her sisters. And after she had the stroke, or pause, or whatever it was, she just wanted us to let her go. Which we did. After saying her goodbyes to her sister and the many cousins who couldn’t believe we were going to lose her.

Despite the family pep talks, she made the choice. Painful as it was for us to watch, there was little else we could do.

And now, the most painful thing is to think of her as dead. I was with her when she died, and even then I was convinced that she was still breathing. In my mind’s eye, I see her lying on that bed not breathing. But in my memory I see her covered with gold chains, on her 80th birthday, trying to convince Tina that they were tasteful. There was no way. And we laughed and laughed until we had stomach pain. My mom, who never owned any good jewelry, always looked fantastic in crap – so that’s what she wore – more elegantly than even anyone who shopped at Tiffanys.

Maybe I’ll go see “Toy Story Three”. Jordan says it’s a real tear jerker – and maybe that’s what I need. I can’t yet get to the tears, but I know they are right beneath the surface. It might be that we took care of her for so long, that we don’t know what to do with ourselves now. But all the other people who were her care givers came to say their teary goodbyes without any problem.

Rosie, what will we do without you? And Rosie, we pray that you are in a place that finally makes you happy. I just wish we knew how to deal with your absence as well as your presence. We’re just sayin’… Iris

The Other Half

We buried “Mama Rose” yesterday. All the guests wore sparkling rose stickers and the immediate family was in sequins. Her grand children spoke eloquently about the impact she had on their lives and how they had become better people because of the unconditional love she lavished on them, no matter where they were in their lives.
She would have been so proud.

A few months ago, when I was making my every six week trek across the country, to let her know I still cared, she told me that she didn’t think that (when she died) there were going to be many people at her funeral (If she ever died.) “My friends are all dead,” she said. “There aren’t a lot of people left in NJ who even remember me anymore. But don’t you dare bury me in Seattle. I want to be next to daddy.”

“Oh gee Ma,” I said, “We thought we would just throw your body in the Pacific Ocean, since no one will come to the service, and no one remembers you, we just thought it wouldn’t pay to make a big fuss about it.”
Aunt Peppy & Rosie Jean
As it turned out, (and we were not surprised), there were lots of family and friends, who wanted to pay their respects to this amazing woman who had made some kind of impact on their lives. They traveled great distances to share their stories and their sorrow. Many of the friends were mine and Jeff’s who, through good times and bad, had come to admire and respect our parents. Some people were there who didn’t even know mom, but she had done something kind for one of their parents or some relative – maybe when she was a volunteer at St Clare’s Hospital.

If you are Jewish, you are supposed to get buried the day after you die, unless it’s the Sabbath and then you wait until Sunday. Once the person is buried, the family sits in mourning (shiva) for three to seven days. Mom died on a Friday. It wasn’t quite sundown but that didn’t matter because we had to arrange for her body to be sent back to Newark. (And I know it was only her body because her spirit departed early in the day.) Skipping all the spiritual stuff – we needed to bury her next to Dad in Beth David, in Elmont, NY. So as it turned out, we couldn’t have the funeral until Tuesday and we had been mourning from Friday. It was a painfully long goodbye, but my cousins, Rosalie and Dick, opened their house to us and surrounded us with support.

Last night, my mother’s twin (the last one out of eight still alive), talked about mom and how she was dealing with it. “For the first three days, I kept saying, Rosie can’t be dead. Someone has made a terrible mistake. Then, every time I admitted to myself that it was true, I would start to cry. Then I would say, it isn’t true. I’ll talk to her later and I’ll know she’s OK. At the graveside an amazing thing happened. I figured out a way to live with this horrible reality. I knew that as we lowered her into the ground, half of me went with her. And at the same time half of her stayed in me.”

That works for me, Aunt Pep. And sad as I am that half of you is gone, I am just fine with “half of mom lives inside of you” What more does anyone need to say. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

The Always Colorful Momma Rose

Even those of you who didn't really know her knew stories about her, so it is with great sadness that I share the news of my mom's passing this morning Friday July 16. It is with great joy, however that I tell you she died exactly the way she wanted to.... peacefully, in her sleep, listening to her Barry Sisters CD, surrounded with people who loved her -- lots of them. Jeff and I, Els, Devin, Jordan Kai, Seth, Joyce and our new little Rosie, all her friends and caregivers. And in classic Rose form, She kept her gold sneakers and said if there was anyone who wore a 6 1/2 she didn't want them to go in the trash. I guess after 10 years we can't return them -- which as we all know is what she and all her sisters would have preferred.
Keep her in your thoughts and prayers and in her honor do something sparkly and outrageous.
Love you
Iris

Mom is Home

Rose and Milton, Brooklyn, 1942
We brought mom home to her apartment at the M.A.R.C. this morning. Everyone was really happy that she chose to be home for her hospice care. So many people visiting to say they love her. She is where she belongs, surrounded by people who love her. MaryBeth, her best friend came by to say hello and told her that she didn’t have to eat, because MaryBeth was eating enough for both of them. The chef came up just to tell her, and us, that he’d prepare anything she wanted. Her aides, Tonya, Kady and Jamie continue to give her loving care, and every once in a while the feisty Rosie appears out of nowhere to let us all know she’s still in charge. This comes as no surprise. Everytime my brother and I are together with her, I tell him that Mom said I was always the favorite child which absolutely makes her smile. Jordan read her a Cosmo article about pre-marital sex. She wanted her Nana’s opinion, and her Nana just shook her head. And I won’t tell you what Jeffrey said to make her smile, but yes, if she could get up, she’d wash his mouth out with soap. We all so appreciate your expressions of love and support, and I am reading them all to her. We’re just sayin’.... Iris (in Bainbridge)

If You Have a Minute...

Iris' mom, the redoubtable Rose Groman has been in the hospital the last week.. and while she's resting comfy, she would love to hear from her fans out there. Iris has been reading her emails from family and friends the last few days, and she quite enjoys catching up and hearing from you all. Send your notes to us at DavidB383@gmail.com and we ll be sure and pass them on. We're just sayin'..... David

Thongs For the Memories

There was a time when a woman could slip into her underpants and then just put on a skirt or pants or whatever. It is a time I remember fondly. But now, you can’t just pull on underpants. They have to be invisible. In other words, the line of your underpants can’t show through whatever you choose to put on over them. This makes no sense to me since you are allowed to let your bra straps show – in fact, it’s cool to let them hang out. (May I add here that letting your bra straps show is hardly as stupid as the guys who wear their pants so low that everyone who passes by can see his butt crack – but ridiculous styles are not the subject of this blob.) To be quite honest I never know what the subject of the blob will be, but I know what it is not.

Anyway, about a year ago I was getting dressed and Jordan looked at me and laughed. “Mom, the lines of your underpants are showing. You need to wear a thong.” Here’s an important fact. When I was growing up, thongs were shoes. As a matter of fact, not too long ago I went into the shoe department at Macy’s and asked if they had thongs. “Lady,” she said distastefully, “Why would you look for a thong here? You need to look in underwear.” Of course, I thought, they are not called thongs anymore, they are called flip flops – which would make more sense if it was a bra. It’s kind of like when you call someone a ‘dobee’. The definition of a ‘dobee’ was someone who did menial tasks or errands. But this is no longer the case. Apparently, it now has some sexual connotation, which my kids refuse to explain to me.

Fashion trends change, everyone knows that, but why should we have to suffer the consequences of decisions our children make. So, I am practicing wearing a thong. I even bought five. What I find, however, is that it feels like I’m naked. When it doesn’t feel that way it is simply because I have to keep adjusting it. It is a bit disconcerting to have to keep pulling at your underwear – I know men will well understand this.

My preference for sleep wear is a t shirt and underpants. This may be too much information. Regardless, I tried to sleep in a thong (I keep practicing), but it was truly uncomfortable. Oh me, oh my, what to do? Do I admit defeat and let my lines show? Or do I bite the bullet and get used to this new phenomenon – I guess it’s only new to me. Well, I guess I could pull up my big girl pants and become very ‘today.’ But let me tell you how uncomfortable it is to pull up that little piece of cloth and pretend to be hip. If only it would cover my hip, I could almost deal with it. We’re just sayin’…Iris

What A Party! Party??

the "ROCK" in question...
they come from far afield, and sit upon the hills of Plymouth....
The July 4th parade in Plymouth may have been an precursor to a whole new political trend. The lack of party affiliation. In the parade, where there were 60 floats, and at least 30 were political candidates from the South Shore, there were only two with party affiliate designations on their signs. We inquired about whether they were Dems or Repubs, and they seemed startled, even uncomfortable, but eventually the fessed up to party of choice. Anyway, there was one candidate who was running for Sheriff who, on his literature admitted he was a Dem. And the other was a float for the Tea Party – that is quite a Party, as we have all seen and heard on the news. Is this a sign that the good Old American two-party system is on the wane? (What does wane mean? Wane is one of those words that no one uses anymore because there seem to be better choices. Like decline seems so much hipper, and deteriorate much more visual). Moving on…

David had never seen Plymouth Rock. So imagine his surprise when he discovered a mere pebble (by Ayers Rock standards), protected by fencing and concrete barriers. “I guess they think it’s going to escape,” was the most sensible explanation shared by a 6 year old sharing the view with him. Yes, Plymouth Rock does not meet expectations – especially when you have waited your whole life to give it a glance. The first time I saw it, was when, as a young mother, Seth and I explored many historic sites in the commonwealth. Well, we went to Sturbridge Village almost weekly because they had great cookies, and we went to historic parks, where Seth was chased and terrified by a loose and asocial goose, and we went to Plymouth Rock. It was before anyone thought it would escape. Although there was a chain link fence, nothing else protected it. Seth was pretty bored with looking at a rock so the highlight of the trip were the fabulous ice cream cones I bought as a reward for driving all that distance and not being very impressed.



Scott Brown for Senate.. at least we know where he stands

But back to the politics of today. There were candidates who sent groups of people with signs, but themselves were no shows. And the new Senator ( Scott Brown -- who is pretty cute) was there greeting as many people as possible. There were candidates who came with bands (mostly made up of ex hippies and no doubt on the verge of receiving Social Security), and there were some, who were running for Board of Education, who personally greeted and touched every hand in the crowd. That will tell you where the real power lies. Where the real work is done. And additionally, it a sign of the power of that position. It is unclear whether they can have Party affiliations but no one did so the point is moot. (Another word like wane that sounds like an animal call.)
Rob O'Leary for Congress...R or D?


Joe Malone for Congress...R or D?

And it’s not only at a parade. I realized when I was watching a Governor and Senate race last week, that neither the incumbent or the challenger were identified by party. Have the national political parties so alienated the public, that people who are running for elected office are afraid to talk about who they are and what they believe in – other than no new taxes and no big government. I think I liked it better when candidates talked about issues, took positions, and stood for something. Most of the time, the public would align with one group or another but it wasn’t as ugly or mean spirited as it is today. And the interesting thing is that the public prefers humor to venom. They don’t trust anyone who says what they are against rather than what they are for.


Zach and Spiderman, in the flesh
Madame Polito, sans affiliation

But such is life. We all had a wonderful time. Lots of family having fun together. Zak met Spiderman-- his hero and David chased after John Talcott, Jr., the 102 year old Navy veteran Grand Marshall who refused to ride in the car provided, and insisted on walking the whole route. He was in better shape than most of the crowd – or at least, he had a better costume. We’re just sayin’… Iris

A Revoltin' Development

I think the expression was “What a revolting development this is.” Or it may have been my mother's favorite pronouncement “Smart, smart, stupid” -- which quite simply means, very smart people can make really stupid decisions. So who am I talking about? The list could go on for a long time. But let's start with the silly and move to the important.

Everyone knows that “Rolling Stone” published a piece about a well respected General or rather his team of geniuses talking down and dirty about the President and his Merry Men, some of whom I know and with whom I have worked. Just for the record, I think these great military minds were just stupid. They are career military and with all their indoctrination, they know, it is against the rules, ( a big NO NO) and also against the law, to criticize the President or the people who make policy decisions – regardless of the foolishness of the policy. It is just not done. One can assume they had some kind of death wish – or maybe, they wanted to send their message through a liberal press outlet, who they knew would print what they said, (a more conservative press may not have reported it). It was the only way they knew their comments (the journalist had access to the aides not the General), would be published. Additionally, they may have been looking for a way out (being removed from their command is certainly out), before they had to suffer the consequences they knew would result from the policies being forced upon a military, that they realized was futile.

Needless to say the General resigned (that’s bureaucratese for getting fired) and he has been replaced by another General, who will continue to keep forging ahead even though he knows we cannot win. Did we not learn anything from the Russians (or the Brits?) or are we so arrogant that we think we can do anything – including a victory in Afghanistan. If there is someone out there who understands why we are still there and can explain it in an uncomplicated sentence which doesn’t include something about the threat of terrorism, I would like to hear it. Certainly, terrorists have been foiled by an active local police force, i.e. NY, and the long term weeding out in Afghanistan. But the real threat to our national security is the money we have spent on countries which will never be “democracies” by our definition, in lieu of taking care of the problems we have at home, which include the neglect of the wounded warrior, as well as their families.

Did I say we are going from the silly to the serious? It’s not true, because it’s all ridiculous, For example, in the realm of “revolting developments” this came by e-mail today. An old friend (and registered Republican) wanted to share this. And, having been on the Board of the USO, there is too much truth to ignore it.

We need to show more sympathy for these people.
* They travel miles in the heat.
* They risk their lives crossing a border.
* They don't get paid enough wages.
* They do jobs that others won't do or are afraid to do.
* They live in crowded conditions among a people who speak a different language.
* They rarely see their families, and they face adversity all day ~ every day.
I'm not talking about aliens. I'm talking about our troops! Doesn't it seem strange that many politicians are willing to lavish all kinds of social benefits on illegals, but don't support our troops, and are even threatening to reduce funding for them?

The problem is that, unless we have someone dear to us serving in the armed forces, we are totally removed from any of the wars in which this nation is involved. Who would ever believe that this great United States would treat the people who are defending our freedom, like they are not even citizens. Where is our national conscience? Where is our national moral core? Where is the “we” as a nation, that used to be?

Sometimes when I’m thinking along the lines of revolting developments (and I get past the fact that aging is pretty revolting, but consider the alternative), it occurs to me that all of life is kind of a conundrum. If we have no friend or family we are sad and lonely. Yet, if we have lots of friends and family, we have to suffer the loss of people we love. Which is more revolting. If we surround ourselves with people we love, and they are disappointed by the way we live our lives, we have to suffer the consequences of their disappointment. What is the alternative? Surround yourself with people you despise. None of this seems fair. And yet, maybe that’s why the expression “life is not easy” was created – so we would be warned. We’re just sayin’…. Iris