NEWS, PICTURES, REFLECTIONS, INFO BY AND ABOUT FAMILY AND FRIENDS

INSIGHTS INTO THE EIGHTH DECADE

Tue, 9 Aug 2011 17:40:34 -0400

by D. P. Stang
August 7, 2011

Exposing oneself with dedication to psychotherapy can be compared to a cripple learning to dance. It takes a long time to catch on to what this strange and perplexing undertaking is all about. Embracing one's feelings with insight and grace during the psychotherapeutic process is indeed as challenging as learning to dance when one is only marginally able to walk.

What I remember most about the major lessons of psychotherapy I absorbed about thirty years ago was learning the following painful truths:

(1) My self esteem was wanting because I was so critical of myself.

(1) I was critical of myself because I had internalized my father's unceasing criticism of me.

(1) I criticized myself because I had not yet attained the perfectionist ideals I set for myself based upon my father's influence in constructing my value system.

(1) I would constantly compare my daily performance in the workplace and socially with what I perceived to be "perfection" or "the ideal".

(1) It took me nearly five years of psychotherapy to construct and adopt an alternative yardstick for measuring my excellence.

(1) I learned to measure my present day performance in the workplace and socially in comparison with how I behaved prior to acquiring the sensitivities and introspective awareness that one acquires through taking psychotherapy seriously.

(7) As a result of adopting this new yardstick my self-esteem skyrocketed.

Now here I am thirty years later in my early 70s again kicking the crap out of myself. Mind you, not for failing to attain the perfectionist ideal, but for failing to attain my performance level of thirty years ago. Back then I could:

(1) remember why I walked from one room to another and what I expected to retrieve or achieve in the room I was entering;

(1) recall what I had eaten for all three meals of the previous day;

(1) describe at the end of the day, as well as twenty-four hours later, with reasonable recall the contents of everything I had read, said or heard;

(1) recollect the names of most people that I had known, befriended or worked with as well as the names of thousands of places and things;

(1) utilize a vocabulary encompassing several dozen more words that I am presently able to recall;

(1) work for twelve hours straight without even taking a break for a meal and still have plenty of energy left over for carrying on actively throughout the course of the evening;

(1) create a mental shopping list before leaving for the grocery store and recall at the store every item on the list without ever having written anything down;

(1) walk for miles without ever feeling tired;

(1) do push-ups, pull-ups and other strength demanding exercise for hours at a time without pain or fatigue during or after;

(10) stand up from the dinner table without grunting.

Now what can I do to avoid beating myself up for failing to perform as I did thirty years ago? I can throw away the above ten item list or anything like it as a reasonable or apt performance standard for what I can achieve today. I can replace it with a list of what I can achieve now that I was unable to achieve thirty years ago. Wow! Is such a list even conceivable under my doddering circumstances? If so, what items should be on the list?

How can I create such a list that is consistent with a sound reality check and not filled with a multitude of self delusions? Well, I'm just going to have to give it a try. Here goes.

(1) I can witness the stock market taking a huge dive thereby considerably diminishing my portfolio value without panicking.

(1) I can sleep an extra hour in the morning and take a mid afternoon nap without guilt.

(1) I can see the fecal matter about ready to hit the fan sufficiently ahead of time to avoid being on the wrong side of the fan at the fecal matter's moment of impact.

(1) I can resist most impulses to purchase the latest got-to-have-it-now product.

(1) I can drive an older car around happily without feeling inferior.

(1) I can wear old, but unfrayed, shirts, suits, ties, underwear, socks, shoes and other accoutrements without giving a rat's ass about how stylish I look.

(1) I can go out to dinner and order a steak, green vegetables and salad without appetizer, dessert, cocktails, wine or after dinner drinks and not feel I'm missing something.

(1) I can pay attention to, listen carefully to, empathize with people who feel comfortable discussing their problems with me and thereby often send them off with a little less discomfort.

(1) I can express my curiosity toward and learn essential information about a multitude of topics I was previously inhibited from exploring.

(10) I no longer have any compelling desire to prove myself to the world.

The world can take me or leave me as I am because that's all I'm interested in investing myself in becoming: more of the same with improvements still possible.

And finally, and perhaps most importantly, whenever an event occurs that in years gone by I might have otherwise permitted to cast me into a spell of rage, fear, disappointment, despondency, depression or hopelessness I am now able and sufficiently disciplined to enter into a meditation from which I usually emerge centered, balanced, calm and in a state of vibrant gratitude for living a life filled with challenges, beauty and good friends.

(Feel free to leave a comment below for David or even send him an email at Davidpstang@cs.com)

HELP JUDGE THE BEST CAPTIONS

Sat, 23 Jul 2011 10:20:57 -0400

As you will see by the suggestions below, there’s (some) talent out there amongst the MillersTime readers.

Help me judge the best caption for each picture by identifying which one you think is best. (My wife says this process is called ‘crowd sourcing’ the judging.)

Everyone can participate, including those who submitted captions. And you can get your friends to vote too.

Email me (Samesty84@aol.com) with your choices or simply put your choices in the comments section below

Picture #1:

a. “Not so fast big brother. I’m wise to you.”
b. “Hey, don’t leave me alone...there’s a cute boy over there!”
i. “Tag. You’re it.”
i. “Eli! Dude! Watch the game...Bottom of the 9th and Big Papi is up!”
a. “Ha, Ha, I’m already the boss.”
b. “They may have outlawed ‘horse collar’ tackles in the NFL pal, but you’re in my house now.”
c. “Dammit Eli. Just get back here. Nonna will finally put the camera away once she gets a good picture.”
d. “You’re in my world now.”

Picture # 2

a. “Can’t imagine where I found this hat!”
b. Grandpa’s Girl
c. . “My grandpa went to Fenway, and all I got was this lousy fishing hat!”
d. “Where is the rest of my uniform? I’m ready to play first base!”

Picture # 3

a. “If I go potty, can I have some cookies?”
b. “Whoa! Check out the rack!”
c. “How much longer?”
d. “I find with my x-ray vision I can cut the cooking time in half.”
e. “I think if I can rearrange these racks, I can fit Abby in there...”

Picture # 4

a. “365 days, 500 recipes. Julia, please give me strength!”
b. “Yaaaaa, I get to cook too.”
c. Baby pound cake recipe:
1 lb butter
1 lb sugar
1 lb flour
10 lb baby
i. “Are you sure her recipe called for both butter and baby fat?”
a. “My telekinetic powers will melt this butter.”
b. “So maybe the transition to solids wont be so bad after all.”

Picture # 5

a. “Aunt Beth, I told you it was easy.
b. ”So Eli, that is why Anthony Weiner resigned.”
c. “I know how to work this iPad better than Auntie.”

Picture # 6

a. Doing the wave, saying ‘Go O’sss!’
b. “Grandpa, you’re exaggerating; it’s only this big.”
c. “All gone.”
d. “Jeez, Sawx lost two in a row! Our season is doomed.!”
e. “ Grandpapa told me if we don’t sing this song the iPad won’t work any more. I’m not sure I believe him but better safe than sorry.”
f. “All praise the iPad Gods.”

Picture # 7

a. “How did this get empty?”
b. “You put ‘what’ in this sippy cup?”
c. “How much longer til Mommy comes home?”

Picture # 8

a. “OK. I’ve posed. Now can I take a picture?”
b. “I’m terrific.”
c. “Hee, hee...Aunt Beth said Weiner...”
d. “Potty training is so easy. Yay for me!”

Picture # 9

a. “Seriously, I learned this from my mommy!”
b. “First it was breast milk. Now my sister is into pot.”
c. “I’ll cook you, liked Mommy cooked Aunt Beth.”
d. Stirring the pot, second generation.
e. “I’ll cook her goose.”
f. Rehearsal Dinner Video Done!
g. “Little Sister Soup”
h. “You may be laughing now, but I’ll have the last laugh when I show this picture at Eli’s wedding.”

Picture # 10

a. “Life is good.”
a. “Hallelujah!”
b. “Hava Nagila”
c. Teaching little sis the wave.
d. “While everyone’s distracted by Eli’s being ‘cute,’ I’ll try to eat my toe.”

SAMUEL S. MILLER

Wed, 13 Jul 2011 11:14:19 -0400

January 13, 1918 - July 4, 2011

Sam died, as he requested, peacefully and without pain, in his own bed, in his apartment, surrounded in the last months, weeks, days, and hours by three generations of his family. His daughter, son, son-in law, daughter-in-law, four grand children and their spouses, four great grand children, and of course his wonderful caretaker all were able to spend time with him at the end of his life.

Check out the gallery of pictures below, taken primarily in the last few years but also with various earlier ones.

Eulogy
Samuel S. Miller
Temple Beth El Cemetery
7/7/11

When we were last here, it was for Esty. And when it came to talk about her, it was pretty easy.

It was clear what to say about her. She was a caretaker and a builder of family.

Sam, on the other hand, is not so easily categorized. He was a person of contradictions and (seeming) opposites.

He was not religious, yet he tried to volunteer for the Seven Day War.

He played football - a lineman - in high school and college during the day and read and memorized poetry at night while listening to classical music.

He was a gambler, in business, at the dog track, and at jai alai, yet husbanded his money carefully to provide for his family and especially for Esty and himself for their later years.

He could be arrogant, intolerant, stubborn, judgmental, and certainly impatient, but he was caring, compassionate, and involved with his family, and could and did cry like no man I have known.

He was a tough businessman who also played chess, read voluminously, and remained liberal in his political views all his life.

As Esty often said, he was a loner but not lonely.

He was self-centered but fiercely family focused. (I’m sure everyone assembled here could tell stories about Sam’s intimate involvement with each of you.). At Daytona he taught many of us to drive, to play chess and he watched endlessly as many of you yelled, “Watch me Sammy” as you jumped into the pool. And there were many long walks and talks on the beach.

He was not close with his parents growing up, especially not with his dad. Then later, in Bebee and Tom’s later years, he moved them from Boston to Orlando where he and Esty were living, and he saw them everyday.

He smoked two packs of cigarettes a day but quit when his sister-in-law Caryl was dying because he said he wanted to see his grandchildren grow up, at least until their 20's (they're now in their 20's, 30's, and 40's).

He loved to ask questions and sometimes even waited for the answer. He was often thinking of the next question before you answered the first one. But you always felt he wanted to know about you -- as one person wrote on his 92 birthday: “When I talk to you, you make me feel that I am the most important person…I can ‘feel’ that you are with me…you take a deep interest in what I am saying…you are present to the moment and you live the moment.”

He was an intellectual who read two or three books a week, went to the dog track frequently, and walked two or three miles every late afternoon well into his 80's to maintain his good health.

He was a 'Yankee' (not the baseball kind, thank God) who loved Florida (much to Esty's chagrin).

He was basically a 'homebody' yet visited his son in West Africa because he said he always visited his kids in camp. He traveled to Central American for business and to Europe with Esty. With various family members, he traveled all over the US, including Alaska, and to the Caribbean, India, China, Russia, Mongolia, Egypt, Lithuania, and Israel. His trip to Lithuania was to see the place from where his mother and her family had emigrated.

Although he was 'technically challenged' and could barely screw in a light bulb, he learned to use the computer in his 80's and emailed well into his 90's.

He enjoyed good food and liquor, yet took good care of his body and lived longer than any Miller in his extensive and extended family.

He was taken care of by Esty, and then took care of her over the final difficult three years of her life, never leaving her side for more than an hour (and then that was usually only to exercise).

He was very involved with his own kids when they were small, wasn't around so much when they were growing up as he left for work before dawn and had to spend the evenings on the phone to buy fruit and get picking crews for the next day. Then in his kids' adult years, he again became involved with them intimately as well as with their spouses, their children, and finally his great grand children, all four of whom he saw within the last few months of his 93 ½ years.

He was a man of seeming contradictions but not of excesses and rarely of unkindnesses. In fact, I believe he mellowed a bit in his later years and became more tolerant, a bit less stubborn, and even patient at times.

So if it can be said that Esty took care of people and family, it must also be said that Sam did too, especially family, in his own way.

And as Esty taught us how to deal with medical and physical difficulties with wonderful grace at the end of her life, so too can it be said that Sam taught us that one can age with grace and softness and love.

(To see a gallery/carousel of pictures of Sam, click on this picture. You can also make this carousel into a slideshow by clicking on ‘Slideshow’ at the bottom of the new screen once it appears.The slideshow is better than the carousel.)

A CONTEST FOR EVERYONE

Tue, 21 Jun 2011 17:43:27 -0400

For this MillersTime contest you don’t need to know baseball, you don’t have to have read a book, seen a movie, gone to a play, follow politics, or know the difference between tweeting and friending.

All you need to know is that the boy in the pictures below is about two and a half years old and the girl is his sister and is about seven months old.

Beyond that, you just have to have come up with a good caption(s) for the picture(s).

Anyone can enter, even family.

Judge(s) will only see the proposed captions and not the name of those who submitted them.

In fact, maybe I’ll even ‘crowd source’ (is that the right term?) the judging by giving readers the choice of which submissions should win.

And there’ll be prizes.

Real ones.

Not things like babysitting said children.

Send me your submissions (samesty84@a0l.com), one caption per picture, by July 15th. You can write a caption for just one of the pix or as many as all 10.

A FATHER’S LAMENT

Mon, 13 Jun 2011 08:47:52 -0400

A Personal Story by Richard Miller

I thought she understood.

Ten years ago when my daughter was writing one of her (brilliant) college admission essays, she found a quote from Ursala Le Guin about the importance of the journey -- “It is good to have an end to journey toward, but it is the journey that matters in the end.”

Of course.

But now I come to discover that in fact said daughter (Beth to some of you, Elizabeth to those of you who have known her just for the last 15 years or so) did not really understand.

How saddening that is.

Specifically, as those of you who follow MillersTime closely (the handful of you) and more particularly those of you who follow the Go Sox blox (both of you), you will no doubt remember this posting (Click Here) a few months ago when I wrote about the importance of the 162 game season, making the brilliant point that those games were more important than the World Series. I argued that the pleasure of knowing that every game the Sox played in 2011 they had a chance to win was enough.

And I truly meant it, knowing that if they did make it to and even won the World Series, that would simply be a lagniappe.

Imagine my surprise and shock this morning when I was rereading that posting in preparation for another (incisive) baseball post and discovered this comment from Beth/Elizabeth:

“Of course it's about the World Series - it's always about the World Series. Sox in 2011!!!!”

I don’t know how I missed reading that misunderstanding about baseball, journeys, life, etc. How had I missed it when she made that comment back in January?

More important, was I mislead by her college admission essay?

Was she just trying to impress the admission committees with her knowledge of what was important in life?

How could I have failed so badly as a father in teaching this life lesson?

After all, I had succeeded in hanging the Red Sox albatross around her neck.

Why hadn’t she understood that the winning isn’t the all?

Is there any hope for her?

For me?

She is nearing her third decade. Perhaps this important understanding will come?

On the other hand, I must add that Beth/Elizabeth has not let me down totally.

As I read this morning of the winners of the Tony Awards for the Best of Broadway, I am pleased to report that as a result of her instigations and arrangements, I have seen virtually every production that won awards last night -- Book of Mormon, War Horse, Good People, The Normal Heart (ticket to see in two weeks), etc., and many more that were nominated but not chosen. (Somehow I missed Jerusalem and Mark Rylance’s award winning performance, but she may have recommended it, and I failed to see it?).

So for her choice of living in NYC and keeping me in the loop on the current theater, I’m immensely grateful.

But how did I go so wrong on teaching about the importance of the journey?

 

HERE COMES ABIGAIL

Sun, 1 May 2011 10:22:42 -0400

As second grandchild Abigal Sarah Orgad approaches her sixth month, it’s clear that first grandchild Eli David Orgad (two years, five months) is in for a bit of sharing the spotlight.

While Abby has not totally declared herself yet, two things are coming clear. She has a mind of her own, as in she knows what she wants, and she also can’t take her eyes off Eli.

Stay tuned.

And in the meantime, here are a few of the latest pix of the two grandkinder.

ELI READS TO ABBY

Tue, 5 Apr 2011 14:32:09 -0400

Eli - Two Years, Three Months

Abby - Four Months

CUTEY PIES & STINKEY POTS

Fri, 25 Mar 2011 14:07:29 -0400

(Conversation between father and son on the way to school)

Aba (father): Am I your best friend?
 Eli (two year old): Aba, best, Aba best.. pause.. Aba Stinky-Pot
 Aba: Aba Stinky-Pot? Who else is Stinky-Pot?
 Eli: Abby (four month old sister of Eli)
 Aba: What about Eli, are you Stinky-Pot?
 Eli: No, Eli Cutie-Pie
 Aba: Who else is Cutie-Pie?
 Eli: Mommy, Mommy is Cutie-Pie.
 Aba: What about Charlie (the dog)?
 Eli: Long pause... Charlie Stinky-Pot.

TWO PERFECT GRANDCHILDREN, Cont.

Mon, 21 Feb 2011 11:49:09 -0500

This posting is not the one I’d planned.

When my wife Ellen and I agreed to take care of the two grandkids over night while our daughter and son-in-law celebrated their four year wedding anniversary, we had steeled ourselves for a long night.

From the stories their parents, Annie and Edan, told us, we’d probably be awake most of the night, playing ‘whack-a-mole,’ getting one down only to have the other one up.

Eli, two years, one month, hadn’t slept much in the previous two nights. Abby, three months, had decided in the last month only to breast feed and would not take a bottle even if that meant nothing to eat for six hours.

By our calculations, we’d have the two kids for at least 15 hours, and Ellen hadn’t breast fed in more than 27 years.

So, I got a pencil and paper (old fashioned way of recording things) and planned to record all of gory details of those 15 hours for a blog post.

I arrived at the appointed time, 5 PM, to find no one home except the Charlie, the dog.

The DOG!

I had forgotten all about the dog and couldn’t remember agreeing to taking care of him too. Heck, I don’t even like our cat, and I don’t have to walk him.

Maybe this whole thing wasn’t going to be such a good idea after all.

An hour later, everyone was home, and we were well instructed about what to do in every conceivable case and for every imaginable emergency.

Piece of cake.

As soon as the parents left, Abby fell asleep while Eli was not finishing his dinner, probably because I had bribed him with my iPad.

Ten minutes later he began to yawn, turned off the iPad with no fuss, said he didn’t want a bath but would brush his teeth. Ellen started a story and within two minutes he was asleep in her arms.

Into the crib at 8:05 PM and not another word until 7:10 AM the next morning when he heard his sister crying.

By 8:30 PM Ellen and I sat in the living room, high-fiving each other and certain that we had everything under control.

Then Abby woke up, was quite playful, except when we tried to give her a bottle. She’d have none of it. But as long as we didn’t force it on her, she was quite ‘chatty,’ for a three month old.

Upstairs at 9:30, one more try with the bottle, and to our surprise, she took it, all for about one minute and one ounce, not counting what she spit back.

Oh well. Into her crib and out she went.

Ellen and I thought it best to go to sleep also as we didn’t know what the night would bring (chaos for sure, according to the parents).

Nope.

Once during the night Abby made a few noises, and by the time I went downstairs to get the milk she probably wouldn’t drink, she was back asleep.

Early morning, Abby wanted to play, and we brought her into our bed (we only had to get through a few more hours, and then her parents would be back in charge).

Again, no problem as long as we didn’t force the bottle.

When Annie texted at 7 in the morning about what was going on, Abby was going on 12 hours without eating (save that ‘one’ ounce).

We tried not to gloat and told Annie she could decide whether to come home sooner or later (secretly hoping she’d come home immediately).

Fortunately, she and Edan chose to get home by 9 AM, just as Abby was beginning to get fussy (understandably as she had now gone 14 hours with barely an ounce of milk).

As we told Annie and Edan about everything that had and hadn’t happened since they left, we were reminded of how we felt when we’d go to school conferences for our kids: we’d hear how wonderful they were, and it certainly sounded different than what we knew of our girls at home. Who could the teachers have been talking about?

Anyway, according to our experience, we continue to have two pretty perfect grandkids, despite what we are sometimes told.

The only downside of the whole thing was of course the dog, since I had to walk him twice in the freezing cold.

(PS - See if you can tell Eli and Abby apart. Click Below where it says “Previous.”)

ELI & ABBY @ 3+ MONTHS - CAN YOU TELL ‘EM APART ?

Mon, 21 Feb 2011 10:11:16 -0500

DETECTION OF THE ORDER OF THINGS...

Mon, 14 Feb 2011 08:27:21 -0500

by David P. Stang: January 30, 2011

Detection of the Order of Things as an Art Form

James Bond, a.k.a. 007, was the closest expression I could think of the archetype I truly believed I personified as a recently commissioned US Naval Intelligence officer at age twenty-two. Because I was assigned occasional courier duty I was issued a 38 caliber snub-nosed pistol to wear in a shoulder holster under my smart dark blue naval officer’s uniform with a gold star and single gold band surrounding each sleeve just above the cuff. As I saw it -- without a shadow of a doubt -- my audacious personality plus the naval uniform, gun and university education fully qualified me to step into James Bond’s shoes.

One of the great privileges of youth is the possibility of converting fantasy to reality. I imagined myself cleverly snooping out the enemy, which in those years was the sinister Soviet Union. I remember while walking along 16th St in downtown Washington, DC
encountering on foot a uniformed Soviet Admiral and saluting him as required by military protocol. I remember what a high it was for me to be thinking that the Admiral, his Navy and communist country would not stand a chance. America, the land of the free, was going to prevail over the dark force Commies. We were going to blow them away.

You may recall from taking in these film classics that offsetting James Bond's contempt for evil communist agents was his adoration of good-looking women. I wondered if, while simultaneously hoping it would, a similar fortune would be accorded me during my career as a naval intelligence officer. As was reliably accorded my main man James Bond: a plenitude of good-looking women with an eye for pleasure and adventure predictably landing on his lap.

Somewhat to my surprise I discovered a number of good-looking women while walking around the nation’s largest joint military intelligence agency to which I was assigned. Being younger by a few years than most of them my approach was careful and restrained. Ninety five percent of them were civilians -- who on average were far more attractive than career military women. I observed over time that these civilian women outnumbered the uniformed and un-uniformed male intelligence officers assigned to the agency by a factor of nearly nine to one. Quite a few of these women -- perhaps slightly more than half -- were already married. It took me a while longer to recognize that not many of them had gone to college. It seemed that they had gotten their jobs as intelligence analysts not very long after graduating from high school. This was a blow to my male ego. Why was that perception a blow to my ego?

This was the early 1960s and several years before the feminists declared themselves into existence and began burning their bras. It was common wisdom in those days that men were inherently brighter and intellectually more capable than women. This perception was particularly valid for any man who had graduated from college and decided to attend graduate school. For example, at the University I had graduated from the previous year there were seven eligible males for every eligible female within the student body. Accordingly, concluding that such males were at least better educated on a per capita basis than their female counterparts not attending college was statistically unimpeachable. My confidence in male superiority was further boosted when I learned that college graduation was in nearly all cases required for receiving a naval officer’s commission, but that a test score of 25% higher than passing was required to be eligible to become a naval intelligence officer.

...to continue reading, Click Here.

TALES FROM THE SPA

Sun, 30 Jan 2011 12:04:38 -0500

For most of us anticipating what has become a cold and snowy winter, the idea of spending four days at a spa in January in Arizona would be appealing.

So it was when my Louisville based sister-in-law (also named Ellen and hereafter referred to as Ellen S,) suggested that we travel to together to enjoy some warm weather and self-indulgent time. The idea of a post-holiday exercise and diet regime seemed just right. (And necessary, after making – and eating – several dozen of my mother’s Swedish butter cookies in the previous weeks.)

Ellen S. had been to such places before, but this was my first time. And once I got used to three hours of exercise and stretching each morning (it didn’t take me long), talking with experts about nutrition and exercise physiology over lunch (very informative), and eating about one-third of what I was accustomed to (not kidding), I understood the fun and usefulness of such a break.

While I generally look forward to my hour of working out on a nearly daily basis, I wasn’t sure how appealing it would be to spend 2-3 hours each day in such a pursuit, and how I’d feel about “diet” meals, no matter how good the cuisine might be. And could I really take 4 days of various types of massages and other treatments?

So how did it work out?

I became obsessed with measuring caloric expenditure and intake. I wouldn’t order the most caloric items on the menu (yes, total calories, carbs, protein, fat were noted for every item on the dinner menu), but if the balance of intake and expenditure was working in my favor I would have dessert. (I managed to do that every night! Note to readers: when a dessert does not have nutritional information you probably shouldn’t order it.).

I wondered who would order the most caloric item on the menu.

In my first yoga class I burned 86 calories; in the second class, I burned 100. I decided that yoga is not exercise. I headed straight to the gym.

I discovered that neither my balance nor flexibility is as bad as my trainer tells me it is. (That’s supposed to be motivating, I guess). I managed to keep up surprisingly well with the 30-year olds when doing ridiculous things while standing on top of a bosu ball or other balance-oriented torture tool.

My heart rate monitor was my best friend.

I learned that Zumba classes are not for me. I just couldn’t wrap my brain around those dance steps and my body is clearly missing seem key body parts or muscles. I’ve decided to leave those classes to the 20 year olds.

I slept between 9 and 10 hours every night.

I felt like I was living in a Lululemon advertisement. (Fortunately, my daughters Elizabeth and Annie had helped to outfit me appropriately.) My ‘scientific’ survey revealed that fully 90 percent of the people in the yoga classes, 80 percent of the people in body conditioning classes and 75 percent of the people in the yogalites class were wearing that brand of workout clothes. I’m thinking of buying stock in that company, just as Elizabeth has done.

The dark circles under my eyes disappeared.

I tried to remain calorie neutral for the day. I was pretty successful -- except for the night I ordered the goat’s milk ice cream as my dessert (delicious).

I ate the world’s teeniest bran muffin that contained 45 calories, and it wasn’t worth it. I drank honey, ginger, and lemon “tea” that I’d love to make at home, but it requires squeezing fresh ginger. I had smoothies that were delicious with only 125 calories.

I detoxed only partially from my electronic gadgets. There was generally a “no cell phone policy” on the premises, but in today’s era of smart phones I didn’t know precisely how far that could be pushed. So I pushed it. Occasionally, you might find me texting, responding to emails, or pretending to be reading from my iPad. Generally, the activity only earned me a few dirty looks. Ellen S. was “busted for the appearance of using her smart phone as a phone -- holding her phone up to her ear -- even though she was just listening to a message. And she and I spent one whole evening, after dinner in a public space, sharing and downloading our favorite Apps for the iPad. Surely that will earn us a place in hell.

I ate the buffet lunches using salad plates. It made me feel as though I had more food that I really did. They offered large plates too, but who would take one of those?

I found that I still am superb at lying in the sun doing nothing.

I was glad I took cashew nuts to snack on in the afternoon.

When massage therapists talk about “bringing toxins” to the surface, stay away from that treatment.

Twenty minutes of warm oil dripping on your forehead is a memorable experience, even if it takes you three times that long to shampoo it out of your hair.

Hiking in the desert is great in January. Just beware the cactus.

I’m the only person I know who has ever come back sick – with a cold – from a spa.

I learned to eat slowly.

***

Ellen S. and I were joined by one of her longtime friends – and someone I grew up with -- who lives now in San Diego. Lynn was a great companion in all our adventures.  

HAPPY 2ND BIRTHDAY TO ME (ELI DAVID ORGAD)

Sun, 23 Jan 2011 10:37:34 -0500

SOME PEOPLE LOVE BURBERRY...I LOVE SEARLE

Sun, 9 Jan 2011 19:10:44 -0500

I’ll admit it.

I own somewhere near a dozen coats and jackets (I know because I just cleaned out a closet and counted them). Most of them come from a single store in New York named Searle -- Click Here. I can’t recall how many years I’ve been obsessed with their coats (although I do own one Burberry), but it goes back some time.

I decided this winter that I really needed was a new weekend jacket – something warm and comfortable – but nothing that made me look like a polar bear. (I have one of those already.)

Without any hesitation, I went to the Searle website (not finding myself in New York at the appropriate moment of this insight), and I found what I thought was the perfect one. On sale!

But it turned out not to be the perfect coat: it was much too similar to my polar bear coat; so I sent it back and ordered another one (alas, not on sale), convinced this time that I’d picked the perfect one.

And so I had. I loved my new jacket when it arrived. Richard loved it. Annie (our elder daughter) loved it. It was perfect. And, since I hadn’t yet bought Annie a Chanukah present she asked for the same coat. I was happy to oblige.

That’s when the fun began.

Below are series of email exchanges, only very slightly edited, that tell the rest of the story. (Note: time and dates of messages as you read.)

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN, Director of Sales/Marketing
12/24/10
2:41 PM

Dear Mr. Weinstein,  Thank you for shipping this coat in exchange for the first one that I purchased. I (and my daughter) liked it so much that I am now thinking of getting one for her. So I went on line to check it out again, and I realized that this coat is on sale at 50% off, but I believe I paid full price for it! 
I would like to buy the same coat for my daughter if you can make this 'right' for me.  Sincerely. 
 RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
12/24/10
2:49 PM

Ellen,

The actual price you paid was less 20%. We did have sale on it for two days at 50% off, but you paid the full price less 20%.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
12/24/10
2.51 PM

Rick,

Thanks for such a prompt response. But the price I see now for the jacket you sent (which I do love...) is HALF price. You can see that yourself if you go to your own website right now. I don’t know how long the price has been reduced that much, but it doesn’t seem fair that I should have to pay 20% off for a coat that is now 50% off.

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
12/24/10
2.55 PM

Ellen,

I’m not saying it wasn’t the price, but that was a promotion that is now over.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
12/24/10
2:55 PM

Thanks for the information...but I literally copied 50% off price from the website (it was in two places) to show you it was that price when I wrote the first email in this exchange 25 MINUTES AGO. This really feels like some sort of bait-and -switch. Is there any restitution possible? Sorry, but this is less than ideal customer service.

And if you just changed the price on line as of this afternoon, it was likely in effect when you shipped the coat a few days ago! I should have been given the 50% off price at that time.

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
12/24/10
3:11 PM

We will offer it to you. So what are we getting your daughter?

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
12/24/10
3:14 PM

Thank you so much. She is looking this afternoon on line. She LOVED my jacket, and it may be the same one...she just wanted to check to make sure it was the one she liked the best. Should I order it through you, and you can apply the additional credit to me...how should we handle it?  Best wishes for the holiday,  PS -- Seriously, practically every year I buy another Searle coat! I am a good and loyal customer. I very much appreciate this. Of course, it is also the right thing to do.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
12/24/10
3:16 PM

How to proceed with the refund?

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
12/24/10
4:30 PM

I’ll take care of it. You’ll receive an email.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
12/24/10
4:43 PM

Thank you so much. Searle will continue to win my praises!

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
12/24/10
4:47 PM

Thank you. We need friends like you.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
12/24/10
4:58 PM

And thanks for you kind and thoughtful and remarkably prompt service.  Best wishes for the holidays and new year,

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
12/24/10
5:14 PM

That’s what Searle is all about. You’re welcome.

Ellen Miller to Rick WEINSTEIN
12/26/10
8.25 PM

Rick,  Let me know when the refund has been made. As soon as I get notice of that I am ready to order a coat for my daughter.  Hope you had a pleasant holiday weekend.

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
12/26/10
8.41 PM

First thing tomorrow.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
12/28/10
2:52 PM

Hi Rick,  Just checking in. I assume the snow has kept you out of the office. I haven’t yet received notice of a refund.

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
12/28/10
4:05 PM

Working on it today.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
12/29/10
9:41 PM

Hi Rick,  Just checking in. Still waiting to order a coat for my daughter until the refund comes through.  Best wishes,

Ellen Miller to WEINSTEIN
12/31/10
3:14 PM

Rick,  I am quite distressed that this matter regarding the refund STILL has not been taken care of. Please advise when the refund will be made.  You're about to have one VERY unhappy customer on your hands. (BTW, I was shopping this week, and my coat was admired, and I told the sale’s person how wonderful Searle was and how much I loved my new jacket. I am regretting the comments about Searle right now.)  Wishing you the best for the new year and for a speedy reimbursement for me.  
RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
12/31/10
3:46 PM

Tell me what we are doing for your daughter and we will do it all at once. Where are we sending it?

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
12/31/10
3:51 PM

I want this coat http://www.searlenyc.com/store/xxxxxxxxx for her in size 6. In black. Send it to my mailing address.
 Thank you.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
1/2/11
12:40 PM

Hi Rick,

Happy new year. Any update on the order for the new coat? The refund?

Best,

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
1/2/11
12:42 PM

Doing it all today. Will update.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
1/3/11
1:00 PM

Rick,  This is getting pretty frustrating. Even Delta Airlines responds and makes things 'right' faster than Searle does! My younger daughter who lives in NY was on a canceled flight going back to NY after the snowstorm with nonexistent communication from Delta and no help in getting her back. They are giving her miles and a refund for her troubles! And they made everything right in 48 hours!  Please advise me of the status of the refund and the order for the jacket in size 6.

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
1/3/11
2:05 PM

Ellen, You were credited yesterday and were sent an email.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
1/3/11
2:07 PM

Sorry, but I didn't receive that email. Can you resend?

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
1/3/11
6:03 PM

Check your account now.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
1/3/11
6:05 PM

I haven’t received any email regarding the refund. I will check my credit card account.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
1/3/11
7:15 PM

Sorry Rick, but I can't find any credits to my credit card from Searle. I just checked.Or perhaps did you credit my account for the difference between the jacket I want for my daughter and the refund I was to receive? Please advise.

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
1/3/11
7:17 PM

I credited you 50% of your purchase price. It’ll update in the AM, I’m sure.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
1/4/11
10:28 AM

No credit posted to my account as of this morning.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
1/4/11
2:23 PM

It's 2.20 PM. No credit has been posted to my credit card.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
1/4/11
2:43 PM

Just tried to call you to go through all of this on the phone. But your voice mailbox was full. (That’s not so great for a customer service rep....just sayin’)  Please advise on the following matters ASAP:  The credit has not been recorded to my credit card.  Did you order a coat for my daughter? If NOT I will do that online myself.

BTW, I just noticed that since we have been discussing all of this the price on the jacket (for my daughter) has dropped; so the jacket is now 40% off the original price. All this going back and forth has saved me even more money!

I am trusting that the credit has been made. I want to order the coat for my daughter at this newly reduced price, and I don’t know how long this sale will last!  PLEASE advise ASAP on both matters.

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
1/4/10
6:40 PM

I absolutely put it through.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
1/4/11
6:54 PM

I believe you. My bank said it might take a couple of days to show up. I ordered my daughter’s coat online.

I am loyal forever to Searle.

Ellen Miller to RICK WEINSTEIN
1/5/11
4:22 PM

Ta Da. There was a credit today to my account. Thank you very much for resolving this matter.  I am forever a loyal fan of Searle.  All my best for the new year. 

RICK WEINSTEIN to Ellen Miller
1/5/11
4:32 PM

And I am loyal to you, Ellen.

FIRST, YOU START WITH BUTTER

Sat, 1 Jan 2011 00:00:00 -0500

My mother died in early December, just two months short of her 98th birthday.

With all her family at hand (my brother and I, our spouses, her four grandchildren and their spouses, and two of her seven great grandchildren), she was eulogized by her rabbi as the caring and protective mother she was, as a devoted and loving spouse, and as the “drop dead gorgeous” city girl who lived happily (along with our father) and raised my brother and me in a small town in rural Kentucky.

After the funeral, it struck me that while the eulogy captured so much of my mother, it neglected one element that is core to my memories of her – her attention to the kitchen, her devotion to good food, and especially her baking. From her much sought after Swedish Butter Cookies, Pumpkin Torte, or Lemon, Chocolate, Derby or Pecan pies, my mother was the best pastry maker, cookie decorator, and chef of the entire Shapira clan (a close and friendly but competitive group consisting of five sister-in-laws).

When my mother moved out of her house and into a nursing home facility a few years ago, my sister-in-law took on the task of sorting though all of the things in her kitchen. I took some of the old baking pans and molds, the flour sifter, cookie cutters and fancy tins that she used for her baking, and I also took all the handwritten recipes that I could find. Soon I will make a copy of those and share them with her grandchildren and great grandchildren. There’s no better gift she could have left for all of us.

The best tribute to my mother that I can think of is to share a few of those recipes with you.

Remember, generally, you start with butter…

* * *

Swedish Butter Cookies

Ingredients:

3 sticks of butter (room temperature)
1 cup of sugar
1 egg yolk
2 cups regular flower (sifted once)

Directions:

Cream butter and sugar.

Add egg yolk and flour and mix well.

Make balls of the dough about 1 inch and flatten.

Place on greased cookie sheet and make 10-15 mins at 350 degrees.

Frost with melted chocolate drops or sprinkle with powered sugar.

* * *

Derby Pie

Ingredients:

¼ cup butter
3 eggs
1 t vanilla
1 cup sugar
¾ cup light corn syrup
½ cup chocolate chips
½ cup chopped pecans soaked in 2 T Elijah Craig Bourbon
½ t salt

Directions:

Mix above ingredients and pour into unbaked “regular” pie crust.

Bake at 375 degrees for 40-45 minutes.

* * *

Pumpkin Torte

Ingredients for crust:

1 stick of butter
3 cups of Ginger Snaps
2/3 cup powdered sugar

Directions for Crust:

Combine the above and make a crust

Ingredients for Torte Filling:

6 eggs, separated
1 cup of milk
2 cups sugar
2 ¾ cups of canned pumpkin
2 envelopes of gelatin dissolved in ½ cup of cold water and set a side
1 t cinnamon
1 t nutmeg
1 t ginger
1t salt

Directions for Torte:

Slightly beat the egg yolks. And add 1 cup of sugar.

Add pumpkin, milk and spices and stir well and cook in a double boiler until thickened.

Put the cold water in a bowl and sprinkle gelatin on top. Add to pumpkin mixture and cool.

When thickened add sugar and stiffly beaten egg whites.

Serve with whipping cream.

ABIGAIL AT SIX WEEKS

Sun, 26 Dec 2010 12:31:45 -0500

From Abigail to Grand Papa:

“So far I don’t have many complaints.

“The food’s pretty good, altho there’s not much variety, and it seems as if the other folks get stuff I don’t.

“I’m sleeping pretty well, sometimes six or seven hours at a time.

“There’s another little person who lives here too, and we’re getting along pretty well. Even when mommy and Aba aren’t in the room, Eiya (or something close to that) seems to like me and kisses me.

“There’s also a little dog who makes a lot of noise when someone new comes into the house, but Eiya tells me not to worry, Charlie (the dog) is there to protect me too.

“Apparently I didn’t do too well on my first shopping trip at Bloomingdale’s when mommy and Nonna (my grandmother) took me there. I fell asleep. I’ll try to do better next time.

“I also fell asleep when grand papa was trying tell me something about pitching being more important than hitting in baseball, whatever that is.

“Anyway, there’s a lot to do when you’re my age. I’m just beginning to figure some things out. And I hope next time grand papa asks me to tell him what’s happening in my life, I’ll have more to say.

“So far, I don’t have any complaints. Everything seems pretty good.”

FENCING WITH DENIS: (A TRUE STORY ABOUT A TRUE-TONGUED’ FRIEND), BY DAVID P. STANG

Sat, 25 Dec 2010 09:45:10 -0500

(Dave Stang is an old friend, in both senses of the word ‘old’,”and splits his time between his homes in Kenmare, Ireland and Washington, DC. He is a lawyer (mostly retired?) and a writer (active) and from time to time sends me essays about Ireland and other thoughts.)

Fencing with Denis

Oct. 29, 2010

Nearly 25 years ago I met, befriended and began working with Denis Casey, a Kerryman, naturalist, philosopher, stone mason, gardener and handyman. I was to learn over time that Denis was a man of his word, always on time, never a laggard, highly productive, a sound thinker, truly dedicated to integrity, artful perfection and diligent craftsmanship.

The first job we did together back in the summer of 1987 was to build a hundred fifty feet stone wall along the edge of the driveway leading from the road to the Irish home my wife Sarah and I had just acquired which originally was built in 1844 as a schoolmaster's house.

Nearly every year since between May and October Denis and I spent one or two days a week working together on projects related to the house and guesthouse or to the sixteen acres of land upon which they are located situated on the Beara Peninsula along the southern shore of Kenmare Bay overlooking McGillicuddy’s Reeks, the highest and most picturesque chain of mountains in Ireland extending westwardly along County Kerry's Iveragh Peninsula just north and parallel to the Beara Peninsula.

Our most recent joint project has been rebuilding the fence between the house and the west pasture, or meadow as it is called in Ireland, and building a new entrance gate to Sarah's flagstone labyrinth she patterned after the model of the one in France at St. Michelle. Nearly twenty years ago Denis and I had constructed a horse rail fence as well as the gateway to and the fence around Sarah's labyrinth. Yet despite our applying an annual coat of wood preservative paint to the fence and to the entrance gate the predominantly rainy climate of Ireland caused the steel nails holding the fence together to rust and wooden components of the fence to rot.

Our first task was to ascertain whether the fence posts were sound and solid or whether they too needed replacement. Having verified that nearly all the fence posts were still in good condition we were nearly able to start disassembling the fence rails. But first we needed to detach the sheepwire fencing which had been affixed to the rails with U-shaped staples we had nailed into the fence posts and rails when we first constructed the fence. I had chosen a fourteen inch long old red handled screwdriver to attack the staples while Denis preferred using the claw on his hammer.

Not more than ten minutes into the job I heard the phone ring and excused myself to go answer it and quickly thrust the screwdriver into the ground with the red handle barely visible because of the yellow, rust and brown leaves that lay on the ground. When I returned from the phone call I couldn't find the screwdriver and after looking for it for two or three minutes I suspected that I might have carried it into the house with me when I went to answer the phone. Denis said he would look along the fence line where I had been working while I searched inside. About six minutes later Denis walked into the house saying that he had found my screwdriver which had fallen over and was most difficult to detect amidst the plenitude of fallen leaves.

When we finished working our away from one end of the fence line to the other removing the rotten rails I remembered that we had some more work to do pounding in a couple of new fenceposts back at the start of the fence and suggested to Denis that we would need to take our six-foot, forty five pound crowbar and sledgehammer with us in order to get the job done. I offered to take whichever tool Denis preferred while he took the other. He assigned me the sledgehammer as he charitably grabbed the heavy crowbar.

When we got to the start of the fence we paused while I outlined the suggested approach we might take for digging a couple of new post holes. We quickly agreed on how best to proceed and Denis asked me what I had done with the crowbar.

‘Denis, my good friend, it was you, I believe, who carried the crowbar as I had fetched the sledgehammer.’

‘David, upon reflection I'm convinced you are right. Did you notice what I did with the crowbar when we returned with it?’

‘No, Denis, I did not.’

‘Well, neither did I. So I suppose we should start hunting for it.’

‘Good idea.’

‘David, I found it at the precise location I had thrust it into the earth. What is happening to my memory? Is my mind deteriorating as rapidly as it might appear?’

‘Denis, you and I have become a couple of cabbage heads. But there is strength in numbers. So fear not. We will continue to assist one another and jointly, notwithstanding our geriatric condition, we will not only survive but also thrive so long as we remain a team. By the way, speaking about cabbage heads, did I ever tell you about my sixth-grade English teacher whose parents had emigrated from Ireland to America? Her name was Anna Marie Kelly. The story has relevance to our present day mental condition.’

‘No, David, you did not tell me that story -- as best I can recall -- but I would like you to tell me it now, if you would be so kind.’

‘Well, Denis, I think I told you previously that I have been a congenital dyslexic and therefore spelling has never been my forte. Anna Marie Kelly when I attended her sixth grade English class was then in her mid-60s and had long been eligible for retirement.
Despite her puny size -- about 4'8" tall and skinny as a rail-- she was a holy terror. She would walk around the classroom caring a wooden yardstick in her right hand and anyone she suspected of misbehaving she would charge with her yardstick in hand and slam it down on the student's desk with such a mighty force that it caused an earsplitting sound as the wood of the yardstick struck the wood of the guilty student's desk. She thought that spelling accurately was tantamount to godliness. To save my own life I could barely spell my own name. But not much more than that.’

‘Well now, David, if that was the case Miss Kelly must have been whacking your desk with some regularity.’

‘Not so, Denis, because I survived by bribing the prettiest girl in the class and a champion
speller at that to let me copy from her test paper. Each week on spelling test day I would give her a pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum and she would let me copy answers from her paper.

I always deliberately misspelled two or three out of the ten words to avoid suspicion. But one day Miss Kelly, out of the corner of her eye, caught me looking at the girl’s test paper. As you might infer I immediately detected Miss Kelly charging straight at me, listened to the cracking sound of her yardstick hitting my desk and heard her say to me,

‘David Stang, you are right. Two heads are better than one even though one is a cabbage head. Yours, of course, is the cabbage head! You get a zero on your test today. This ought to teach you that cheating will never make you a better speller!’

Denis started laughing and said, ‘You know we are not the only cabbage heads around.
Did you hear the one about the little old ladies in Sullivan-Ford’s, the drapery store on the town square?’

‘No Denis, I did not. Please do tell me.’

‘Well, you know we are after having a hot and comparatively dry summer here. You know that we Irish open the doors and windows of our houses and shops to air the place out when ever the weather is good. So as you might suspect your old ladies at Sullivan-Ford's had their front door wide open one day when much to their surprise out of nowhere came a bulgy eyed terrified rat running through their door. And wouldn't you know a nanosecond later right behind him came a mink clearly intent upon eating the scared rat for dinner. The blood curling squeals of the rat and snarls of the mink soon had the old ladies up on the countertops shrieking with fright. You can imagine hearing one of them yelling, “Somebody call the guards!” and another imploring, “Holy Mary, Mother of God save us from this furry flurry!” You know everyone's been talking about the mink and the rat ever since. It's no wonder the old girls were so edgy. A mink can bite your hand off in the blink of an eye.’

‘Denis, what a scene that must have been!’

‘Twas, my good friend. Now let's leave the fear stricken old ladies behind us and begin work on planting the new fence posts.’

Grabbing the weighty crowbar with the pointed end facing down Denis lifted it over his head with both hands and rammed it into the earth then took the opposite end into his hand and began moving it clockwise in the circle thus causing the pointed end to form a conical shaped hole. He then lifted the crowbar up again and thrust it deeper into the hole he was creating. After repeating this procedure several times he reached down and grabbed the crowbar with his thumb marking the spot that was level with the ground. Denis then asked me for the loan of my tape measure to ascertain the depth of the hole. ‘Fifteen inches’, he called out, ‘That's deep enough.’

‘Denis, may I hand you the new fence post and sledgehammer now?

‘You can of course.’

I held the fence post firmly in place once Denis had jammed it into the hole, then Denis raised the sledgehammer high over his head and slammed it down on the fence post, driving it at least another 4 inches into the earth. With each blow the post was buried additional 3 or 4 inches. Soon the post was securely installed. I said,

‘Denis, you are two years older than me and you swing that sledgehammer with the strength of the 25-year-old man. I could barely lift over my head, and even if I were successful in doing so I would never be able to drive it for 3 or 4 inches and would instead most probably miss the fence post entirely with the downward swing.’

‘Don't beat yourself up too severely. After all, solicitors spend most of their time sitting behind a desk, not swinging sledgehammers. I was never given the choice and you are benefiting from that as I have been hefting sledgehammers, I would say, for over 60 years.’

With all the usual chattering dialog going on between Denis and me the hands on the clock seemed to spin faster and before we know it our removal of all the rotting rails had concluded, four new fence posts were driven into the Earth and we are now ready to begin attaching the new pre-treated rails with rounded edges so as to avoid scratching or irritating the hides of grazing horses.

When Denis and I originally erected the fence nearly 20 years ago the only available means of securing the rails to the fence posts were steel nails and galvanized steel screws, both of which rusted easily and profusely thus facilitating the rotting of the rails and to a lesser extent the fence posts. But when I went to the hardware store to procure the makings of a rebuilt fence and gates the clerk pointed out a new screw on the market which neither rusts nor corrodes. I bought a box of 200.

High Tech screws aside, having previously performed both my stone wall building and carpentry work with Denis I was well schooled on the use of the tools of the building trades, including their most ancient and still surviving instruments, to whit: the plumb, level and square. These three tools for eons not only had been key to building sound structures, but they symbolically and metaphorically denote the professional ideals and aspirations of not only the finished monumental structures envisioned by great architects, but additionally were adopted by those in the building trades who work diligently with their minds and hands to produce excellence in craftsmanship. That excellence in the performance of their craft was often expanded by them into a greater ideal: how best to live their life.

As is well known Freemasons the world over have adopted and ritualized a referential genuflection to the values symbolized by the working tools of the ancient craftsmen. It is common in lodges of Freemasonry for the head of the lodge, known as the Worshipful Master, just prior to the close of the meeting to step down from his Oriental chair and stand in front of the altar where he addresses the second ranking member of the lodge, calling out his title: ‘Brother Senior Warden.’
That officer responds, ‘Worshipful Master.’
The presiding head of the lodge asks the Senior Warden, ‘How should Master Masons meet?’
The Senior Warden answers, ‘On the level, Worshipful’.
The Worshipful Master then asks the third ranking officer of the lodge, ‘How act, Brother Junior Warden?’
He answers, ‘By the plumb, Worshipful.’
The Worshipful Master, whose symbol is the square, final closing words are these:
‘Meet on the level, act by the plumb, and part upon the square. So may we ever meet, act and part.’

It was long before I first set foot inside a Lodge of Freemasonry that I first learned about plumbs, levels and squares. It was in fact as a 14-year-old working on a summer job as a carpenter's apprentice that the proper use of these ancient tools was drummed into my head.

Technically speaking, the plumb line and bob are for detecting the true vertical, while the level shows the true horizontal. And if the fence posts are set truly vertical and the fence rails truly horizontal their joining should be square. The tool known as a square is a 90° angle usually made out of wood or metal. Accordingly, another way to test the squareness of the joining of fence posts and rail is to place a square at their juncture. Likewise, using a square with a plumb line reveals a true level.

As Denis drove in his first non-corrosive screw with my 20-year-old drill I asked if he had squared off the post and rail. Now Denis at the moment the question was asked was far more cognizant than I of a fence building principle which predominated and thereby took precedence over and superseded the necessity or appropriateness of the perfect square joint. And that fence building principle was and is applicable to situations in which the fence is running up or down hill in which cases the rails are meant to parallel the ground. That of course prevents them from being ‘square’.

Under the circumstances Denis could have remarked,

‘Square, you say, Numbskull? Fence rails going up and down hill are always parallel to the ground, which rules out the possibility of their squareness with vertically true fence posts.’

But Denis didn't say that or any thing else which was intended to be critical of my mistaken assumption. He, like any true Irishman, is inclined to help his friends to save face by not confronting them with reference to their comparative ignorance, thickness or obliviousness. So instead Denis commented, ‘We’re not building a tennis court, you know. And besides the horses will never notice the difference.’

Having established the ground rules pertaining to the proper attachment of rail to fence post under the circumstances we began that undertaking in earnest.

Most of the rails fit the fence post’s width perfectly without any need for modification of their length. But some had to be cut to size using my 20-year-old electric saw which functioned perfectly.

But my 20-year-old one speed/high speed drill was a bit difficult for Denis to manage in his attempt to efficiently drive the non-corrosive screws into the fence rails thereby attaching them to the posts. My one speed/ high-speed tool was tearing the Philips heads off our non-corrosive screws and shredding them to bits. And it wouldn't unscrew those that had been inserted at the wrong angle. It was now nearly 6:00PM and time to take Denis home. The next morning when I returned to give Denis a ride to work he was holding his battery driven, variable speed, reversible direction drill.

After Brack and tea we returned to attaching rails to fence posts. Using his drill's reversible spin option whenever the screw would be inserted at the wrong angle or driven into an impenetrable knot Denis would flip the setting to reverse, insert the bit into the screw head, and instead of going deeper into the rail the screw would begin magically rising up out of the rail which triggered within me an almost fearful reaction that I had been placed in a time machine and eo instante had begun living my life in reverse. I wouldn't mind being a few years younger. That might be a great adventure. But going back to pre-toilet trained infancy would be a bit of a struggle. By the moment I got to that thought the backwards spinning skrew had popped out of the rail and I realized that it was time to return from fantasy land back to fence building, so with the addition of Denis’s battery- driven, multi-tasking drill our efficiency in attaching rail to post increased several hundred fold. Our productivity shot sky high and we were screwing rails to fence posts as if we expected to qualify for the Guinness Book of Records. Guinness, of course, is the name of the stout brewed in Dublin, known the world over as the mother's milk of the Irish.

Surprisingly enough although Guinness is the preferred stout in Ireland Murphy’s is also quite popular, as is Paddy's whiskey and the spirits a few other Irish distillers produce. But Denis gave up the drink nearly 40 years ago deciding one day it was doing him no good. He didn't taper off; Denis went cold turkey. He did the same thing last year after smoking Major cigarettes for nearly 60 years. The doctor had told him to knock off smoking tobacco unless he wanted his heart problem to get worse. Again, Denis went cold turkey. That cut down his addiction to only one substance. Denis drinks about 9 or 10 cups of caffeinated tea a day, not unlike most other Irishmen. When the Irish refer to ‘having tea’ they are of course referring to that highly caffeinated beverage made from the leaves plucked from the huge plantations of tea bushes in Sri Lanka, formerly known as Ceylon, but the Irish use the same word to apply to either a full meal such as breakfast, lunch and dinner and snacks as well -- all of which are of course consumed with tea, usually taken with milk and sugar.

When Denis and I began working together I learned that it was his life-long habit to take a tea break at 10 a.m. and the fare served then was tea and Brack, a very popular Irish version of raisin bread, well buttered. Then we would have tea at 1 p.m. consisting of that beverage accompanied by soup, sandwiches and cookies, known in Ireland as biscuits. There was a 4 p.m. tea break featuring the beverage and more biscuits. Then after knocking off work at six Denis would return home to prepare his evening tea. In each of these events the tea brewed previously was thrown away and replaced with freshly made tea. The Irish are as resistant to drinking re-warmed stale tea as they are to eating stale Brack.

Our luncheon tea on this second day of fence building consisted of tea, Irish stew, gluten-free muffins, and gluten-free biscuits. Denis reported that the evening before he had heard a good story:

‘A dockworker and his wife living in Cork city lived in a small house with their pet parrot who was acquired after the last of their children had left home. One day when his wife was working in her back garden the coal man arrived at the house, opened the door a crack and yelled, “How much coal should I leave today?” He heard “two tons” as an answer to his question, then proceeded to leave 40 one hundred pound bags of coal in the kitchen, stacked up everywhere and leaving no room to walk around.

‘Later the wife came in from the garden, discovered that her kitchen was full of 40 bags of coal and for the life of her she could not understand why the coal man without instruction had left so much coal because she had not even placed an order with him. At dinner time her husband arrived back home from the docks and was outraged at all the coal in the kitchen and impatiently asked his wife why in God’s name she had ordered so much coal. She denied doing so and sounded perplexed about why such an abundance of coal have been left in her kitchen. The husband immediately and correctly suspected that it was the work of parrot. He yelled at the bird, grabbed its roost and placed it with the parrot attached on the mantelpiece of their seldom used parlor.

The parrot noticed that there was a picture of Our Lord at the other end of the mantelpiece. Soon after the parrot's discovery Jesus asked the bird, “How long are you up here for?” The parrot answered, “Thirty days for ordering 2 tons of coal. How long have you been up to the mantel?”

Jesus answered, “Thirty years.”

The parrot responded, “God Almighty, you must have ordered a fierce gigantic mass of coal!”

Well, that started a small joke exchange soon interrupted by Denis who stood up from the table and advised, ‘It's time to get back to work.’ The concept of sloth and Denis are mutually exclusive.

Our next job was to reattach with staples the sheep wire fence to the new rails which took only a few minutes. Now the rebuilt fence was ready for painting, but that would not happen until we rebuilt the gate to Sarah's (wife) labyrinth, a task more complicated than we foresaw. Like the horse rail fence, the fence surrounding Sarah's labyrinth also had sheep wire attached to it, but in addition in order to prevent the entry of rabbits and hares it also contained chicken wire mesh along an 18 inch high band at ground level. A strand of barbed wire stretched between each of the ring of fence posts surrounding the labyrinth. Prior to this area containing the labyrinth it was initially Sarah's organic vegetable garden, which was one of Sarah's rare failures. The problem was that Sarah insisted upon using organic seeds produced locally by a company in Southern California where the average summer temperature was in the high 70s or low 80s, whereas the average summer temperature in Ireland is seldom more than 65° Fahrenheit.

Sarah had blind faith in her California organic seed company having successfully used their seeds for many years before we met. But despite the loving care and constant attention Sarah's Southern California seeds, planted by her in her Irish garden during May, never sprouted until mid to late September, thus ensuring an untimely death by Irish October frosts. One day not long after we returned from visiting friends of Sarah in France and seeing firsthand the labyrinth at Mont St. Michel Sarah announced that she was going to replicate the labyrinth in her former organic vegetable garden. She handed Denis and me the drawing she prepared and we rounded up the necessary flagstones and - gravel to surround them with, then produced a made to order labyrinth for Sarah.

When we finished our work and it passed inspection by Sarah, she asked Denis and me if we were familiar with the concept of a labyrinth. ‘It's a variation on a maze’, I answered.

‘True’, said Sarah, ‘but what is its method and spiritual purpose?’

Denis and I professed ignorance and requested Sarah to enlighten us.

‘Well’, said Sarah, ‘the center of the labyrinth represents the divine. The pathway to the divine is never the shortest distance between two points, rather it is deceptively circuitous and it creates the impression that you are standing on the threshold of the heavenly gates, when in fact, although near to the center, the path strays away for many circuitous steps before returning to the destination. The spiritual purpose is of course to lead you to the divine, but the method is intended to force you into the present moment step by step so that you acquire the discipline of maintaining your focus on the flagstone immediately in front of the one you are standing on instead of using your ego-driven cunning, analytical and questing mind to propel you toward reaching the divine. Instead, your only intent is to walk slowly from one flagstone to the next without worrying what direction you are facing or how long it's going to take you to get where you are going. You trust that the path will lead you where you need to go and that you willingly abandon your compulsion to plot your own course. This trusting, gradual, one step at a time, relaxed, peaceful and meditative approach is predicated on the belief that the divine will be accessible at the center, however long it takes to reach it. Accordingly, patient, open receptivity without attachment to achieving success or triumph is the mind state most conducive to allowing your deepest spiritual consciousness to awaken to the reality of the divine presence. If you allow yourself to be receptive, beginning with your first step, you should be able to sense the divine presence long before you reach the labyrinth’s center.

So that is how the labyrinth helps guide you to your destination.’

Sarah died last year after a long and difficult illness, but her description of the pathway to the divine encompassed within the design of the labyrinth lives on in my memory. The task Denis and I were about ready to undertake was to create a brand-new gate to serve as a gateway to the meandering flagstone pathway which ultimately arrived at a protrusion of 300 million-year-old red sandstone Sarah chose to represent the divine. A fascinating underlying reality was that nearly the entire labyrinth, although covered with a comparatively thin layer of soil, overlays a massive bedrock of red sandstone, the center of which protruded up out of the soil at the center.

Why fascinating? We generally need to drive the fence posts nearly 18 inches deep into the earth in order for them to maintain structural integrity and proper verticality. But in a number of places, including at the entrance gate, the depth of the soil overlying the red sandstone was far more shallow than 18 inches.

As we began tearing down the old gate and the rotten fence posts on either side of it after detaching with some difficulty the staples, sheep wire, chicken wire and barbed wire, we recalled our inability nearly 20 years ago to dig a hole deep enough to securely plant one of the fence posts, in fact the one on which we were to hang the gate. So we then dug a 10 inch deep moat around the original fence post and filled it with concrete. In ripping out the concrete surrounded rotten fence post we needed to use the pick in order to break it into pieces, thus freeing the old post from its ugly collar which Denis referred to as 'a mistake because concrete is very porous and it will draw water to the stake and facilitate its rotting. This time we need to take a different tack by avoiding the use of any concrete.'

'How are we going to do that, Denis?'

'We are going to dig holes with a crowbar until we find one deep enough yet as close as possible to the original post hole. And plant another as close as we can to the fence post to which the gate is to be latched. Then we measure and build the gate to fit the fence posts, rather than what we did the last time, which was to position the fence posts in order to fit the gate.'

Denis drilled with his heavy crowbar nearly a half-dozen exploratory holes until he could find one with 14 inches of soil overlying the ancient red sandstone bedrock. Denis smiled after making the measurement and deciding he had found the perfect location for planting the new fence post. I couldn't understand why he was so happy and confident that 14 inches of soil surrounding the new fence post would be sufficient to ensure its sturdy verticality. Before I could challenge his decision Denis asked me to bring him a dozen half-brick sized loose rocks which I was able briefly to acquire. He placed the fence post in the hole he dug and asked me to hold it steady which I did while he, one at a time, positioned the loose rocks around the fence post and hammered them down with the sledgehammer. Denis then filled the remaining 4 inches of the hole with topsoil and pounded it down also with the sledgehammer.

'Now feel that fence post. Good and solid, isn't it? That post will support the new gate, no bother.'

After we sank the second fence post for the other side of the gate we measured the distance between the two fence posts and determined it to be 50 inches. We then laid the badly rotted original gate on a platform of level flagstones and using our tape measured the pieces of treated timber we needed, penciled lines on them using a square, cut them with the electric saw, and laid them out on the flagstones next to the old gate and, guided by the square, fastened the whole lot of freshly sawed parts together with our non-corrosive screws using Denis's battery driven drill fit with a Phillips head bit.

We only made one mistake. Somehow we had mis-measured the distance between the two fence posts and our new gate was 7 inches short in width.

'What we do now, Denis?'

'I'm afraid we have to dig up the fence post and all the rocks and soil around it and reposition the whole lot six-inches closer to the other new fence post. We'll leave an inch between the edge of the gate and the fence post. And that ought to work pretty well.'

This painful process took us nearly 45 minutes to complete. Using the crowbar Denis wrenched up the fence post and dug out each of the rocks and all of the soil we had previously packed around it, then dug a new fence hole with the heavy crowbar, and using the vertical level like a plumb line and bob positioned, sank and pounded the rocks around it, jammed and stamped the soil down hard over the rocks. Denis gave the newly planted fence post a shove and it didn't budge at all. I smiled and complemented Denis on his superb craftsmanship.

We had previously taken the old hinges, bolt and catch off the rotten gate and using the square we then fit them on the gate and then employing the level on the gate hung it on the repositioned fencepost. The bolt slid easily into place, thus the operation was a success. Now we had to reattach with staples the sheep wire, chicken wire and barbed wire. Seeing the newly completed Gateway to Sarah's labyrinth gave us both a lot of pleasure.

We decided the next job was to paint the new gate and the special reinforcing posts and braces we had installed to enhance its structural integrity. But first it was time for our 4:00 p.m. tea break. Sipping his tea and munching his biscuits Denis waxed on about the miserable state of the Irish economy. He indicated that most of his life nearly every Irishman he knew, save binge drinking alcoholics, exhibited frugality, but in the past decade as a result of the roaring Irish economy, known worldwide as the Celtic Tiger, more and more frequently people began to throw money around, surround themselves with expensive and generally useless possessions, take holidays abroad and the like. Yet the deplorable state of the Irish economy which began its long and still continuing crash in the autumn of 2008 had prompted a rapid about-face through re-embracing frugality.

Denis told me that quite recently a friend of his was sitting in the barbershop waiting his turn for a haircut when Jack the barber called the next customer to the chair. This was an old farmer from about eight miles away who was nearly completely bald. A couple of years ago Jack raised his price of a haircut to seven Euros. This had grated on the old farmer for some time and now that the economy had taken a nose dive he felt that seven Euros was way too high a price to pay for a haircut, particularly for a virtually bald old man. Denis said his friend described the old farmer as boasting only a scraggy fringe hanging down over the tops of his ears and around the back of his head. When Jack had finished your man asked what he owed for the haircut. Jack said, ‘Seven Euros, if you please.’ The farmer responded, ‘Jaysus Christ Almighty, I have hardly a hair left on my head and you’re charging me the full price?’ Jack shouted back at your man, ‘I only charged you three Euros for the haircut, and another four euros for trying to find your fecking hair.’

Denis remarked that times were tough but that most of those who had continued practicing frugality during the Celtic Tiger boom years were able to survive the recession without any serious belt-tightening, but for those who had acquired the habit of throwing their money around like a drunken sailor on shore leave -- those folks were having a miserable time adjusting to less income. Then Denis said,

‘These are tough times, but even so I believe in giving every man his full measure whether it be expressed in money or in labor. If you get in the lifetime habit of giving everyone his full measure you can look at yourself in the mirror without even a single twinging scintilla of conscience pricking away at you.’

When we stepped back outside the conservatory door after our afternoon tea Denis asked me to look up at the roof and tell him what I see. I detected a missing slate at the edge of the roof and asked them as if that's what he had in mind. Denis said,

‘Correct Seamus, I noticed that this morning when we were working on the gate, but didn't mention it until I figured out how it came loose. You see the long pine branch about four feet away from it? Do you notice how the end of that branch is frayed?

I think that the reason that it's frayed is that when the wind would blow hard it would strike up against the slate. That must be why the branch is frayed. But one day obviously the frayed branch struck the slate hard enough to knock it loose. We can replace it pretty easily, no bother I'd say and trim that branch back a bit. ’

Here was another splendid example of Denis’s observant and curious mind at work. I thanked him for noticing the missing slate and said I'd look forward to working with him in properly replacing it.

For the rest of the afternoon I painted the new gate and a reinforcing structure we had erected to enhance its stability while Denis tidied up and carried the rotten old gate and removed rotten rails down to a flat area next to the stream running through my land. The previous year we had cut down some ash trees which had sprouted in an old 18th-century lime kiln on the property near where the stream empties into a navigable cove. That year we saved the best part of the cut down trees as firewood making a pile of the twiggy tips of branches and another pile of logs I had intended to return to for the purpose of sawing them into fireplace fitting lengths. But I never got back to finishing that latter job. Denis had stacked the rotten but dry fence rails on the pile of twiggy tipped branches. A year later this pile was ready for burning and most of the logs on the other pile had become too waterlogged to be used for firewood.

The next day Denis and I painted all of the fencing we had rebuilt over the prior two days as well as other fences and gates located nearby that we have previously constructed together. After we finished painting I was wondering whether we should start a fire going under the twigs and then once it got going carry the logs from the adjacent pile and toss them on the bonfire.

Denis looked at me as if I were cognitively impaired, but remaining as always the diplomat he suggested that we light the other logs on fire where they are standing. I looked back at Denis with what must have been a rather quizzical expression on my face and asked him,

‘Denis, how in God's name are we going to ignite those water soaked logs at the bottom of the pile?’ I thought to myself, Denis somehow has missed the boat on this one as everyone knows that you light fires at the bottom of the pile of wood and if those logs are water soaked and there's no way in the world to get them burning.

‘David, we light the fire from the top and it will burn itself down to the bottom, drying out and then consuming the wet logs on the bottom.’

With that Denis took out his cigarette lighter, stuffed some old newspapers we had brought with us under the pile of dried twigs and rotten rails and soon the flames were eight feet high. Then Denis walked over to the mass of logs and tried to ignite some twigs he had placed in the top of the pile. The wind was a bit too strong and it kept blowing out the fragile flames of the twigs Denis was seeking to ignite. I suggested that we instead remove some of the burning used fence rails by grabbing them by the non-burning end and carrying them over to the other pile to try to set it on fire. Denis agreed and as I carried the burning rails Denis used a long stout stick to maneuver them in towards the top of the pile. I could not believe it, but soon that pile of logs was also a tower of flames.

Denis said, ‘Look at the log projecting out about a foot beneath the fire. See the water running out of it like it's coming out of a pipe? The heat is so intense that the water is dripping as well as evaporating out of the water soaked logs below.’

‘Denis, you are an absolute genius. If you took a public opinion survey asking the people being questioned should a fire be lit from below or is it equally propitious to light the fire from the top of the pile of wood -- at least 90% would answer: light the fire from the bottom.’

‘No, David, at least 99% would say the same. But I'm telling you now these logs will be burning all night and when you come down in the morning there will still be smoldering ashes, but every log in that pile will be consumed. Furthermore, the forecast is for calm and dry weather this evening. So you need not worry about standing watch all night over the fires. Just let them burn on their own as they are. ’

‘Denis, you are an amazing man and you have a curious and questioning mind. How did you ever figure out it was possible to light a fire from the top of the pile?’

‘A long time ago when I was burning furze bushes one October evening I lit the fire at the top of the bush to see what would happen and it burned down from top to bottom with the wind gently fanning the flames. A few days later I tried doing the same thing with an old pile of timber which included water logged stuff at the bottom of the pile and the same thing happened that that you are seeing with your own eyes today. To me practicing good craftsmanship means always asking yourself is there a better way to do the job with an equal or superior result.’

After I dropped off Denis at his home in time for his 6 p.m. tea, I drove back to the house thinking about what an extraordinary human being Denis is. When I got home I walked straight down to observe the two fires. It was now nearly dark. Both were burning brightly. I walked over to the log pile fire and noticed that the log that had been spouting water out the end of it an hour before was now burning away and I thought to myself Denis really does know what he's talking about.

I recalled another thing as well. Denis never opens his mouth with an opinion on any topic unless he knows exactly what he's talking about. There is something true, truly true about Denis and I began wondering just what that was. Denis nearly 100% of the time when he makes a purported statement of fact his assertion is empirically true and scientifically verifiable. This is an exceptional quality.

But there is another dimension of trueness about Denis, and I conceptually and perceptively wanted to nail down exactly what that was. So I went back to the house and opened my prized two-volume edition of The Oxford English Dictionary.

I looked up the word ‘true’ and found it had over a dozen meanings nearly half of which pertained to ‘true’ or ‘truth’ in the sense of being objectively verifiable. But I was delighted to discover that there were other meanings of the word that seemed to most validly apply to Denis's character.

The word ‘true’ also applied to highly subjective aspects of human consciousness, personality and being which entail the realms of strong feelings, character, honor, integrity, moral behavior and how we relate to others. These values are evidenced in the following Oxford English Dictionary definitions of the word true:

steadfast in adherence to a commander or friend, to a principle or cause, to one's promises, faith, firm in allegiance, reliable, constant, sure, honest, honorable, upright, virtuous, trustworthy, free from deceit, sincere, truthful in actions and feelings as well as in words, unfeigned, speaking truly, telling the truth, trustworthy in statement, veracious, rightful or legitimate, real, genuine, rightly entering to the description, properly so called, not counterfeit, a faithful, loyal, trusty person, a true man who necessarily is true-tongued, that which is true, true blue, sound.

When the lexicographers at Oxford assembled these definitions it must have been Denis Casey they were thinking about.

PARENTING & CARING FOR OUR PARENTS

Tue, 7 Dec 2010 09:01:31 -0500

Whoever said that most of us are twice children and twice parents got it right, I think.

Being in the situation where I have had an elderly mother, now passed, and an elderly father, almost 93, I often find myself in the role of a parent to a parent.

As many of you have, have had, or will soon have elderly parents, I thought that through the MillersTime website, we might try to share a bit of what we have learned or are learning about this new (parenting our parents) role.

When we parented our children, we were more prepared and had more resources available, having been children ourselves and generally having our parents, friends, peers, and many articles and books to help guide us.

Much less so in this second parenting.

What I thought I would do is offer MillersTime as a place where folks could post some of the insights, learnings, realizations, discoveries, etc. they have gained as they have entered and traversed this new role of helping with aging parents. And, if you have come across any books (non-fiction or fiction) that you have found helpful, perhaps we can also build a list of those too to share with others.

What I was thinking was that if I could get at least five of you to email me a few of the things you have discovered, I could post those as a beginning of what we know now that we didn't know when we began this process.

Then, hopefully, that will encourage others to add their insights, experiences, observations in the ‘Comments Section’ with the hope that by sharing some of what we have learned, we and others may benefit.

I am not looking for long, personal, emotionally charged thoughts. What I have in mind is shorter, focused realizations and observations that you may have gained in your role as a parent to a parent.

For myself, here are four examples of the kind of discoveries I have made and thought I'd be willing to share:

***No one day, or even one hour, can be taken as the actuality of where the elderly are in their aging process. Generally, I have found that I have over reacted either to a good day or to a bad day, only to find that the next day can turn out to be the opposite of what I had expected, hoped, or feared. A roller coaster would be a more apt description than a continual downward slide of what often happens in aging.

***Doctors, surgeons especially, often do not fully explain how difficult the time after surgery can be for the elderly. While I tended to focus on getting through a surgery, I soon learned that it was the week(s) and then the month or two afterwards that was the real difficulty, not the surgery itself. No matter how successful the surgery turned out to be, the recovery period was always longer than I was told to expect. And more crucial, there was usually a loss of quality of life that was never fully regained.

***Aging, according to my father, is, above all, about loss - loss of faculties, loss of companions, loss of abilities, loss of capabilities to pursue one's interests, loss of independence, and above all loss of a way of life. For my dad, despite his caretaking of my mom, he says he was totally unprepared for how difficult these losses would be.

***Just as it took time to learn how to handle the see saw issue of dependence to independence with our kids, it takes time to learn the reverse – how to negotiate the independence to dependence issue with an aging parent (and it's much more complicated than just getting a parent to stop driving).

In terms of books, there are two that I have found quite useful, The 36-Hour Day and Rules for Old Men Waiting. The first is non-fiction, first published in 1981, and now in its fourth edition. It was written for families who are caring for persons with various forms of dementia. For me, the strength of the book was in the help it offered me in caring for both my mother and father. The second book, a very short novel by Peter Puncey, former Columbia University professor and president of Amherst College, is the story of an 80 year old man whose wife has recently died and who is in failing health himself. It describes how he tries to live his remaining days in dignity and with some form of order.

My father and I read both books and found these very different books useful and important and have read them more than once.

If you are willing to participate in building a list of things we have learned, please email me (Samesty84@aol.com) with as few as one or two insights you have discovered or as many insights as you wish. Also, please include the title of any book(s), articles or other resources that have been important to you.

Let me know if you want me to use your name, your initials, or if you want what you submit be treated anonymously.

I have no plans to do anything other than post these insights on the website so that we might exchange what we are learning with each other and with others who may in the future face similar situations.

Once I have a handful of submissions, I will post them all at once and hope that others will be encouraged to add to them.

Thanx.

CAN YOU TELL THEM APART?

Fri, 19 Nov 2010 11:21:30 -0500

Abigail Sarah Orgad at 6 days old.

Eli David Orgad at 6 days old.

FATHER GLEN DID IT - “MOMENTS OF GRACE”

Fri, 19 Nov 2010 09:01:59 -0500

Some of you may know Glen Willis from his years of work at The Frost School. Some of you may know him from his membership in the Salvatorian Brotherhood. Some of you may know him from his pastoral work at St. John the Baptist parish in Silver Spring, MD. Some of you may know him as the St. Charles camp director. And some of you may have had the good fortune to hear him play his guitar and sing one of his original compositions, usually at a time of joy or sorrow.

Now, all of you can hear his wonderfully soothing voice and joyful music as often as you desire.

When Glen (known as ‘Father Glen’ to most folks) ‘retired’ from his work at Frost, one of his goals was to produce a CD of the music he had created and sung for the past 40 years.

As usual, when Glen sets out to do something, he succeeds. And now folks can enjoy his music with the issuance of his CD Moments of Grace. Most of the songs are original works, created at various critical times in Glen’s life.

There is a religious theme to Moments of Grace, but the beauty of the songs is in their recognition of important as well as everyday events in our lives. The songs, combined with Glen’s wonderfully soothing voice and guitar, truly celebrate life (and death) and give evidence to Glen’s warmth, humanity, and love.

To quote from Ruth Slade’s notes which accompany the CD:

“When Father Glen Willis, SDS was born in Philadelphia in 1941, he arrived with some extraordinary providential gifts. A beautifully warm singing voice and am amiable disposition were among them. From his earliest days, music and stories were second nature to him. As a priest, he has discovered that his musical compositions and performance greatly enhance the effectiveness of his sermons and teaching.

“For over 40 years, Fr. Glen and his guitar spent considerable time at Camp St. Charles in Southern Maryland, where kids and staff delight to his stories and original songs. During his tenure, the Camp St. Charles Endowment Fund for needy famiies was established. (All) the proceeds of this CD will benefit this fund.

“As a weekend associate at St. John the Baptist parish in Silver Spring, MD, he offers Sunday Mass and works with youths and adults. Fr. Glen Willis, his guitar and his original music are cherished and sought after there, and throughout the Baltimore-Washington corridor.

“His music brings joy to celebrations, solace in times of sorrow, encouragement in times of doubt and stress, and insight and depth to the love people have for one another.”

Congrats to Glen for his success in completing the CD.

If you are interested in ordering the CD, you can do so by contacting franrenehan@verizon.net.