Chinese New Years in Flushing, Queens

In between dishes we had never had before, me and the Other Jew called for pork and for the first time in years someone else was told to use their "inside voice".

Styles of the Times

Joan Rivers used to call it "doing the long shave."

Wasn't it like brushing your teeth before going to the dentist? But running late I realized I had forgotten to do so.

So, gritting my teeth through my own errant hairs and the miserableness of a medical instrument that could never be warmed up enough, I asked.

Have you notice a change in pubic hair styles?

And Dr. G., tough and straight forward and no nonsense who spoke faster than any one I know, including my sister, rolled her eyes and said, "Since when did hair become unnatural? I got patients apologizing for not getting waxed before their appointment. I don't understand. You're supposed to have hair there."

Sunday Memories - Florence's Moon (Florence As A Memory)

Keeping my head above water meant attending a much-hated yoga class.  At the beginning of every class, Teacher always played something woo-woo to lull us into thinking we would be enjoying ourselves for the next hour.  Mostly it was a lot of acoustic guitars and young women’s lilting voices singing love problems that happen when you are 24.

But today, instead of young angst, a solo piano rendition of Clair de Lune by Debussy slammed me against the wall.

I was suddenly back in a minefield packed with the millions of years I spent as a child wandering around the house listening to Florence break the heart of her piano.  Until I fled at 15 to another home, I listened to her play this piece repeatedly.

I hated this piece more than I hated yoga.  It was the essence of reminiscing about the time you had hope that love might work out.  Those kinds of memories are like drowning in the worst of sorrow and disappointment at your life.

Teacher began the usual bla bla bla-guidance about spiritual this and intention that.  But, in this class of 40 or 50 people where I was the only student over the age of 24, all I could see, hear and feel was Florence the young girl and Florence the young mother and Florence the old woman playing all this hope for love she never got to have.

For Us It Wasn't a Wardrobe That Led To A New World

It was stairs in a better building.

My Trip to California in Seven Pictures

home. home sweet home.

Sunday Memories - When Did That Happen!?

It's not like I'd ever return to the hairstyles of my thirties. It just doesn't feel like that was twenty years ago.

With thanks to the dear friends and family who joined me in my disbelief of how time flies.

Happy New President! Shona Tova!

Josslyn wept and cheered...


...and I stood and sang the Star Spangle Banner for the first time in 35 years.

"Breathe. Look at your feet. That is where you are." - Vee at The Celebration of Martin Luther King Jr at Jossie's Home

Dusk fell and pie was eaten. Hearts, song, music and words wove into four-part revolutionary harmony and we celebrate the birthday of a man who gave his 39 years of life to ensure our country became what it claimed it was.



"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." -- MLK

RAIN DELAY: A SPECIAL MLK AND HAPPY NEW PRESIDENT DAY BLOG WILL BE POSTED LATER THIS WEEK

Sunday Memories - Knock Wood! Hello? Come In?

He remembers not what he said five, ten, fifteen minutes ago. He remembers not what he has to do today or that he just checked his calendar which informs him of every minute task ahead. He remembers not that he has told me several times an hour the same joke, anecdote of someone once famous, or about how his neighbor and he are just friends. He remembers not that he has told me about the cookies and potato chips, the cans of vegetables the packets of coffee and tea. He remembers not the hours of my sister worked to put together a packet of comparison prices and services at two different cemeteries, the many conversations she had with him, the notes sent to him, the changing of his mind from one place to the other even though it was more expensive it was worth it because it was the same place his mom and sister were and he wanted to be near them. He remembers none of this.

So when I remembered for him that the man was coming today to make final his final place of residency and that he would have to write a big check he remembered none of it and stated he might refuse to have anything to do with it.

But when he finally signed the deed of his next home, he remembered the first home - the one he began in, the nice place in Brooklyn before abject poverty and his father's rage crushed the life out of his heart, the kindness out of his brother and the hope out of his sisters. Before that all happened, his family was rich enough to own a phone.

"Dad, what was your phone number in Brooklyn?"

And without missing a beat, he replied, "HAdenway-6781."

And now for the joke:

Three old bubbymeisters are sitting around.

Ethel bursts into tears. "Oy, oy, oy! The other night I got out of bed, put on my hat, my coat, my purse, I went into the kitchen and opened the icebox and I don't know what I was doing. Bessie, this ever happen to you?"

Bessie bursts into tears. "Oy, oy, oy! Me too! The other night I got out of bed, put on my hat, my coat, my purse, I went into the living room, stood on the piano chair, I don't know what I was doing. Gussie, this ever happen to you?"

Gussie drew herself up in her chair and said, "I'm 92 years old. I got my health, my wealth, and thank G-d, I got my mind. Knock wood. (knocks wood). Hello? Come in?"

It takes an athlete to dance, but an artist to be a dancer. ~Shanna LaFleur

*Stuyvesant vs. Bread&Roses: Tough game. Tight score. Great dance.

Will You Still Need Me Will You Still Feed Me When I'm Sixty-Four?

As single and childless women, we all laughed nervously over pizza and wondered who would take care of us when we could no longer storm out of the house and into our lives on our own steam. Then we stared at this picture hoping that even if we shrank to too-short-for-the-bank-teller's-window, we'd be strong enough to rise as high as she did.

Sunday Memories - How Old Were You Your First Time?

I was eight. Or maybe nine.

I had to go uptown to some violin lesson or to Schirmers or perhaps to someone's house to play quartets or study theory or meet Louise at her violin lesson or something to do with something that I probably didn't enjoy.

On a piece of scrap paper, Florence detailed exactly what I was to do and how I was to do it. Then she gave me a token.

*Walk to the East Broadway Street entrance.

*Take the uptown F train.

*Be in the back of the train.

*Get off at...

*Walk to the entrance that says...

A couple of trips later, I didn't even need the scrap of paper.

During the Cocktail Hour In Her New York She Recited The Poem In Both English And German

The Book of Hours
by Rainer Maria Rilke

After me, After I die
Thou has no house where in
words, near and warm, greet thee
From thy tired feet falls
the velvet sandal that I am

An Unexpected Day

Finally 30 years later I could drift, however temporary it might be, without terror of unemployment, without a frantic search for something or someone to grab onto, without fear of shattering in eviction and homelessness.

Instead, sitting in the front window of a "European" fast food place I pondered the truism "the secret is in the sauce" because the only thing making it possible to chew and swallow the veggie hot dog was the relish, ketchup and mustard.There was such a rare relief of being unanchored in the world.

Then she sat down.

And watched.







And when she got up I wondered if she too felt a relief or, like me 30 years ago, yearned for an anchor.

Sunday Memories - Memories in the Making... or I don't think this ever happens in Switzerland

Lester grew up in Queens. He was in New York resting from having to live in Switzerland.

We were coming from dinner to go drink at Hazel and Greg's when this car started following us and honking. We thought it was honking at the kebab pushcart. It wasn't. It was Lester's brother, Anthony. He had been driving up 6th Avenue when he saw us.



We kidnapped Anthony and made a bank account of memories for Lester to survive the exile in a much neater and quieter neighborhood where nothing much is said and if it is, it's done on time.

"But don't you want to see my elephant trunk?"

"You know what they say in England."

"When I met them they were lesbians."

"On the lips. His wife was going to kick my ass in."

"Chris Rock is skinny."

"But I didn't go to Boarding School."

"They're divorcing."

"I'll have some fries with that."

"You told him she was the ho?"

"Oh look who's talking."

"You never know someone until you live with them."

"What's my name?"

"They ask if we kiss. Maybe it's a twin thing."

"You want to be my bitch?"

"It's not that easy."

"Fuck the trump card. Take it like a man."

"If she has a brothel that's fine."

"Don't make it messy."

"You look like Eartha Kitt when you do that."

"You look like a microphone."

A New Year A New Year

First a prayer at the Buddhist Center... That's Mrs. Y.'s beads flying. She's 90 and if ever you wanted clarity she's the go-to lady. Everyone stops by her this evening and wishes her a happy new year with the love and adoration reserved only for one considered a Moses in our respective deserts.


Then a rare chicken is prepared to be eaten by the vegetarian. A back-up dish of fake bbq ribs is made just in case the vegetarian can't do it. In the meantime, while food cooks, much wine is prepared...


Long limbs and party shoes, bad carving and juicy bites, texting William, calling Stephen, talking, laughing all become contrapuntal bells ringing until the last bite of ice cream is gone and the tiny left over cake is eaten...


It is now 4:30am. The last drop of many bottles finished, talk of love and loss fills quietly the first new day of a better year. A song slips into thoughts.

Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the word

A New Year A New Year. A Happy New Year.

I'm lonely. My mom's dead. So nu?

Sunday Memories - Lonely Town*

It was early 1970s. I was less than 14 years old. I'm not sure what precipitated the first time Florence kicked me out or perhaps I ran away, but I ended up in an upper west side pre-war 15 room apartment that was being painted. The head of the youth orchestra had arranged it because he couldn't afford to lose yet another violinist who could sight-read as well as I did. The house was empty except for a bed I slept in, a tv I watched and some pieces of furniture draped with white cloth. I drank chocolate milk and walked from 112th street back down to Grand Street when I ran out of money. I don't remember what ended that exile except that at some point I was allowed back home and the people whose apartment it was returned to nicer walls.



Later that same music teacher arranged for me to stay in his apartment while he was away for the summer. I was less than 18. This time there was no returning home. Florence was serious and so was I. I remember walking the streets in the hot summer nights on the upper west side wondering how a city this big could be so lonely. I ate all the music teacher's ice cream. Repeatedly. Since I kept replacing it. Hoping they're return before I ate again. There was no going home. After many couches I moved into the place I would live in for the next three decades.



Later, in my own apartment, I learned that Loneliness was an inside job. Just like Happiness. I understood that the city was whatever I was - lonely, full, loving, sad, grateful. But, even now so many years later, there are times, no matter what I believe otherwise, where the city clangs and clacks against the sharp emptiness of loss.



A town's a lonely town
*When you pass through
And there is no one waiting there for you,
You wander up and down,
The crowds rush by,
A million faces pass before your eye,
Still it's a lonely town.
Then it's a lonely town.Unless there's love,
A love that's shining like a harbor light,
You're lost in the night;
Unless there's love,
The world's an empty place
And every town's a lonely town.

--Comden and Green



(dedicated to you who I deliberately did not see tonight, but who I miss no matter how hard I try not to...)