A High School Like Weekend

Sunday night used to be the night, as kids, we always went out for Chinese food. It was never easy because my dad was in a wheelchair before anything was handicapped accessible. And we never went with less than 10 people. For years, it as the August Moon and then -- I can’t remember. It was always a trauma or at the least, a drama. Sundays remind me of those family outings. Just FYI, I hate that my mother is dead. I mean, I hate to have lost both parents, but my mother’s scent still lurks in all her clothing. And, because it was not a subtle smell, anything that ever hung in her closet – like my coats, wreaks of it. In addition, the 20th is her birthday and I always buy cards months in advance. So I have the cards, but no mother. Enough whining. And it was not Sunday.

Aside from my mother being dead, it was a terrific weekend. I was feeling a little stressed, and weepy, and so we decided to go to our favorite restaurant. It’s so Jewish to solve all your problems with food – or maybe it’s so ethnic, but we squeezed in the car, called Kerry and headed out to the Reservoir Tavern in Boonton/Parsippany, N.J. The Res, as I may have mentioned at least twenty times, is just a great place for pizza and any other Italian food you may be craving. We all split an extra thin, clam, garlic, and cheese white pizza (move over Pepes in Ct.!) It was absolutely fabulous. And did we smell, and burp. Yes, we did, and enjoyed every moment of every retaste.
dipping at the Res: olive oil, parmesan cheese, red pepper... Heaven...
It was just like a Saturday when we were in high school. We would start the day with a football game. Well, almost. First we would have a piece of toast and then race out of the house so we could all meet, talk about our boyfriends on the football team, and then we would freeze on the bleachers. The most interesting moments were those we had at the food breaks -- during the endless game, which none of us understood. There wasn’t much offered at the one small stand which sold soda, coffee, candy, popcorn and terrible pizza (which always tasted remarkably good). We ate it with gusto -- we were freezing, starving and grateful not to be cheerleaders on the sidelines in short skirts and no breaks – except half time, when they would also try to consume something warm.

After the game, win or lose, we would go to Paul’s Diner (the high school hang out), and have a little something else to eat. My favorite was a grilled cheese with tomato and a vanilla malt. There is nothing quite like a vanilla malt or shake when you want something sweet.

Yesterday, we replicated those old high school days. Although the pizza wasn’t bad (it was extraordinary), and the malt was take-out, it was, all in all, a divine football day feast. After the major food fest, we collapsed, watched college football on TV – which I have mentioned previously that I love—and I now understand. One of my teams lost (Michigan) and one won (Wisconsin), in an upset. Let’s be honest. What could be better than pizza, a shake, college football, and no heartburn.

We completed a lovely weekend with lunch at the Chelsea Grill, (also a favorite) and a half price Broadway musical. It was our original intention to go to see “Million Dollar Quartet”. But the seats were not great and there is no reason to pay even half price for not great seats. So we opted to see “The Scottsboro Boys,” where we had 8th row orchestra center seats. Usually, when you can get those seats half price, it is an indication that the show is about to close or lousy. That was certainly not the case here. It was a cleverly constructed, moving, substantive, and entertaining triumph. (David admitted to being breathless in the final scene and that is rare enough.) It is still in Previews, but once it opens you will not be able to get a seat. Go while it’s still in Previews.

Anyway, as I said, it was a terrific weekend, and I still hate that my mother was not here to enjoy it with us – she couldn’t resist a good vanilla shake. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Here They Come....

Watching the rescue of the miners was truly exhilarating. Not only exciting and amazing but yes, exhilarating. To see the miners breathe the morning/night air (I don’t know if it was clean), was thrilling. Everyone I know was glued to their TV. And the best part, was not only them reuniting with loved ones, but getting welcome hugs from the President of Chile and assorted officials – as well as people involved in the rescue.

The first thing the American media commented on was how important American technology was to the rescue. It was kind of irrelevant, almost ‘we’re number one!’, at the time. American bravado in the midst of a touching moment… it is not surprising but rather a bit insensitive. Here the Chilean people are celebrating an accomplishment – the miners stayed alive underground for 70 days – and there we are stressing how important we were to getting them out of hole. Which, no doubt is true, but unnecessary amidst the hoopla of the Chilean families and friends.

It is hard not to look at this remarkable feat and not reflect a moment on what is important in life. And additionally, how great it is to see people behaving in such a positive way. Many of the TV correspondents compared this positivity to the negativity of the American political scene. It’s apples and oranges. The thing worth comparing is how American leaders demonstrate leadership. As I watched I couldn’t help but wonder if President Obama would have spent an entire day welcoming 33 miners back to earth. Or if any American politician would have considered spending their time that way, if they weren’t only interested in their public image.

We know that Mayor Giuliani was, and remained on the scene for the tragedy of 9/11. We also know President Bush was pretty much missing in action for the first day. Yes, we have all heard that security would not permit him to be anywhere where there is danger – but (here’s one you might not know), the Secret Service, FBI, CIA, and whatever other security people butt in, make recommendations to the Commander in Chief but, because they are the Commander in Chief, they get to make the final decision about where they will be.

What was, was, as my mother would have said. But what would this President have done? Probably, he would have been advised by his small circle of advisers that spending a whole day in one place without raising money or awareness about an issue, was a waste of time. Sure it would be OK to drop by at the end, for the celebration or even as person #17 was saved (to slap a few backs and shake a few hands), but beyond that, it was not necessary. It would be wonderful to think he would have told his advisers to stick it, and just done the right thing. But would he have needed to ‘calculate’ the right thing? I hope not.

The TV Networks also commented on the fact that the President of Chile had some political problems so that’s why he was there. Isn’t it just possible that he really wanted to be there because he cared about what had happened, and he, like all Chileans, were pulling for these men. That’s what I want to believe.

Have we become so cynical that we are incapable of experiencing a real moment? That when all those people sang the Chilean National Anthem, they were doing it for show – or they expected some political return. Who knows anymore. If we see what politicians are saying about one another, and we look at the fractured paralysis in our own government, to have a real moment seems impossible. And yet, I think people are going to get good and sick of all the ugly and polarizing rhetoric, and they are going to insist on the truth and repeated real moments that carry the country forward. I hope it happens in my lifetime. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Jimbo's (and an entree to the Hamblogger)

While we are continuing to blob here, I have also taken on an adhoc role in helping find good burger joints around the country, around the world, by my photographer friend Justin Sullivan. He works out of San Francisco, and is, in short, dedicated to hamburgers. So he started a blog called the Hamblogger, and I have signed on as a sometime contributor. Ad hoc, I believe, describes it. You find a good burger, you photograph the hell out of it, and then write something as if you were the lone food writer for the Herald Trib. So, here is my new (today) contribution to the Hamblogger... and I hope you'll check it out too. I'm amazed how much people dig burgers. We're just sayin'..... David


(Correspondent’s note: this, like most postings here, is being written just after returning from the restaurant in question, and follows severe handwashing with smelly disinfectant soap, and a two minute gargle with Listerine to render the writer ready to actually lay fingers ON the keys.)


Jimbo’s Hamburger Place in Manhattan (island, not beach) is the kind of place we all wish we could find more of. Somewhere in the swirling dustbin of the techno/ipod/cellfone/textwhileyouwalk age is a desire to find something less complicated, less reliant on technology, less bound to a future whose life seems bound up in uncontrolled button pushing. Jimbo’s is that kind of place. Starting as a hole in the wall burger joint in the 1950s by an Arkansas imigrée whose moniker stayed with the place long after he departed, this miniscule grill has been serving up burgers, toasted cheese sands, and a small variety of grilled goodies for decades. It is the archetypal “analogue” café in a world of binary. Just 10 counter seats and a couple of small, crowded tables, the place is a microcosm of the sort of intimacy which marked luncheon spots for years. Jimbo got the place going, left his name and over the years the ownership has changed a couple of times. Today the proprietor is Abe Mostafa, a young man whose father came to New York in the 1970s from Egypt, and whose family has been churning out burgers for nearly 30 years. While there are a few other places around the city calling themselves “Jimbo’s” they aren’t a chain. This is the original, and a one of.

I once did a story in Missoula on the search for the most perfect slice of American Pie. In that quest I met two women who each had been making pies for small café’s since the end of World War II. By their count they had made something like 40000 pies each. The mind boggled at imagining the amount of rolled out dough that meant. Standing next to the tiny grill at Jimbo’s, it was difficult to imagine the enormous number of burgers that had been turned out in the last fifty years. Each cooked the special “Jimbo’s” way… with a silver cover steaming meat as it grilled. It looked like an aerial view of a small Eskimo village. The igloo like shiny metallic covers keeping the juicy flavor inside the dome. (Maybe that’s what they hope will happen at the Superdome when the Saints play.)

I ordered a bacon-cheese deluxe, with onion and tomato. The bacon was probably the closest to the “well done” crispiness I have seen in a long time at restaurant. We’re talking crispy. The bun was toasted in the broiler, a good sign. And the mountain of grated cheddar created a kind of orange morass which needed herding back onto the burger once the plate was served. I have never been a fan of McDonalds fries, inspite of all the accolades they get (I prefer nearly anything Dutch or Flemish) but though frozen, these little sticks (done “extra crispy” as asked for) were quite impossible to avoid.


Eating the burger was pretty hopeless by hand: I got one good bite, and the juiciness of the meat (“never frozen”) just erupted, and caused the bun to quite literally bite the dust. But maneuvering my way with knife and fork wasn’t so difficult, and the flavor of the meat/cheese/tomato/mushedupbun was quite satisfying all the way to the end. At the end, there remained only traces of bacon, bun, meat, and cheese, and it required one last fork shoveling to finish the job. The meat is a hearty size: I didn’t weigh it up I suspect about 6 ounces, and perfectly formed. Under the silver dome, it cooks up nicely and remains very juicy. I’m not sure a burger can be too juicy and still be done, but this was close.

Jimbo’s is the kind of neighborhood place which draws returning customers in large numbers. They do a good take-out and delivery business, and Abe told me that a surprising number of former neighborhood residents who have moved away return to Jimbo’s for a nostaligic burger hit when they’re back in town. The place is cozy and welcoming. While I was there one guy came off the street, asked for two orders of whole wheat toast, no butter, and took them away when done. Hey, it’s New York, stuff like that happens. But being New York, you come to expect that a place that’s been in business for almost 50 years must be doing something right (though that’s not always the case) and at Jimbo’s, they just keep on keepin’ on.
the "last bite"
Rating: 4 out of 5

Jimbo’s Hamburger Place
991 First Avenue (at 54th st.)
New York, NY 10022

212 355 6120
www.jimboshamburgerplace.com
6:30am – 9:30pm

Are You Mad as Hell?

A few days ago I came across an article on the 'net about a 7 yr old boy in the Broward (Ft Lauderdale) school system who was suspended for a year... a 7 year old!, for having accidently brought a toy pistol to school in his back pack. I was angered beyond all reason, looked up the Superintendent's page online.. clicked the "Send a message to the Supt." which I promptly did, but of course I have yet to hear anything back. No Surprize, but typically disappointing. Here is the letter I wrote...... and yes, I'm still Mad as Hell.

Mr Notter, Supt. of Schools
Broward County, FL

Dear Sir:

Having just read the story of 7 year old Samuel Burgos and the toy gun incident on the CNN website, I felt compelled to write. I assume from your picture that you and I are of the same generation ( I am 64) and it is with an absolute sense of exasperation that I implore you to please bring some sense of judgment and common sense to just one more situation where adult judgement has been ceded to the ridiculousness of "Zero tolerance." You were, I assume, put in this position because you have empathey with school age children, a sense of what is right and wrong, and beyond that, a general idea of what was once referred to as "Common Sense." I say once, because laws which embody "zero tolerance," passed in the last decade or so by adults who have given up the concept of individual thought, seem to have completely destroyed whatever feeling of wisdom young people might have thought "adults" possessed. Your position as Supt. of the school district means that you should be able to rise above the self-blinding dictum of "zero tolerance" and show once again to the student/youth population that all adults have not really lost their brains, but are capable of serious, idea-filled thought. At this point, all Zero Tolerance does is prove once again to anyone under the age of 18, that there is no position in this society for anyone who is capable of thought, anyone capable of reasoned deduction, anyone capable of looking at a situation like the Burgos' and saying " this child was a threat to no one. Give him an admonition, perhaps, but do not deprive him of the joy of learning." If you do not think that the mantle of leadership ought to allow you to break the tyranny of "zero tolerance" then perhaps you should go back to working in a job where zero thought is required, zero weighing of what is truly right and wrong, zero reasoning, for that is surely what you will have proved you are capable of.

No child in this society should be given such a horrible learning tool as this. To understand that when a modestly difficult call must be made (by you, to lift the ban on this childs education) adults scurry for the insulting cover of Zero Tolerance. It proves to them once again (as they have too oft already seen in our world) that there is nothing to be gained by having a brain and using it. Just follow some idiotic rules which have no real bearing on the situation at hand, and pretend you didn't want to get involved. Show some gumption, sir. Show you have a brain and are not afraid to use it. Lead by example, sir. You might find that rather than be seen as a gutless bureaucrat only interested in the ongoing life of the bureaucracy, you inspire some children in your area to actually admire an adult who takes a position because it is right. Had Ben Franklin, Geo. Washington and Thos. Jefferson felt a need to hide beyond "Zero Tolerance" at the outset of the American Revolution, I suspect we'd all be yet speaking with Liverpudlian accents, and drinking tea in the afternoon.

It's not to late to make a stand for what is right. And think of how well you will sleep, knowing you have inspired, for once, young people to understand the consequences of their own actions.

However you decide in this case, I would be happy to hear from you.


Yours truly


David Burnett

Colorado College '68 Poli Sci
Phd. Hon. Cau. 2007
www.davidburnett.com

Personal Space

And while we are on the subject of space… not outer but personal. (Although I do love SciFi – maybe next blob). Is it me or do you find that people no longer respect personal space. It used to be that when I was walking down the street or even in a hallway, people coming the other way, would not stop, but they would step over, so as not to knock you off your path. It used to be that when you were reading, or trying to hear some kind of announcement at an airport or on a train, people who were sitting near or next to you, did not yell into their cell phones or make enough noise to interfere with what you were trying to do.

There is no question that the growing use of cell phones in public spaces has something to do with the consequences (disturbing your neighbor), but what about the old concept of an using an inside voice and keeping your most intimate conversation, thoughts and feelings to yourself. Or how about the people on Facebook, who use the forum to fight with their children, spouse, and parents, to air their difficulties. It is truly astounding how much I know about people to whom I have never been introduced, and people who were my Facebook friends and I had to take off my list, because their chatter was absolutely boring or exceptionally embarrassing.

Remember last year, when we used a hard line touch tone phone, in the privacy of our own homes or a phone booth if necessary. Remember phone booths? Those were the things that you could find on most street corners in cities and towns across this great nation. Communications were simple. There weren’t twenty ways in which you could reach out and find someone or disseminate information. What’s happened lately is that people no longer talk. We are becoming a society that no longer depends on interpersonal relationships ( defined as looking someone in the eye or hearing their voice), to do anything. In business we e-mail or fax, (you remember the fax—that’s also becoming obsolete as well.) Personally, it’s Facebook, text, or e-mail. We have reached the point where my kids tell me not to leave voice messages when I call because they won’t acknowledge them. “Just text” they say. We’ll get the message – eventually.

Not that being able to communicate with everyone in the whole world, on some Skype like system, is a bad thing. It’s a good thing. Certainly it’s convenient for doing business. It saves corporations a great deal of money, it’s just that it can sometimes intrusive and sometimes too damn easy. Don’t misunderstand, I love being able to see my family and friends when they are great distances away. But the on-line visit is not appreciated in the same way it would be if it were in person. It has different dimensions. My conversations with my grandson, for example. The thing he likes best about them is the hanging up. He likes to make me disappear. He loves me, I know that. But it’s so much more fun to count 3,2,1, and poof – there I go. Very entertaining.

Anyway, new technologies can be time and money savers. But we (and our children and their children) need to be careful not to lose the ability to conduct one on one communication without it being removed by a text, e-mail, Facebook, Twitter or Skype. We cannot pass on a legacy of pictures or memories that can just be erased with the simple click of a button. And that’s pretty personal. We’re just sayin’... Iris

The Controversy, part Deux

The latest controvery, or should we call it, horror show, took place at Rutgers University, in two dorm rooms, with a web cam and total lack of concern for the right to privacy. As a consequence, one young man is dead and two have ruined their lives.

One of my friends said that the two students who taped their ‘friend’ having homosexual sex, were awful, mean, kids, who knew exactly what they were doing, enjoyed the idea of humiliation, and should be severely punished. Actually what she said was that “something really terrible should happen to them”. That seems to be in agreement with what the school administrators and civil rights activists think.

My feelings about this whole are mixed. It seemed that the kids were all friends. That the perpetrators thought the whole episode was a joke and had no idea what the consequences might be. And the consequences, whether expected or unexpected, were severe. The target of the humiliation, threw himself off the George Washington Bridge and tragically, died.

Another friend was equally adamant about the fact that they were just kids having fun. She thought they could have been her niece and nephew or any college student who had spent their lives expecting to have anything they did, made public – “Facebook”, “My Space”, “Twitter,” “You Tube,” etc. She felt that kids today have no concept of privacy, so why should they respect it.

Another pal felt that the reaction to what happened was pretty much after the fact. That during orientation, students should have to take some classes about the idea of privacy and how it impacts on civil rights, or just the day to day lives of kids today. This idea is a good one, but even this might be after the fact. All you have to do is talk to a high school student who has posted a picture of himself or a friend in a compromising position. Chances are, these kids have no idea of what a picture, a movie, or just an update, can mean to their future, (school, a job, any decisions made about them, or to someone who is the target of whatever the questionable message – be it picture or prose.)

We will all see what happens. My sense it that this, like the overreaction to drugs (like aspirin) in schools, will not make a difference in whether or not kids have a more enlightened perspective on privacy.

So, how do we learn a lesson in this dreadful result, and who teaches it. Little bitty kids, 2 and three are now using their parents computers and their iPhones. How do we instill in them a realization that there is a serious difference between what is public and what is private. The only person that gets to decide what should be public is the person for who is messaging, posting, writing, or creating a picture. No one else – no one, is allowed to make that decision for another person. And to take it one step further, no one should be able to invade or steal your personal space and contacts with something you don’t want to read or know. It is appalling how many porn, sales, and medical sites can circumvent the protection of the spam folder to inundate someone with disgusting or useless information.

The question really is, how do we learn and teach our children the sanctity and importance of privacy and personal space. How do we teach people, not only children, respect for every individual to make decisions about what other people can know. The irony is that public figures, who make their living and are important because they are public (like reality show families and contestants), expect what is said and written about them, (especially in a public forum) to be protected.

What we have come to know as “Lindsay Lohan” behavior unfortunately encourages our kids to think that bad behavior and the lack of respect for themselves, as well as the public, is quickly becoming the norm. Yes, I am emerging as one of the world’s colorful old farts. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Another Signal, Missed

The tragic suicide of a freshman Rutgers student this week has been on the front pages of both the written and virtual press. What seems lost in most of the reporting is the issue which is by far the most far-reaching and important. It’s not a question (or shouldn’t be) of whether the two students who contrived to show the victim’s tryst on webcam should be tried at this or that level of Felony. It totally misses the point of what needs to be talked about. New Jersey prosecutors, acting in the obvious role of “this must be my ticket to stardom” are speaking publicly about whether this can be categorized as a “Hate Crime,” and the threat of unimaginably long jail terms for the two students. Once again, my generation, and in this case even X-gen post-boomers, totally miss the key point of what has happened.

We have raised a generation of young people whose entire lives are on display, in public, on webcams, Facebook pages, and other forms which I’m sure I haven’t even heard of yet. These kids grew up with an understanding that because you COULD do something, that perhaps it ought to be tried. In spite of the constant unheeded warnings from the old-fart generation, today’s kids see no real reason NOT to post their lives for all to see. It’s really beyond belief that my generation would ever have thought that wild and raucus video taping at Spring Break - which you know would eventually be seen by the world in general and your folks in particular (Girls Gone Wild) was something that was smart to do. Everyone of the girls and guys in those tapes signed a model release (the producer might be a sleaze, but he’ s no idiot.) I think there must be a feeling that, having seen the promos on television at 3 a.m., there was a veneer of respectability which let their guards down. You see others behaving badly, but with no obvious consequences beyond a really bad headache, you think, “how bad can this be?” So it ends up perpetuating more questionable behaviour.

The kids have had webcams since grade school or Jr. High. It’s their world. That IS their world; they just assume that their lives are meant to be streamed live, that most of what we could consider as “out of bounds” in terms of privacy, are just silly old strictures from the Renaissance or Industrial Revolution (ok, those are a bit far fetched as they have probably never heard of either) which don’t apply to them. It’s as if we inhabit the same places, the same spaces, the same houses, but the essential rules which apply to personal conduct are overlaid, one on the other. We “adults,” and I use the term loosely, tend to have, in spite of our having lived through the “anything goes” 60s and “open book” 70s very different concepts of what ought to be kept to ourselves. If you lack that gene, like our kids do, then it really isn’t such a stretch to assume that a good practical joke, a prank, might be to leave your webcam on while your roommate entertains a visitor.

At the Kappa Sig house at Colorado College, where it was, of course, forbidden to bring girls to your rooms, there was a simple code. (And no, I was never actually lucky enough to try this out personally – so it goes.) If you were bringing a girl to your room you took a wire coat hangar and slid it over the door handle. That way your roommate, even the squarest of the squares, would realize he needed to spend another hour or so at the Tube Room (the sole TV) in the basement, or at the library. However invasive we were of each other during normal daylight hours, and we roamed the halls and rooms in search of essay answers, and chats about hockey, to name a few, there was no getting past that hangar on the door. You just didn’t mess with it.

In a world of co-ed dorms (which began he year after I graduated) and co-ed bathrooms, this all may seem a little antiquated, and perhaps it was. Nothing dispels romantic visions more than over exposure. When Jordan lived at the co-ed Emerson dorms in Boston, I had to admit that I was envious of the fact that living in such close quarters to me seemed to de-mystify the aura of the opposite sex, and made acceptance of each other a much more natural occurrence. Yet, to see the “crime” at Rutgers as a “Hate” crime as some prosecutors and “legal analysts” have done totally misses the point. In a world in which pranksterism lives coequally with self-exposureism, we need to find new ways of speaking to the kids about just what those boundaries ought to be, not have idiotically fanciful discussions about putting two essentially fine young kids in jail for a decade. Once again, my generation responds with the parallel answer of “zero tolerance,” that absolutely thoughtless dictim which proves in a single glance to young people that adults are incapable of sensible thought. No, let’s not worry about jail sentences, but rather, let’s take a minute and talk with our kids about where some of these boundary lines are in a connected web-laced, iChat world, and see if for once, we might be able to share some wisdom than simply stand on the sidelines of life and throw the book. We’re just sayin’…. David

Twists and Turns

Twists and Turns

The new television season is well into its second week and I’m not in love with anything new. Although, I have watched “The Event” twice, while intriguing, I haven’t a clue as to what it is about. That’s not a bad thing. SciFi is one of my favorite genres. It’s kind of like when I saw the latest “Star Trek” movie. If you asked me to tell you what it was about, or more specifically, give you a synopsis, I couldn’t do it. The only thing I knew was that I loved it. It doesn’t have to make sense. There were a great many people who felt the same way.

The thing is, I don’t want to start to love a series that is going to be cancelled. So, I like to give it at least a few weeks to see what happens. For example, “Lone Star” has pretty much ‘bit the dust’, “burned itself out” and ‘taken a hit’. It was tempting to tune in –there were some adorable guys playing ‘rough and tumble’ parts. “Law and Order,” to which I am clearly addicted, will survive in LA, but it doesn’t me. How much of a good thing can anyone stand? And NCIS is now broadcast as the same time as “Glee,” thank God I can record them. But that presents another problem. What happens when the recording device is full? As soon as I see 77% full, I get nervous and start to delete. But I want to watch everything I record so first I have to view the programs. Which means, I am up all night trying not to miss a thing.

The top shows for the week of September 20th, were Sunday and Monday Night Football. (Who watches them?) Then “Glee”, “Grey’s Anatomy”, and “Modern Family”, followed by “Dancing With the Stars,” “Two and a Half Men,” “Family Guy” and “The Office” .I watch all of two of these and half of another. My favorite shows, “NCIS,” “Cold Case,” and “Bones” rank after 15 on the list of popular shows. They better not disappear!

If you ask most people how much TV they watch, they will say “not much” and they actually believe that. When I think about how much TV I watch, I never consider the things I tape of the programs that just happen to be on in the background.

All that being said, I did happen to catch the new “Hawaii Five-0”. Perhaps I thought I would watch it and not like it. That it would disappoint my expectations, because I loved the old one. It was really fun. If shooting, killing, bombing and blood can be fun. When Jordan and I use to watch Law and Order SVU, we would look at one another and say, “can you believe we watch this, and we like it?” But H50 was filled with action, beautiful people, an enemy you knew they would defeat, and a happy ending. For me, everything is OK as long as there’s a happy ending. It’s funny because I can’t watch shows which are horror or too suspenseful. Twist and turns, make me anxious. And when I want mindless, I don’t want any tension.

Anyway, It is my hope that the shows I like will keep getting renewed. I could care less about the shows I don’t watch, duh, even if they keep gaining popularity with the public. Oh and all you have to know is that “Jersey Shore” is in the top Five for ages 12-34. Gee, I’m glad I’m not young. We’re just sayin’….Iris

Sophie's Choice

A few days ago I heard a story that made me think (not something that happens with great frequency) about my kids. But in a very different way.

We take for granted that they will always be part of our lives. That there is nothing that could possibly shatter the blood connection that exists. But of course that’s fantasy. Kids grow up and move away, start lives of their own, and sometimes you even have a disagreement. But this story was not about those kinds of life circumstances. I’ll try to retell it in the best way I can.

During the pogroms in Eastern Europe (Russia/Poland or any country where there was flagrant, acceptable, Anti-Semitism) the Czar’s soldiers rode into a small village and rounded up 50 children and put them in the village synagogue. There were about 100 young people in this town, so half of them became prisoners. Of course there was chaos. And the Rabbi, being the wisest and most respected member of the community, tried to be as comforting and calming as he could be.

The soldier in charge, seeing that the Rabbi was the leader, decided that the Rabbi was the best person to talk to. The soldier approached the Rabbi and calmly informed him that they were going to burn down the temple -- with 50 children inside. However, they did not have to be the children already held captive. A Jew was a Jew and it didn’t matter to the soldier which 50 children died.

The Rabbi gathered everyone together and presented them with the horrific news. Fifty young Jews were going to die in the holy place, but it didn’t matter which 50 – so the whole village needed to choose which children should live and which should die.

At this point in the story, I was really angry. “Why did they let this happen? Why didn’t they fight the soldiers? They were about to lose their most precious possessions, what did they have to lose. I also insisted that if my kids were inside, they needed to be traded for a luckier two, still free. In my mind, a Jew was not a Jew, and I would absolutely try to free them all, or die trying. Yes, no question, I would have been shot.

When the time came to make a decision, the Rabbi approached the soldier and told him there would be no trades. One Jew was not the same as any other Jew, but only God could decide which children were worth saving, which he felt most valuable. The community had decided that they would not to choose one life over the others . Each life was equally sacred.

This story does not have a happy ending. The soldiers burned the temple to the ground --with 50 children inside. Amongst these children were the Rabbi’s two youngest. Then they rode off satisfied that they had met some kind of a quota. The community never recovered from such a severe loss, They buried the dead in this sanctified ground, prayed for their souls and rebuilt the temple in another spot.

Anyway, while it’s true that all life is of value, and the community – having not made any life/death decisions, remained supportive of their decision and one another. But I could not imagine being able to deal with a loss of that magnitude. I can’t imagine a life without my children. I know how hard it is to lose a friend or a parent. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a child.

Kalhil Gibran (we all read him when we were 16), said Your children are not your children, they just pass through you on their way to their own lives. I guess he thought the female body was some kind of delivery system. Not a surprise.

Whatever else this story tells us about community and strength, value and love, I say grab your kids and run like the wind. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

5771

This is the time of year Jews are supposed to reflect on their lives, repent for their sins and pray to get written into the book of life for next year. It is hard to explain, but the spirit and consequences of this holiday have reached almost mythical proportions in my psyche.

Take, for example, the story of my reunion with my life long friend Tina. For whatever reason, and I truly don’t remember why, after being inseparable (not geographically but emotionally) for the first 25 years of our live, we had a fight, and stopped speaking. She was in Wisconsin and I was in Washington, and we just didn’t speak for about eight years.

The passage of time did not make things better. It just amplified the distance we maintained from one another. Year after year my thoughts were with or about her. Her children were like my kids and I wanted her to know my daughter and son. I adored her husband and her friends. Yet, for whatever reason, it seemed too difficult just to pick up the phone and reconnect. Until the Yom Kippur eight years after the foolish separation.

That was the year the Rabbi’s sermon was a story about how he had a very close childhood friend who, after three years of college, was too troubled to return for his final semester. The Rabbi came home for a long vacations and, despite his mother’s encouragement, he never called his pal. As with most young people, he felt there was no hurry and there would always be another time. Over the years there were many opportunities to call or visit the friend because he was still living at home -- just a block away from the Rabbi. But he thought there was no rush. Maybe it was because his mother pestered him, maybe because he was embarrassed about his neglect or maybe, after all those years, he felt he had nothing to say. Anyway, one Yom Kippur while he was in Rabbinical school, he remembered how important their friendship had been to him and he thought it was time to play catch up.

When the Rabbi called home for his friend’s number his mother was almost silent. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Bill died two weeks ago. He never seemed able to cope with life, and he’s gone. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you would care.”

In closing the sermon the Rabbi shared his sadness and how he knew that had he been in touch with Bill, maybe there was something he might have done. At the very least, Bill would have known he had one friend who cared. The Rabbi then suggested that if we had been separated from a dear friend, no matter the reason, don’t wait for an opportune time. Just pick up the phone before it was too late.

I didn’t call Tina right away. I thought it would be uncomfortable for both of us. OK, I was stupid. But I did send a funny card about missing her. She responded, not as soon as she received the card, but soon after.

We never mentioned the argument. Truth be told, neither of us remember what it was about. But she did say they were on their way to New Orleans and if we could, we should join them. Which we did. Tina and Jordan bonded, (which I knew was important) and we ate a great many oysters. In addition to my missing T, I couldn’t imagine not having Jordan know this woman who so shaped who I was. But that’s another story. Let me just recommend that if you have a Tina in your life, do not waste another moment being apart. We have always been there for one another, and now we are again. Have a Blessed and beautiful New Year. We’re Just Sayin’… Iris

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