My Love Affair With Life

My Love Affair With Life Marjorie Gilbert

Published April, 2021.

Dedication This book is dedicated to my three children, their spouses, and all five of my grandchildren, who made it all so full of joy!

I hope you enjoy this Memoir, which is a Mom and Grandma’s story, and which hopefully will open up some of the past to you, your children, and theirs.

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE TABLE OF CONTENTS My Early Lurier Life ........................................................................................

1

The War Years And Adolescence .................................................................... 23 Patty And Me ................................................................................................... 29 High School ..................................................................................................... 33 Now To College ............................................................................................... 37 New York ......................................................................................................... 45 Travels With My Father, 1959 ......................................................................... 47 Boston ‒ Marriage And Children..................................................................... 57 Between Marriages .......................................................................................... 67 280 Highland Road, Rye .................................................................................. 71 To The Present ................................................................................................. 89 To Those Who Deserve The Most Thanks: My Family ................................. 103 Wendy .................................................................................................. 105 Billy...................................................................................................... 111 Douglas ................................................................................................ 117 Marc ..................................................................................................... 123 Natalie .................................................................................................. 127 Madeleine............................................................................................. 129 Melanie ................................................................................................ 135 Jason..................................................................................................... 143 Richard ................................................................................................. 149 Michael ................................................................................................ 157 Herb Reich ....................................................................................................... 165 A Personal Note ............................................................................................... 173 Appendix .......................................................................................................... 175

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE FOREWORD The impetus for this memoir came from a class which I took on the subject of memories. This allowed me to rediscover early relatives, experiences, work, family life ‒ so that the project grew, developing a life of its own. As I reassembled chronological histories, my ability to recall amazed me ‒ but more than anything, I was surprised by the fullness of my own life.

Sharing these experiences with loved ones was the primary motivation for writing this personal history. It is my desire, as well, that this work offer some historical perspective. But there is something else: although I am in the final phase of my life, I don’t dwell on whatever will befall me; as the memories flood back, I dwell, instead, on my good fortune in continuing to lead an exciting, adventurous, and satisfying life ‒ and of loving and being loved.

I would like to thank those people whose input and assistance have been invaluable to me in writing this book. Herb Reich, with his extensive experience in publishing, read and refined every rough draft. My cousin Paul Neustadt spent endless hours patiently helping me select photos, organize the book and determine the format. He was an essential partner in compiling and completing this Memoir.

A huge hug to both of you!

My Early Lurier Life

My mother’s mother, Sarah Lurier

My mother’s parents

My father’s mother, Bessie Shore

MY EARLY LURIER LIFE

B

iologically unlikely but actually true, I had four mothers, four siblings, and multiple extended, loving, talkative, bossy, Jewish, advice-giving relatives. Blame may be assigned to my grandparents on both sides who kept having children, children, and more children. They, in turn, biblically begat progenies and so it passed that four sisters had a few brothers as well as four husbands – and those four sisters consisted of my mother and my three aunts, who were parents of their children, my dear cousins.

It was 1935 when it all began for me. The family name was Lurier.

Here’s how it played out. My immediate family benefitted greatly from my father’s work ethic, meaning that none of my uncles did as well financially as my father. He was in the supermarket business during the war, and we, I am now ashamed to say, ate steak while many had diets far leaner. However, my mother never suffered from greed, and I don’t think a month went by during the war that she and I neglected to travel by car to carry treats to my

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE aunts living in nearby states. Our car’s back seats were loaded with bags of groceries, clothes, shoes, pocketbooks, playing cards, children’s toys, sheets and blankets. She was a good soul and never berated my whining “Are we almost there? How many more minutes?”

Along with that memory came another of which I am less proud. Our travels to see my aunts included numerous trips by ‒ in addition to cars, trains. This was during the war, so civilian travel was challenged by large numbers of sailors and soldiers rushing for the trains as we did. My mother, anxious to get seats for us, had devised a training program for me, then age 6 or 7: At the exact moment when the doors opened, she yelled “NOW, run like the wind, scramble between all adult legs and grab the first seats you can.” Ergo, I remember nothing but mad dashes as I, crouched like a turtle, made a beeline for all I was worth. WE never missed our seats, and I was too busy being obedient to feel any guilt.

As for my parents, Al and Ethel Shore. My father, Poppy (affectionately so named by my children) was essentially the silent partner who worked nonstop, leaving child rearing and all household chores to my mother. An interesting conversationalist, he was philosophical and engaging when discussing politics or history. An adoring parent, he was rather quiet, self-absorbed, and told the same stories repeatedly.

He amused his grandchildren with outrageous stories about his eccentric friends and their escapades. He was nuts for steak and martinis. It is highly embarrassing that as I was taking a bite out of a hot dog in a kosher restaurant in Miami Beach, he vociferously warned me about the dangers of free sex and “disgusting and dangerous behavior.”

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My Early Lurier Life Additionally, he interviewed every date I ever had with embarrassing questions about his family business and income. My mother used to say “lock him in the closet” with the arrival of any new beau.

Lest I am too unfair to my father, I will always be grateful to him for his unwavering love and support. We were blessed to have a father who gave us the lives we had, dependent in no small measure on the incredible work ethic he maintained – and set as an example. More successful than anyone else in the family, he was always generous with our relatives when they faced financial challenges. He had a riotous sense of humor but didn’t think it was too funny when I dropped two Ethel & Al very costly bottles of vintage wine immediately following a stern warning from him: “Margie, don’t you DARE drop those bottles” – we were on Park Avenue in New York City when the splattering crash of one bottle, then another, caused attending family members to nearly faint from astonishment. Another legacy-making event occurred when my parents bumped into a very large cabinet of extremely costly glassware, shattering the entire collection across the floor of an expensive department store. Would you have run like the wind out of there like frightened deer? They did! Thank you, Madeleine for reminding me of these memories.

Shore Family Seder

April 17, 1935 Dad’s father (Zayde)

My parents

Dad’s Mother (Bubbe)

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

He always took me dancing on my birthday

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My Early Lurier Life

AND NOW FOR MY MOTHER

Mom’s High School Yearbook

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE My friends were truly intimidated by my mother. She bossed all of us with strict standards and rules. Yet, never was there a more ardent supporter than my Mom, who showered me with empathy and attention when I really needed comfort. Moreover, she arranged the best education possible for her children, encouraged them to see the world, taught us the urgent need for responsibility, telling the truth, owning up to bad accidents or non-accidents, like breaking a table or telling a lie. An aside: Sitting at a funeral, I complimented my mother on her small diamond studs. Immediately she removed them from her ears and put them in mine. I wear them even today.

She made the best lemon meringue and apple pies, and decorated our house with impeccable taste and design. She was a great housekeeper, and I remember being totally bewildered, watching her hanging out of the upstairs windows shaking blankets and assorted items of clothing. That was Spring Cleaning, something I have assiduously avoided since my coming of age.

My brother, Barrie, was four years my senior. He attended Boston University and ultimately joined my father in managing shopping centers in Massachusetts.

He worked diligently at the business, and watched every penny. In middle age he married Rula, and they had a son named Billy. At the party the night before his wedding, where the entire family assembled, Barrie manifested his joy by looking at his loving relatives and proclaiming to Dessa and me, “Oy A Klug!”, which translates into

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My Early Lurier Life “Oy the worst!” This expression lingered as his legacy and became one of our favorite phrases. Barrie and family moved into a charming home in Rhode Island from which he drove to his Providence office, and economized by raking the autumn leaves diligently and cleaning his swimming pool weekly. Moreover, he was king of his kitchen where he and Rula disagreed frequently about many issues, including food preparation. He died late in life after intermittent bouts with cancer.

Back to the mention of my four mothers, more accurately, my wonderful aunts. My favorite was Auntie Ida with whom I was deposited for weeks on end when I was probably no more than three years old. Anytime my parents travelled or illness prevailed, I was sent to live with my aunt in Worcester, Massachusetts. This happened so often that Auntie Ida became my second mother ‒ case in point, she would sit with me for hours and tell stories, color doilies, cut paper dolls, bake cookies and give me all the attention on the planet.

The Lurier Sisters Ida, Anne, Mom, Belle

Aunt Ida had two teenage children, Ned and Dessa … in every sense my siblings. Older than I, they adored, babied, pampered and tutored me. Ned took me sledding and skating, and even to school with him when I was bored.

Barrie, Ida, Me When he went into the army, I wrote him incessantly, adorning the envelopes with red pencil drawings of hearts or sayings or SWAK (sealed with a kiss) or smiley faces and silly quotes. Overrun with scribble, those envelopes were so unreadable that they were sent to Air Force Headquarters where they apparently loved little kids; so they researched the whereabouts of Ned, and redirected the unreadable letters to the right person. They invariably reached my adored cousin in Europe.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

My Letters to Ned

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My Early Lurier Life

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

Ned

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My Early Lurier Life

Upon returning from the war, Ned met the love of his life, Lenore, and they had three loving children, Mark, Sara and Barbara.

Ned’s sister, Dessa, had truly grown up with me, living at times with my immediate family, or I with hers. She dressed me, hugged me, dragged me around with her and called me a brat. At age five, I called her “sophisticated and cheap,” sending adults into hysterics ‒ continuing through the years. I was the youngest and everyone’s “baby.” For years and even until recently, when Ned died, I was called The Baby.

Another aunt was Aunt Belle who lived in New Haven with her husband and daughter, my same-age cousin Betsy. Boy, did we have fun. As with Aunt Ida, I lived off and on with Aunt Belle and adored Betsy. We were probably around seven or eight, and I hate to admit that we intentionally got into a lot of trouble. During the war, we used to travel by streetcar, and would eyeball an innocent victim and label him a German agent.

When he got off the streetcar, we followed him to his destination.

We never caught a spy simply because we were completely nuts. Another foolish prank: we loved buying candy bars and spent many an hour eating several at a time, which for some reason terminated in our giggling so much that we wet our pants. One time, the situation became Page 11

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE unbearable, so we took off our soaked underpants and dropped them into a waste basket at a gas station, then recalling we had our summer camp name tags in them. Ergo, pitifully reminiscent of the maxim: Caught with your pants down.

My third aunt was Auntie Anne who lived in New Haven with her husband, Max, and daughter, Leila. Although I never “lived” with Auntie Anne, I stayed with her whenever I dated Yale boys while in college. She was wonderfully hospitable and cried on my behalf when my date for the Yale Junior Prom got so inebriated at the before-the-prom party that he never picked me up for the prom. Stood up though I was, her tears dwarfed mine – and have earned their place as my favorite memory of Auntie Anne. As for Uncle Max, I must admit that Betsy and I, age 4-ish or very youngish, tortured him on numerous occasions when walking together on the beach, we reached high up for his bathing trunks and tugged on them relentlessly until they almost entirely dropped.

Resurrecting those early days, I cannot help but mention Dessa (Remember? Auntie Ida’s daughter) – because two of her children, Susan and Paul, are my best friends, travelling companions, cheerleaders, encompassing every molecule of loyalty and love. I do have three natural children, but, in addition, Dessa’s children occupy a critical part of my close relationships. I travel with them, cook with them, drink with them, email with them, confide in them, and share details of love lives, health issues, family, friendships, occupations, ad infinitem.

Am I uniquely fortunate to have this extended family? You bet. Stay tuned as we move forward in time on the following pages.

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My Early Lurier Life

Flower Girl at Leila’s Wedding

Susan & Me

Dessa, Betsy & Me

Me, Dessa & Betsy Page 13

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

Barrie and Me

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My Early Lurier Life

Ethel, My Mother

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

Mom & Barrie

Dad & Barrie

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My Early Lurier Life

My Parents

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

Barrie & Me

Mother & Me

Mother & Me

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My Early Lurier Life 1

My Shore Family

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

My Parents

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My Early Lurier Life

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

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The War Years And Adolescence

THE WAR YEARS AND ADOLESCENCE

I

was four years old when World War II broke out and 10 years old when it ended. Despite my young age, this event is possibly the greatest driver of my memory. The dominance of the war permeated the fabric of our fears, our food, our possessions, our everything.

Here are some recollections of a little girl from Providence, Rhode Island. Each week, following the siren announcing air raid drills, we went to the basement, drew the shades to blacken the room, and waited for my Uncle Jack, the warden and neighbor, to declare we were safe and could end the drill. (He was beloved by my dad, and also responsible for my middle name, Alice.)

Back then, magazines were to us what television is today. “Look,” “The Saturday Evening Post,” and “Life” were our CNN. They displayed large, terrifying red and black photos of Adolph Hitler and the goose steppers. I read every word weekly for many years. When walking to Hope Street, twenty minutes from our house, (which I did often alone – no fear of kidnapping then), I was looking for Nazis behind every tree. Shopping in stores on Hope Street gave me some relief from boredom, but candy bars were scarce, and chewing gum was wrapped in plain paper because aluminum foil was used for weaponry.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE At summer camp in Maine, candy lines each Friday night were treasured ‒ as were letters received from our relatives in the American forces overseas.

Dubble Bubble gum was unavailable, and although I somehow had obtained a large supply and brought it to camp, it mysteriously disappeared from my bunk on the first day. A great treat was Friday nights when we received candy bars generally reserved for soldiers overseas.

On visiting day, my Mom arrived without my promised bride doll as the nylon gown had been confiscated to make parachutes. Absence of nylon also disfigured my mother’s stockings, then made of a thick beige cotton.

As victory over the enemy approached, a sense of euphoria permeated as kids jumped around and hugged each other.

At home, the war threaded through everyday lives. We had to eat everything on our “victory plates” as there were “starving children in Europe.” My parents smuggled from Germany a noted stamp collection as well as Jews (Heinz and his wife) who had dinner once with us but strangely never got in touch again. My father detested any type of manual work but reluctantly planted a “victory garden” and complained repeatedly about “that goddamn dog,” our German Shepherd, who ate every tulip and vegetable.

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The War Years And Adolescence My Uncle Sidney and Cousin Ned were stationed in Europe and happily met up once in Italy. Ned, a bombardier, was shot down over enemy lines, rescued by Swiss resistance and ultimately survived. But the “missing in action” letter had arrived the night of my cousin Lucille’s wedding.

Somehow my mother was the person who received it, yet hid it from Ned’s mother, Aunt Ida, until after the wedding. It was also the evening that my mother explained to Lucille (I was in earshot) what she could expect on her wedding night.

In those days, every family was threatened by the draft. My father would have been inducted were he not “4F”, i.e., too fat for combat. My brother was stationed in North Dakota and said it was so cold that his car handle froze off. My cousin Lucille was a WAC or a WAVE, doing her part in the war effort. I slept with a pillow over my head out of incessant fear of Hitler and his Panzer unit. Betsy and I continued to hunt down “spies,” but were comforted by my mother’s vociferous singing: “Over there, Over there, the Marines are coming!” My future husband’s medical school training was condensed down to three years in order to graduate more doctors to support the war effort.

In addition to the war, daily life bore as little resemblance to today as an elephant to an ant. Fewer foods, fewer means of entertainment, fewer choices, fewer everything was the rule. Milk was delivered in glass bottles in small horse drawn carts. I was terrified of the horses but loved the ice cream trucks and cars musically announcing knife sharpeners. Gas shortage necessitated rationing, but Sundays meant “joy rides,” frequently in the openair rumble seat of Uncle Sidney’s car. Opening up like luggage compartments, these seats were the poor man’s equivalent of modern-day convertibles.

Back then we had no air conditioning, men wore hats, women wore skirts and gloves to board planes. We had rotary dial phones, radios were in large wooden furniture pieces, and cookies were homemade. Apparently, women did not wear pants until World War II, and WACs and WAVES joined “BAMs” (broad assed marines). Sailors were omnipresent while on leave, sporting white, starched, ironed uniforms with looped “ties” and rectangular hats. For recreation, we played hopscotch, threw baseballs on the

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE street, played jacks and pick-up sticks, and never devoured pizza or ate at McDonalds simply because they weren’t in existence.

Without doubt, dancing school on Friday nights was the highlight of our social life. Following instruction on steps and rhythm, the boys (who wore white gloves) routinely raced to their chosen little ladies. I was always partnered with Paul, inches shorter than I, and a torture to his mother for sneaking out his bedroom window in order to leap across the roofs of neighboring houses. I later joined him in this exercise as did numerous friends whom to this day, I remember distinctly. I also recall my girlfriend’s mother who, in our later teens, recommended that we write on individual pieces of scrap paper the names of five boys we palled around with, throw the pieces of paper into a hat, and marry the one that we first drew from the hat – with the sure statement that “they’re all the same, you won’t even know the difference.”

How can I continue without mentioning my suspense before the nightly arrival of the funnies! The minute they were delivered, I jumped onto the living room floor, flat on my tummy with bent elbows and thrilled to the adventures of Dixie Duggan, Etta Kett, Li’l Abner and Superman. Yet, nothing topped the beloved radio series: Captain Midnight, The Shadow, Just Plain Bill, Helen Trent Soap Opera, Mr. District Attorney, and Digger Odell, Your Friendly Undertaker played by William Bendix. Movies were also absolutely imperative, replacing today’s TV, computers and iPhones. The preferred ones were Westerns – they were cheap to make in that sets and studios were not needed. We sat for at least three hours watching double headers every Saturday afternoon, and bussed to and from this marathon. It was heaven. ’Twas entertainment.

So what about our music? The big bands were OURS, and we were thrilled by Glenn Miller, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Guy Lombardo (there was no New Year’s Eve without him!).

We did the Charleston, Jitterbug, and Lindy Hop – also danced real slow and dreamy, cheek to cheek with our dates at the same “nightclub” every weekend night, followed by hamburgers at the diner. We dated in packs, necked in cars, smoked surreptitiously, and we girls wore wide skirts with cotton blouses and ribbons. We were decked out in bangs, loud lipstick,

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The War Years And Adolescence bobby socks, saddle shoes, and knew nothing about tattoos, nose rings or colored hair. Our boys were not zoot suiters, but the black boys wore oversized jackets and wide lapels ‒ as well as pants big enough to hold a bushel of potatoes.

I must add that without our bikes and commercial buses, we went nowhere. For transportation to school, each morning I walked to the bus stop which was directly in front of the undertaker’s house, and Bobby Miranda, the undertaker’s son, and I were driven to school in a hearse. On those mornings when I was late, the hearse drove to my house and my parents howled as I was carted away like a corpse to my first class in European history.

In summary, our lives were predictable, lacking in confusing options, and were just plain simple. We weren’t bombarded by social media, conflicting social and political facts/opinions, and today’s complexities. We weren’t angels but were essentially stopped in our adolescent tracks by custom and expectation.

My next installment of this memoir addresses my unforgettable trip to Los Angeles to visit my 13-year-old girlfriend – and her parents’ unquestionable regret over my presence.

Dad, Me & Barrie Page 27

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

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Patty and Me

PATTY AND ME

B

oys, boys and boys ‒ what more is there to say? A typical teenager, the sole purpose of my existence at age 13 was the acquisition of a cute guy. I would also include friends, phone calls, tennis, flattering clothes, obsession with weight, avoiding parents, breaking rules, giggling, gossiping, chocolate milkshakes, amusement parks, movie magazines, trading cards, and the conviction we would live forever.

The most telling aspect of this era of temporary insanity was when my very best, best, BEST friend Patty moved from Providence, Rhode Island, where we lived, to Los Angeles. During the pre-teen years prior, we had submerged ourselves into a world of dress-up in Patty’s mother’s discarded costumes: mermaid, princess, and fairy queen ball gowns decorated with blue-green ruffles and sequins and plunging necklines and sundry, gaudy floor length monstrosities. After splattering on her mother’s makeup and gold hairclips, we danced and pirouetted and marched around her driveway for hours in the remote possibility that her next-door hunky, tall and movie star good-looking neighbor would grace us with even a half second glance. Never happened but we persevered in our voyeur induced fantasies.

Years later, when we finally turned age thirteen, her parents decided precipitously to move the family to California. Immediately after the move, an invite arrived for me to fly out to LA and spend the summer with them to

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE “help Patty adjust.” Sent by her mother, that was the biggest mistake of her life!

I hopped on a plane, hell bound for the Hollywood scene. Trouble was not long in coming. For starters, her father had spent a bundle on building a pool, which he felt he could justify if Patty and I swam daily. Added to that was the expressed wish that we play a lot of tennis as well as befriend Patty’s nerdy, hanging-on-like-velcro brother, Alan.

Swimming and tennis and Alan were not on our radar. But becoming famous Hollywood movie stars became our mission, hands down. At every opportunity, for appearance’s sake to satisfy her mother, we donned swim suits and then tennis gear, which we ceremoniously abandoned at a friend’s house down the street, changed into our “glamorous, gorgeous” outfits (reverting back to our costume days) and took taxis to Hollywood and Vine where we stood on the corner waiting to be “discovered” as up and coming stars. We toured MGM studios, compulsively read movie magazines, went to films almost daily, and constantly searched around for a glimpse of celebrities.

We did manage to see a few stars, but only at expensive restaurants.

Spencer Tracy betrayed acute disgust when we all but attacked him, and Robert Ryan seemed indifferent to our vulgarity ‒ as I yelled “Look, it’s Robert Ryan!!!!” to which Patty replied well within earshot, “WHO???

FORGET IT, HE’S NOBODY!” The only guests who didn’t cringe were ourselves.

That summer descended into a series of incidents which made Patty’s parents regret the day I was born. Example: joining somebody called Pip on his expensive yacht, we went deep sea fishing during which I vomited numerous times, and Patty followed suit. Pip reassured us with “No worry, just aim OVERboard PLEASE!” but I remember a fair amount of very near messy misses.

AND not one fish was caught.

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Patty and Me BUT we did get boyfriends, and that was revolutionary. We compared the number of kisses each of us received, and I won first prize for 18. We figured it was we whom they desired, but actually, I realized even then it was the pool. It was a blessing these guys seemed to ignore our numerous pimples and extra weight, but that very subject brings to mind THE INCIDENT: We absolutely adored chocolate. Boxes of candy were gobbled up like there was no tomorrow as our fat little faces were increasingly attacked by high numbers of blotchy red, pimply adolescent lumps. The only solution in order to compromise between sacrifice and hedonism – was to not exactly EAT the candy, but to chew it thoroughly, savor the taste, never swallow, then ceremoniously spit it out. We figured to get all the joy without the calories.

After devouring two entire boxes of Sees Chocolate as well as fudge cake and brownies, and ignominiously ignoring the wasted cost, we simply spit everything out into UNTIED plastic or paper bags. AND to hide the evidence, we automatically tossed the entire mess over the divider between Patty’s house and her neighbor’s.

There’s not a lot of land between homes in L.A., so it was an easy throw. Had we been anyone BUT us, we might have been surprised when the neighbor backed out of his garage, as his wheels got stuck in black, gooey guck lining his driveway. Of course, we weren’t aware of anything until a crunchy, screeching noise emanated from the immobilized vehicle whose wheels spun like a whirling dervish. We couldn’t have cared less, but the ensuing phone call changed our indifference.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH THOSE MISERABLE BRATS?” AND ON AND ON… followed by a directive to get over there this second and apologize. Which we did, feeling anything BUT contrite…

While in their living room speaking to his wife, Louise, whose left foot kept circling around and around the floor like a celestial orb – threatening to hypnotize both of us. Of course, this sent us into uncontrollable hysterics, thereby negating any semblance of apology we might have attempted. The fact that I sat on and broke through their glass coffee table does sound too unbelievable to fathom, so let’s forget about that little gaffe.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Unfortunately, there ensued other “happenings” – like my inadvertently insulting Patty’s housekeeper whose name was Versa and whom I accidentally kept called Vice (as in vice versa). That went on for a while, till she and her husband quit, and naturally, I got the blame.

Guess who flew home shortly thereafter. Only one problem: I had bleached my dark hair a bright orange, streaked with black and yellow, like a tropical macaw. As I disembarked, and my mother saw the “new me” – overweight, pimply with a mod hairstyle, she freaked and literally rushed me to the beauty parlor to “have me fixed.” At the time, I was enrolled in a stuffy, conservative, New England Quaker school. We wore starched uniforms from another era, and my mother was concerned they would throw me out, by the look of me. I however wasn’t worried as reality wasn’t exactly a major concern.

I never WAS invited back to visit Patty: shocker. However, I believe I did help her to “adjust.” I think that I helped her feel at home in California, and she loved having her buddy back. And she helped me by sharing the sophistication of Los Angeles and Hollywood with a kid from Providence.

However, many years later when we were both married with children, we visited each other in our respective homes. I thought each visit went splendidly – but Patty never contacted me again and I could not discover her reason. I even sent her this piece of writing but never heard back.

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High School

HIGH SCHOOL

I

t was 1946 when my mother withdrew me from public school, strangely named Henry’s Barnyard, and enrolled me in the fifth grade at Lincoln School. A Quaker all-girls prep school, I was one among four Jewish students, abiding by the school’s quota of four Jews per class.

Predictably, we banded together, yet assimilated as much as possible with other girls, with whom I reconnected at a reunion some fifteen years ago in Providence.

At the Lincoln School Reunion, three impressive facts: the girl who had been our class beauty and brain was barely recognizable, now heavy in frame and a hairstyle from hell. Edie, one of my best buddy Jewish friends, all but ignored me at the Reunion.

Joyce, once a shy, skinny, inhibited girl presented as a bombastic, splashy Hollywood blond. Poor Susan, our other Page 33

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Jewish ally, had died of sepsis resulting from an encounter with an open dishwasher door.

Going back in time, school had rules aplenty. Each morning we had Quaker meetings, no talking, only meditation. My particular meditation centered on which clothes I would wear that weekend. We wore green and white uniforms, and studied hard in preparation for the SATs and performance in college. We were assigned lengthy “papers” for which we used index cards, lined paper and pencils or pens. We had no computers. When I got to college, I had disciplined habits for studying, taking notes, organizing outlines and planning my time.

At high school we had study hall, and if you as much as talked or chewed gum, you received a detention notice. Gym was very popular, and during hot spring days ‒ as I had developed breasts early ‒ I covered up by wearing long sleeved sweaters even though I could have filled a bathtub with perspiration. My friend Susan told me I was nuts – but actually, she got me into a whole lot of trouble so that the Latin teacher warned me not to “be friends with her.” I never listened, and one day Susan and I skipped class, put on heavy boots and wandered over to a swampy area where we fell into a cesspool.

This mischievous Susan and I giggled so uncontrollably during any public recitation that I had to skip school one day in order to avoid a poetry reading which Susan and I were sharing. Parenthetically, Susan “got me” to join a sorority, and pledging was particularly painful when gangs of girls pummeled me with watermelon, paint, rubber balls, and the like. Upon hearing this, Susan’s mother, Ceil, called and read them the riot act.

However, I was chosen as The Beauty Queen at the Atlantic City Sorority Parade, an activity forbidden to me by my mother who declared: “You will develop your brain, not your looks!”

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High School At school, the curriculum included five years of Latin. It was taught by a teacher whom we inexplicably nicknamed The Pigeon. We read the Aeneid and the Iliad in Latin, no easy chore, but it probably facilitated my lifelong ease with language. Edie, referred to above as a best buddy, got thrown out of class for using a “trot.” Unperturbed, we jumped onto the back of a department store truck and “hitched” a few blocks into “Wayland Square” where we frequently lunched in a sedate dining room in the Wayland Manor where my father had a charge account. We always used it and probably never left a tip. (Parenthetically, Edie went on to become a writer of note, a runner up for the National Book Award for her wonderful short stories, “Binocular Vision.”) Previously, she appeared on and won several TV quiz shows in New York, later becoming beleaguered by cancer which spread to the brain, neutralizing the cerebral talents so indispensable to her humor, writing, and personality ‒ a tragedy which many of our high school classmates bemoan to this day.

High school years in Providence were happily replete with dates aplenty with Brown College boys. My friends and I went to many proms for which my mother bought me gorgeous, full length, strapless gowns embroidered with flowers and laces, colored in periwinkle and pink and white. Boys gave me corsages and stuffed animals. We went to fraternity parties, boat races on the Charles River in Cambridge, as well as at home fancy dinners, engineered by my mother, who prepared souffléd sweet potatoes and gourmet chicken dishes served in deep silver bowls, which we ate from authentic bone china plates in our dining room while I would have been just as happy with hot dogs served in the kitchen.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE I don’t mean to be unfair to my mother. She was solidly behind me, a homebody who guaranteed my social and educational status. She never embarrassed me in front of boys – and even told one off royally. He had stood me up for the high school senior prom, called to apologize, yet never was allowed to talk to me. ”Why won’t you put Margie on the phone?” was his question. My mother’s reply was “It’s nothing you would understand, it’s all a question of breeding.” Not my first choice of rejoinders – but at age 15ish my options were limited.

Meanwhile, my father was working and spoiling us with steak dinners – while generously allowing my mother to deck us out in lovely clothes, choose the best summer camps, and treating us to occasional trips to New York City where we went to shows, always followed by corned beef sandwiches and pickles at the Stage Deli. I remember running down Broadway in snowsuit and boots, hearing my mother say “Look up, this is the famous Times Square, see the huge ads and moving newsreels.” We always stayed at the Park Lane, ordered coffee and croissants for breakfast from room service, and loved Rumplemeyer’s, a colorful and scrumptious restaurant for lunch. Dinners were always at the same steak place, my father content with their reasonable prices and martinis. One time, as we boarded a return train to Providence, my mother suddenly remembered that she had left her fur coat in the hotel room. It took less than a second for her to jump off the train, dash to the hotel, reclaim her coat, and board a later train! I’ll never forget it.

To conclude high school years, 1953 saw graduation, relief to be attending a top college, and all the usual preparation for leaving home.

Anticipation trumped fear, particularly since I already knew girls at Smith College and others, like me, attending as freshmen. Further, I had practically pulled college choices out of a hat as opposed to the exhausting research and application process beguiling high schoolers today. Eyes wide shut(!), I went and ‒ typical of the times – questioned little and dove into the first thing crossing my path.

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Now to College

NOW TO COLLEGE

W

hen classes began in the fall, we followed a predictable schedule.

BUT, the summers during college were anything but routine. Two trips to Europe on Teen Tours were replete with adventures, including my dating Steven Ward. He was the London osteopath who pimped for European royalty, and palled around with Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice Davies, infamous call girls/prostitutes. He serviced the infamous Sir John Profumo, Member of Parliament, who lied to the House of Commons about his dealings and was ceremoniously expelled, throwing the English government into crisis. That summer, Steven took me for a weekend to the estate of Lord Astor which the Germans had occupied and luxuriated in during the war. I met Lord Astor in his library as he was bending over to peruse his books while enthusiastically scratching his derriere. Much time was spent at the charming swimming pool, bedecked with sophisticated, glamorously dressed and coiffed ladies wearing broad brimmed hats – while trading stories about horse races at Ascot.

At this gathering, I felt invisible in my Bermuda shorts, cotton shortsleeve blouse, white socks and sneakers. Also NO make-up, short stunted hairdo, and nothing to say. Despite my American naïve teenage personality, Steven took a shining to me, and we discussed the English healthcare system on which I had recently written a comprehensive report. He was homosexual, never threatening, and invited me several days in a row to sundry coffee houses, pubs, art galleries, rose gardens, and interesting neighborhoods. I had Page 37

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE no idea whom I was meeting, and disbelieved Steven’s allegation that he painted the portraits of many royal people – until I read, maybe ten years later, that he did in fact do just that, as well as committed suicide during the trial of John Profumo when no friend would defend Steven. Further biographical information about Steven Ward is available online.

Another summer, my friend Joan, a stranger called Jane, and I roomed together in a dorm called Wigglesworth Hall at Harvard Summer School. I signed up for two classes and attended each one precisely one time. (When my report card arrived with two ABS (for absent), my father said “I love the A and B, but what’s the S for??)

Meanwhile, all three of us roommates met new boyfriends. Our favorite activity was attending prize fights that summer. Unbeknownst to me, my two roommates lost their virginity that summer. I however did not participate as I kept hearing the voice of my puritanical mother whose purpose in life was that her daughter “not do THAT until you are married!”

Our third roommate, however, abandoned her inhibitions, and became further radicalized as I learned later when reading the New York Times Magazine which featured the U.C. Berkeley riots in the 60’s – there was a big photo of Jane toting a large rifle over her shoulder. How she had evolved into a rebel astonished me – but then again, it WAS the 60’s.

The last summer in college was spent in Boston while my friend (to this day) Helaine and I got jobs (mine was in advertising and although I learned absolutely nothing about the industry, my boss propositioned me after declaring “You’ve got it, kid.”) I didn’t learn much then either except he was 30 years my elder and a sleaze.

Helaine and I lived at The College Club on Commonwealth Avenue, a stuffy residence in Boston for single people. We were the only residents under age 60. We ran around the halls in our underwear, and I remember at least once our running stark naked into the bathroom. We were bored, hot, ate prunes and dated guys. Mine was Larry, who wrote romantic poetry for me. That entire summer was a waste of time – BUT we were returning to college not any stupider than when we left for Boston.

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Now to College

During The School Year Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts. Then, as now, all girls, excellent education, sprawling New England campus with gorgeous trees, a picturesque lake around which we biked daily to class, colorful botanical garden, imposing brick buildings, smaller house-type buildings with unusual names, and countless students and bikes and books and cheerful HELLOs. Memories are of freezing weather and mounds of snow, especially early mornings when we pedaled to class, having donned Bermuda shorts, knee socks, Shetland sweaters, camel hair coats and striped college scarves. On particularly frosty days, my mother telephoned before 8:00 a.m. to remind me to replace my everyday camel hair coat with my all-enveloping anklelength sheared raccoon fur coat, resembling the Siberian Cro-Magnon man at the American Museum of Natural History.

We studied wherever. My favorite hangout was a greasy hamburger joint where you couldn’t hear yourself think. For prolonged study, I favored the library reading room, a traditional carpeted, old-fashioned living room in which I sank into an overstuffed armchair and “binge read” the assigned novel of the week. In this library, there were no computers or machines to identify the whereabouts of specific books. Instead, we manually researched everything by alphabet, and studied while lined up at long tables in the reading room. Just us and books and lined notepaper for taking notes – simple.

I majored in political science and minored in art history. Among my favorite courses were Constitutional Law, Myth-Metaphor-and-Symbol, 19th Century English Literature, Medieval French History, Roman History, American Political Theory and Government. After graduation, when I ended up at a science museum, it was exciting for me to explore a completely new field.

Honestly, the best memories are the many weekends spent at Penn, Harvard, Yale, law schools, and New York City where the Plaza Hotel gave us student rates. I didn’t even mind the many laborious car and train rides.

But I didn’t like Dartmouth so much as those boys were ALL horny. On the subject of Dartmouth, one Friday afternoon my friend Sue and I were picked

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE up by two Yale “men”; we piled our skis on top of the car and careened off to Hanover, New Hampshire. The big event was Dartmouth Winter Carnival, a “dream happening” in an isolated environment smothered in snow and freezing cold. Everybody ached to attend, and we were the envy of our school mates. But a few hours into the drive, I happened to look out the window and felt I was in a science fiction movie. The signs read Hanover, Cape Cod – only several hundred miles from our intended destination in New Hampshire!

Back to Smith College we drove, much to the surprise of our “house mother”, an elderly woman “in charge” of all girls in our dorm. When she heard our sad tale, she wrote a most amusing piece for the Yale newspaper, commemorating the “brilliant” directional talents of Yale men. We kinda liked this elderly woman, Mrs. Bond, – she kept out of our business and served chocolate cake for birthday celebrations. The best of it – we were allowed to attend in our bathrobes.

My good-natured dad occasionally visited college, generously extending a dinner invitation to a few of my friends – yet never expected 8 girls, at times 10, as dinner guests. But he got a big kick out of treating us to Wiggins Tavern, a dark wood, low ceiling, warm New England style inn with a cozy fire burning and the best pecan biscuits in the universe. It still rates very high on my best restaurant list.

Attending an all-girls college had advantages and disadvantages. The good ones were that we could look like dogs during weekdays. The bad ones were that during the week, social life was non-existent. Many girls studied at night. By way of contrast, Helaine and I hitched rides at least two weeknights to the Calvin and Academy movie theatres. We gulped candy bars and escaped from school. Some nights, we hung out in “the smoker,” a pretty stucco room with a huge picture of a Buddha, in which you could actually smoke, fantasize about future marriage, and hang out with friends. Some girls played bridge, others congregated in someone’s bedroom to talk, but my little group of friends separated ourselves in the main from the larger group of girls in the dorm. I guess we were rule breakers, ‒ in fact, in four years, I only once attended a mandatory weekly early morning chapel. Daily room inspections were avoided by me as I locked my door and napped before dinner. Two of our group applied to Stanford for a transfer but were refused due to “bad behavior,” which meant smoking or hiding food in your room,

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Now to College playing music too loud, staying out after curfew, dressing improperly, etc.

While I did not have food, I did lean out my window many an evening, inhaling the smoke of a Camel ciggie.

As for the era of hidden – excuse the expression – sex, when “good girls” stayed out of bed but necked in cars, my friends and I had vicarious thrills afforded by previews of coming attractions. A fellow dormmate left numerous weekends for mysterious destinations. When she returned each Sunday night, the minute we heard her door open, we made a beeline for her room. There, we were rewarded with detail upon detail of her unusual experiences – which for us seemed like a lot of work yet yielding ample rewards.

Years later, I revisited Smith College for an interview relating to a journalist assignment (see Appendix) which was offered to me to cover a Scientific Expedition to Alaska. Although no salary was offered, I was treated to a luxurious cruise, twice daily lectures by top experts, and extravagant praise for my article. In preparation for the article, revisiting the dorm and the campus was deliciously sentimental, and I was impressed with new modern buildings, innovative courses, the varied student body, gorgeous new gym – none expected, all inevitable.

College Buddies

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE In closing, I honor the close bond that still exists with my college friends. Despite disparate lives, careers, and interests – the fact that we had lived together and did the same things and were essentially closeted in one environment lent a uniqueness, closeness and oneness that we don’t have with anyone else. I call it loyalty. Or maybe nostalgia. Or whatever – it feels good.

Paradise Pond

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Now to College

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

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New York

NEW YORK

A

fter graduating from a top college we were prepared for nothing.

Our range of vision and our concern with issues of the day were sorely limited. It was the 50’s and we were in our own microscopic

worlds.

We, women schooled in ancient civilization, history of literature, and other esoteric subjects, ended up in secretarial school. Sure, some of our classmates went directly to law or medical school, one became a famous archeologist who found the missing finger of the Victory of Samothrace, Gloria Steinem became synonymous with the Women’s Movement, and one went into films as Tarzan’s Jane. But the majority began careers as secretaries.

In my case, I passed a speedwriting test on the subject of the Frank Sinatra Show and got hired into a secretarial pool at CBS-TV production. I worked on “The Verdict is Yours”, “The Gary Moore Show”, “20th Century” and for an independent talent agent whose every other word was F---. I met midgets, giants, call girls, fire victims, amputees, and deformed animals. The TV field was not a natural arena for me. I felt out of place but gradually learned the ropes, and became executive assistant to two producers on an educational show called, I think, Optimum.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE When first moving to New York, I lived in an apartment with my brother whom my mother had sent to protect me – with good cause since I had selected a slum neighborhood. I remember cracking raw eggs down a chute which landed in the apartment below – which inspired the tenant to run up and scream at us, while my brother yelled back “I told her to stop!” Shortly thereafter, I moved into an apartment with a kleptomaniac. When a gold pin and some other items disappeared, later to be found in her possession, my boyfriend at the time stormed in and terrified her with prosecutorial accusations. I had my bags packed within the hour, and out I went.

So, I ended up at the Barbizon Hotel for Women, a safe residence which did not allow men above the lobby. The rooms were tiny, but we had housekeeping, no meals to cook, and other girls to befriend. We were all working and joined up for dinner. My favorite restaurant was The Cave, across the street, with killer frog legs. We had our own phones, no TV, a teeny closet and clean sheets weekly. I was happy. I had no responsibility, save a job ‒ and a string of young men with whom I toured New York, especially its bars and restaurants. Saturdays were a ritual: weekly hair appointment preceded a lunch consisting of a chicken salad sandwich and vanilla milkshake at a coffee house counter.

It would be negligent to avoid mentioning the first man over whom I fell head over heels. A businessman, he was nine years my senior, both brilliant and pompous, lived both in New York and Toronto, and had me in a tight hold! For two years, we experienced puppy love, travelled to Northern Canada and Toronto, frequented the best city restaurants, and saw each other religiously every other weekend when he was in New York. I thought of little else. In the end, we broke up after repeatedly tight-roping the prospect of marriage. I was heart-broken for 24 hours, then surprisingly relieved – at which time my father offered to accompany me on an around the world trip.

He had turned age fifty, wanted to grab his chance to see the world, and my mother refused to accompany him on such a major trip. What the hell, I grabbed the opportunity, quit my job and went to Loehmann’s to buy clothes for the upcoming two-to-three month journey.

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Travels With My Father

TRAVELS WITH MY FATHER, 1959

D

ad left it to me to plan this trip. We flew from New York to London first class, and in those days, the airlines treated you like kings. On the plane, my father went bananas over his filet mignon and red wine but complained of having no sleep. Arriving in London, we went on a horse and buggy trip around town before our next flight. Dad, an insomniac of sorts, saw a man on a sidewalk, and as we traversed the meat packing district, remarked “I was in first class without a minute’s rest, and there’s a man fast asleep with a chicken on his head.” A minute later, he ate his words, falling fast asleep, his head bobbing up and down, in step with the horse’s hooves. Isn’t it amazing the things you remember?

On to Prague we went for a four-day tour of the then Communist country. I recall striking up conversations with young people in restaurants and on streets. They were far more fascinated with us than vice versa. New York, democracy, new cars, my father’s job – all were subjects which seemed like fantasy to these Czechs.

This was sixty years ago, so there’s lots I do not recall. However, it is possible that our next stop, after Prague, was the then Soviet Union. Since my college major included Russian history and government, I planned for us to spend almost a month in that country.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE BIG mistake for Dad, an “out-of-body” experience for me. This was the era of the cold war, tourists did not include people from the West, and Communism was at its height. The situation was as follows: my dad, Albert Shore, a 50-year-old capitalist entrepreneur, had employed our system of government to the nth degree. He was born the son of a poor immigrant and worked his way up the ladder of the American dream. As such, he expected prompt service in his home, at restaurants, hotels and stores.

By way of contrast, he was travelling with his 22-year-old daughter, who was fascinated with the Soviet ways no matter what, unaccustomed to immediate service, and thrown by absolutely nothing. In New York, I was a face in a crowd. In Russia, I attracted crowds who showed interest in my attire, appearance, and my explanation of our American way of life. Young men showered me with small bronze Soviet pins, no one seemed resentful as I “sold” our system of government, free press, etc.

First arriving at the main hotel in Moscow, we were unaccustomed to the extremely tall plain Soviet style building. Every floor housed a babushkaclad older woman sitting at the elevator. We were lucky the elevators were running since the staircases were roughly 2 or 3 times the height of staircases at home. Our accommodations, old fashioned and stark, were bugged from the inside. Outside our rooms, men walked back and forth in search of spies.

One night, my father attended a basketball game between the Harlem GlobeTrotters and the Russian team. I stayed in my room and answered my phone which rang incessantly, undoubtedly to ascertain my whereabouts.

For dinner, we frequented restaurants which served typical Russian borscht, stroganoff, various stews and, of course, vodka generally accompanied by oranges. We loved the caviar as it was the real thing. One night while dining, we decided to dance to the fast beat of a local band. As we jitterbugged and lindy hopped, all eyes were on us. The Russians were astonished at these strange dances, and we enjoyed “wowing” them.

However, my father became infuriated when he would beckon a waiter. Frequently, “the help” merely responded by remaining immobile, smirking, waving a hand as if to say hello and walked away. We knew they enjoyed taunting us, but no one could fire them since they were hired by the

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Travels With My Father state. The food was bad, many waiters had multi-colored gravy smudged over their aprons, the silverware was unclean. My father was throwing a fit, but I was unperturbed, already accustomed to mass produced food at college.

Our guide in Moscow, Helen, was kind. She showed us the main sights, such as the Kremlin, St. Basil’s Cathedral, GUM department store where the shelves were practically empty, and a historic Russian monastery. As we drove an hour to get there, we saw dachas, fields, huge trees, farms and life outside the city. No sign of our citified suburbs but plenty of people on foot, few cars, many horses and carts. A striking observation was their attire. In one month, I saw only ONE well-dressed woman and she was from China. Sorry to say, women wore the closest thing to a shower curtain – plain, ugly floral cotton wide dresses or skirts, little makeup, clunky shoes with laces, and many were overweight. While in Moscow, we visited a synagogue where my father conversed in Yiddish with the congregants, who made a motion of choking themselves when they were illustrating the life of Jews in Moscow.

After Moscow, we flew to several cities in the country’s interior.

These included Yalta, Sochi, and the provinces of Georgia and Kiev.

Conservative, provincial, poorer and more agrarian than Moscow, these areas bespoke centuries from the past. On the Black Sea, we went to the beach and were astonished at the sight: women, mostly ungainly and overweight, and their families crowding together, lying on rocks, with little sand in sight.

Unglamorous was hardly the word. Confirming the poverty, the “taxis” to

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE and from airports were old, tinny cars which travelled at the speed of a fast bike in order to conserve gasoline. Air conditioning in hotels was nonexistent. Nowhere was there evidence of material success, modernism, or life as we knew it.

In Georgia, our passports were confiscated for three days. We had been standing on a street corner and saw a beggar to whom a boy in our group gave a few coins. Since begging was illegal, an official, suspecting us of spying, began yelling at us. Making matters worse, my father developed a bad case of diarrhea and had to lumber up three very high sets of stairs to reach his room. Worse still, we had run out of toilet paper. When he telephoned to order more, after being continually disconnected and ignored, he finally heard these words: “The head of the department of toilet paper is on vacation.” My dad was not thrilled.

In Sochi we met only a few people because the language barrier was problematic. One young man, however, remains clearly in my memory.

Tahir, our guide, was someone to whom time was never a consideration. My father and I were scrupulously punctual but ended up waiting as much as an hour for Tahir to show up for the tours. Exasperated, my father finally spoke up and said, “THIS IS THE FOURTH TIME WE HAVE WAITED – WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” to which Tahir lethargically responded “I was tired.” My father stared at him with hatred in his heart! As years passed, that story became a cornerstone of my father’s oft repeated references to our trip.

Our next stop was Tashkent, then Alma Ata and Samarkand. We were getting relatively close to Siberia. Mongols resided in these mysterious, faraway lands which were virtually unknown to foreigners. Now the largest city in Kazakhstan, Alma Ata originally was an ancient settlement which had been destroyed by Mongols – then, Cossacks, peasant settlers from European Russia and Tatar merchants established themselves there. My dad, over six feet tall, was Gulliver in a land of Orientalized small people. He wore a tall blue and white hat, which we had bought in Moscow, making him a seeming giant. Part of the Silk Route, these lands, once the seat of astronomy and mathematics, breathed an ancient, rural aura. Unpaved roads traversed dusty

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Travels With My Father hills, open fields, peasant-like dwellings and dirty town squares. It’s a kind of blur to me now, except for one unforgettable story about Alma Ata. I really wanted to see that legendary city, then the seat of Russian cinematography. My father remained behind, but not before he interviewed Aram Aram, the double-named Jewish tour guide who escorted me on an entire day outing to Alma Ata. My dad informed this young man that “If anything happens to my daughter, I will KILL you” – at which point a pair of handcuffs bound me to my guide. We flew in a rickety tiny plane along with a few Americans, including a handsome young man working for an oil company. After my handcuffs were removed, my new friend and I held hands the whole day. The mutual attraction was tactile. Following a city tour, we attended a “floor show” imitative of the French Can Can. Ten obese Russian women, dressed in brown skirts with tucked-in white cotton blouses and British-type laced brown leather shoes, clumsily formed a chorus line and kicked their hairy legs – hardly in unison – while we Americans contorted our faces to avoid laughing hysterically. We didn’t want to be mean, but that scene overwhelmed any semblance of self-control. Following a cabbage and rice dinner, we went to the airport (a runway in a field) to discover that our plane was several hours delayed. Arriving back to the motel around six in the morning, I saw my father sitting with another man, both decidedly inebriated, parked on a balcony awaiting my return. Both men were too drunk to be upset, instead laughed uproariously at my adventures.

I would be remiss if I omitted that fact that my father had intermittently attempted an exodus from Russia. Every request was rejected, much to his dismay and my delight. The excuse was that there were no flights to New Delhi, our next stop, and that we would have to wait for our purportedly scheduled flight. The airline, Aeroflot, was the final word. With no one to call, we simply waited it out. Additionally, we could not contact our family in America, nor could we receive word from them. My father was decidedly worried although I was too young to be concerned.

Leningrad, now St. Petersburg, was our final Russian destination. I loved the attractive hotel, majestic cathedrals, paved streets, the fabulous Hermitage, the statues, the people we met. My father loved nothing. Again, he requested exodus, only to be summarily refused. However, we did see the

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Bolshoi Ballet, brilliant and inspiring – a night to be remembered. Especially since during the performance, a man tapped our shoulders with an announcement that our plane was leaving in an hour. Abruptly leaving the ballet, we dashed to the hotel, grabbed our bags and rushed to the airport.

Except that the plane was conservatively six hours late, leaving us abandoned in an empty cow field with no water, electricity or food. We did, however, leave that morning en route to India – relieved, yet not knowing what adventure awaited.

On the flight, one of us rang for the stewardess. This was Air India, not Aeroflot, so we were expecting a response. However, we were informed that “all the stewardesses are unavailable” – that a typhoon was expected momentarily but the plane would “try to make it.” We experienced over an hour of intense shaking, abrupt dips, and rolling from left to right, then back again. We felt nauseated and extremely hot since the air conditioning system was broken. Furthermore, the stewardesses were stretched out, feeling sick, on the floor of the plane!

On to New Delhi where my father luxuriated in the gorgeous, sumptuous Imperial Hotel from which he happily called my mother.

Additionally, he repeatedly swung open the minibar while holding up to the ceiling every Diet Coke and exclaimed “We’re in civilization!” All was well, Dad no longer had diarrhea, and we were halfway home. We toured Old Delhi ‒ horrified at the squalor, extreme crowding, naked children, bodies in the streets, garbage strewn everywhere, and emaciated people. We felt endangered in our comfortable, air-conditioned auto. The whole scene was confusing and overwhelming, we were absolutely bewildered.

New Delhi was less shocking. We shopped and bought Indian sandals and saris. I was treated to a two-piece blue and gold silk sari which I later wore at a college prom. We visited the Taj Mahal, the pink city of Jaipur, a famous fortress with gorgeous imprinted tiles, rode elephants, and ate delicious Indian food. We adored our stay at a pink Maharajah’s Palace which Billy and I visited many years later.

I must admit that aside from loving the fascinating adventures, some tension arose between my father and me. He complained about my attitude

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Travels With My Father and unpleasant disposition. On my part, I felt overprotected and stultified by his worrying and complaining. This dissonance was played out one night at the Imperial Hotel in New Delhi when I insisted on accepting an invitation from an older man for dinner and dancing. Defying my father’s displeasure, I accepted and learned what befell a girl accompanied by a sleezy, hyper-sexed older creep. Nothing awful happened, and I was only too happy to be on a date without any chaperone. The surprise came upon arriving back at the hotel in the middle of the night. There, guarding the entrance, a tall Sikh guard stood at attention, spear in hand, head wrapped in a turban, bedecked in a red and gold uniform. Next to this guard stood my father, similarly clothed and holding an identical spear. The two of them looked like attack dogs.

After leaving India, we flew to Tokyo. There we were treated to a Japanese tea ceremony hosted by my penpal of several years. His name was Mr. Kinbara, a Professor of History at the University of Tokyo. We went to his home, which was a unique honor since the Japanese have small houses and rarely entertain in them. We sat cross legged on the floor, and tea was served on a table situated in an indentation below the floor. (We liked this man who later came to New York with his family. After taking numerous photos, as is typically done by the Japanese, we took them for dinner to – unwisely – a Japanese restaurant.)

The other memorable event in Japan was the massage, a tradition enjoyed by women but particularly by men. During my father’s massage, I peeked through the window of his room and witnessed a muscular young

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE woman walking up and down his spinal column. He wasn’t objecting. Our final stop was Hawaii for a short time. We also flew via the Marshall Islands where the U.S. had played an important part in World War II and where I bought Billy his first Buddha for his collection.

In summary, my father and I experienced a unique peek into generally unknown cultures, as well as a chance to be exclusively together. I even related some of our experiences at his funeral. Although we had our differences, I remain eternally grateful to him for including me in the trip of a lifetime.

Years later, my father passed away not terribly long after my mother’s death. Without dwelling on what transpired, his illness – his second wife – the lawsuit which ensued – finally having my brother’s cooperation – all combined to create a miserably frustrating two years. It was a lesson in life’s cruelty and unpredictability for us to witness my father’s gradual demise, and seeing a person who had always called the shots become victimized in more ways than health decline. Tom was extremely helpful to us during the ensuing court case, as his contemporaneous notes confirmed the validity of our complaints against my father’s second wife. I wish I could end this on a happy note, but there was nothing happy to report, except that my mother’s illness was short-lived, she did not suffer, and her ending was charitable in its duration and nature.

After my father died, my brother and I inherited two shopping centers, and a piece of a third, in Massachusetts. My brother had some difficult issues, but deserves credit for his efficient managing of the shopping centers.

Moreover, he got the timing right when the time was ripe for their sale. He and I had never been close – even as children – and the relationship deteriorated dramatically with the deaths of our parents. With my brother’s death in 2016, I said a final goodbye to someone who had effectively exited my life many years ago.

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Travels With My Father

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

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Boston ‒ Marriage And Children

BOSTON ‒ MARRIAGE AND CHILDREN

N

ow returned from our world sojourn, I visited my Aunt Ida, who suggested, “Why don’t you move to Boston?” I immediately acceded. Leaving New York was possibly my subconscious saying “New York isn’t my cup of tea; I am more comfortable in New England.” And indeed I was.

I moved into a tiny apartment in Brookline in a quiet neighborhood.

Gone were the sirens, taxis, string of stores, hordes of people and the mad pace of New York. I landed a job with Educational Services, Inc. in Watertown. They serviced textbooks and information to schools across the country. Every morning, I donned ski pants and jacket, high boots, woolen mittens and hat – and trudged through the snow from Harvard Square to my job. I was SO happy to escape the New York scene and enter the familiar, peaceful environment of fewer people, less noise, snow filled countryside.

One of the people in my office was Harriet Gibney, wife of the Reverend William Sloane Coffin (who became famous rebelling with Dr. Spock against the Vietnam War). This was the 60s, the country was on fire, college campuses were the scene of furious rebellion. Harriet befriended me and requested that I conduct research for her at Widener Library at Harvard.

Delighted, I accepted and spent my days doing interesting work on the college campus. Frequently, Harriet and I lunched at the beautiful MIT dining hall, lined with famous Rothco paintings – and I learned about the Page 57

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE personal life of an incredibly smart woman. I can still picture her wearing dull colored cardigan sweaters, corduroy skirts, and high boots.

Meanwhile, a close college friend from New York visited me and suggested that I meet a cardiologist who worked at the Peter Bent Brigham Hospital. He had been appointed to a professorship at Harvard, having, according to her, “invented some famous whatever” (which actually was a method to measure the size of the mitral valve, invaluable in performing surgery at a time when CAT scans were not yet invented).

My friend called him and gave him my number. Dick Gorlin responded immediately and invited me to dinner. Instead, I suggested he come to my apartment. I don’t know what I was thinking because I had never cooked in my life. Lamb chops and frozen peas seemed easy, and demonstrating my culinary arts, I added a CUP of salt to the small box of peas.

When the doctor took a bite, he demonstrably gagged and would have died of hypertension had he suffered from high blood pressure.

Despite my ignorance of any semblance of domesticity, he showed much interest in me. We dated a lot, primarily walking his dog under the stars in freezing fields of snow. The dog was FuFu, a lovely black lab, who suffered from frequent bouts of flatulence which the doctor later confessed he had blamed on me. Guilty until proven innocent.

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Boston ‒ Marriage And Children Dick’s friends were physicians, mainly researchers, with whom I felt comfortable immediately. Bill Schwartz, Lou Dexter, Herb Levine, Roger Hickler – and their wives – became my friends. We socialized primarily with them. When Dick questioned Bill and Carol Schwartz about my suitability as his potential wife, they gave the thumbs up and Dick proposed. When I announced that I was engaged to a Jewish doctor, my mother got down on her knees and all but kissed my feet.

The wedding was in the ballroom of the Biltmore Hotel in Providence.

Rabbi Braude married us on April 16, 1960. He had almost fainted from an asthmatic attack a week before when the bridegroom said something disparaging about the ceremony being conducted in Hebrew. For our honeymoon, we spent a heavenly week at Caneel Bay in the Caribbean, luxuriating in blue-green waters, playing tennis, and loving our accommodations. At the time I did not foresee that my next honeymoon with my next husband was to be in the exact same resort in the exact same cabin. Nothing like consistency!

Subsequently, Dick and I moved into a picturesque ranch house at 87 Gray Cliff Road in Newton Centre, where our three children were later born.

The house was situated below street level and was overshadowed by a hill at the top of which stood a huge, old house. The sprawling grounds were occupied by scores of hippies who lay on the grass and took LSD. Later we learned that they were disciples of Timothy Leary. They were stoned most of the time and lavished my children with mellow affection and paternal hugs and kisses.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE A year later, this house was bought by the Thorman family. Their daughter, Jennifer, played with Billy and all went well. That is until, one night, I was cooking french fries – and I noticed smoke in the kitchen. Each time I scraped the soot, more smoke spewed out. I checked on the kids, they were fine. But I wasn’t, and the smoke increased and increased. The walls blackened; the floor was the color of coal. Soon after, loud knocks sounded on the front door and Dick screamed “The house is on fire, it’s coming out the attic chimney, what is wrong with you!!!” I called the fire department, minutes later help arrived and stormed through the house in heavy boots and black hoses, and raced up to the attic through the bedroom closets. The Thormans saw the commotion, hurried over and removed the art from the walls. The Neustadts came over, and David wore his old clothes, hoping that the insurance would smell the smoke and buy him a new overcoat.

In short, the house was devastated in several areas. The dining room ceiling collapsed, the kitchen was completely destroyed, the bedrooms and closets were a wreck, and the only two surviving rooms were the living room and den. So, we moved the kitchen appliances into the den, and I moved the children into the living room. It was at that precise time that the housekeeper quit and all three children got the flu. It was also a time of marital difficulties, and Dick moved out.

Yet beset by a host of sudden difficulties, Lady Luck was with me.

Out of the blue, a prior boyfriend (and top engineer) came over, saw the mess and came immediately to my rescue.

Although then heading the construction of the Chestnut Hill Mall, he announced that he was interrupting the entire project and diverting his workers to the task of rebuilding my house. And that’s what he did. In addition to collecting major insurance, we saw our home rebuilt in short order, I ordered new wallpaper, paint and rugs, hired a new housekeeper, the kids recovered from the flu, and Dick moved back in, at least temporarily.

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Boston ‒ Marriage And Children On To Another Subject, While Still Living Together Since doctors were often invited on free trips, Dick and I travelled extensively to exotic places. Our most unusual excursion was to Uruguay and Argentina where we were invited to incredibly lavish homes owned by the top doctors.

Wealth disparity within that culture was immediately evident. The doctors and their families who entertained us were magnificently dressed in European couture, the wives were smooth as silk, and household help numbered in the teens. One night we had dinner at the home of the owner of La Prenza, the Argentinian equivalent of the New York Times. The house was constructed with marble floors, ceilings, and walls – a scene out of a palace. Buenos Aires boasts, I believe, the widest boulevard in the world. It oozed European influence everywhere, although the dancing was distinctly their own – the Tango.

Other trips included Israel, Sweden, England, Ireland, Mexico and sundry other countries. We were always treated like honored guests and had the privilege of meeting the accomplished and wealthy elite. Our first two summers after marrying were Me DaleyTom kids&with spent in England when Dick had Billy, With Clare a fellowship at a well-known Billy, Tom and Me and her children hospital, St. Thomas’s. We were essentially adopted by Allison and Raymond Daley, Clare’s parents. Raymond was a well-known cardiologist. Every weekend was spent either at their London flat or their charming Elizabethan cottage called Godwin’s in the country. I adored playing with their children – Clare, Penelope and Anthony. We romped around in fields of grass and played games, to say nothing of relishing meals of potted shrimp, English stew, outstanding lamb, biscuits, tea and crumpets.

My friendship with Clare continued throughout a lifetime, in fact, we spent a day together in New York and London respectively very recently.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE I was so taken with the Daley children that I bit the bullet when Dick said we should start a family whenever I was ready. I got pregnant as soon as we got home, and nine months later, Wendy announced her presence, owing her existence to the Daley clan.

When she was born, I knew more about raising dogs than children.

She was a pink, peachy, perfect baby with a golden disposition. Nana, Dick’s Mom, predicted that as a teenager Wendy would grow a ponytail; and I predicted that I would poison her with contaminated milk from unsterilized bottles. I did, however, finally learn to clean them properly – but was frustrated with Wendy’s fussy eating habits. When she was only a few months old, I took her to Dunkin Donuts and rubbed chocolate over her toothless gums. That did it. She’s been a great eater ever since.

Wendy was crazy about a special neighbor, Laurie Schwartz, who played paper dolls with her in our front hall. Wendy was a great sleeper, and each night when her dad returned from the hospital, we awakened her to play, defying all rules of child rearing. She went right back to sleep, and never cried when I slept late and fed her breakfast mid-morning, disobeying the advice of Dr. Spock. Those were the days when kids could safely walk to school, so when she graduated from kindergarten, she joined the neighborhood children as they strolled in packs to and from elementary school. All went well until I received a call from my dressmaker saying she saw someone who looked just like Wendy sitting with another little girl on the grass outside school. She was playing hooky at age eight. Of course, I dashed over and redirected them to the seat of learning! A few years later, we took

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Boston ‒ Marriage And Children her to Acapulco when we rented a villa with Dr. and Mrs. Eduardo Salazar and their little children. Their three maids were in charge, and while we entrusted Wendy to them, she refused to eat Mexican food. Perfectly happy to eat nothing but Jello for five days, she adjusted, thrilled to play in the pool and threw up in the airport when we left.

As for me, I dove into fulltime motherhood. Domesticity had its limits, however. On the advice of my mother, I hired a live-in Scottish housekeeper for $35/week. Having a slipped disc, I knew my physical limitations and concentrated my activities on cooking and dashing around with Wendy ‒ as well as socializing with a cache of friends who fortunately lived around the corner.

Billy and Me Time for a second child arrived, and thus appeared Billy, a few years later. By this time, I had mastered the art of sterilizing bottles. Paper disposable diapers were not yet available, thus necessitating the dumping of used diapers into large cans which were picked up weekly by professional cleaners. Billy shared a red and white wallpapered bedroom with Wendy. He was a gorgeous boy with an overly active disposition – “all boy” – with a hyperkinetic temperament. He did not walk, he ran. He said really funny things, exhibiting an early, highly creative imagination and unlimited ability to amuse himself.

Summers were spent on Cape Cod at Woods Hole, Falmouth and Pleasant Bay. The latter was especially enjoyable. We rented, with Suzanne and Robin Farkas, a campsite on the water with a dock, small boat and charming view. Robin and Dick crashed the boat into a rock, Suzanne and I

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE gossiped for hours in bathing suits on the outside deck where we played, swam, read and hung out. Suzanne and I had agreed to take turns cooking at home. That lasted around four days, as we all preferred restaurant seafood, especially lobsters and fried clams. Nothing like New England seafood… and our lousy cooking!

Douglas, our third child, was conceived that year and born on Halloween. He said hello to the world almost before we reached the hospital, and was an adorable boy. When we brought him home, Billy welcomed him by stuffing marbles in his ears – but by then, we were very casual and “anything goes” was our motto. He was a very easy baby – loving, blond, drawn to his little wooden horse – and toddled around in a memorable turquoise outfit seven days per week. Later, when in kindergarten, he would jump off the school bus daily, where for many years I met him with his number one treat, macaroni.

When the children were all under age six or thereabouts, unfortunately things began to unravel between Dick and myself. We separated, bit by bit, until divorce was inevitable. It took around two years to actually conclude our relationship, for special reasons and the fact that we recognized that three young children were involved. I had kept the details hidden, so our separation was a shock to many of our friends and family, especially my parents who were exceedingly helpful.

It was an ending and an adjustment – but, as my next chapter reveals, the transition was like eating an overripe fruit. The first bite is bitter, but the rest is delicious.

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Billy, Me & Wendy

Doug

Wendy & Billy Page 65

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Between Marriages BETWEEN MARRIAGES

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his story is short because I remained single a mere six months. Dick saw the children very often, we had agreed that the more frequent, the better. To boot, he bought a farm in Gilmanton Iron Works, New Hampshire and took the children up there frequently. Although he was a highly critical man and father, he was immensely proud of his children and remained involved in their lives.

My children were doing well. But Wendy, the eldest, was sad that her dad was not living with us anymore. I had previously prepared her for this but she had forgotten. Understandable. Luckily, she had a bevy of friends.

Billy and Douglas were too young to feel the difference, especially since Dick was often available. We had an agreement that they would see him whenever he wanted.

One hitch was that I was left with a dog named Fufu which had belonged to Dick. She had gotten old, and required care that I was unprepared to give. With some hesitation, I marched her down to the dog hospital and pronounced her Dick Gorlin’s dog whom I was dropping off, gave them Dick’s number and took off.

Dick and I did much better separated than we did together. We never argued over splitting up possessions. I stayed friendly with his parents – although Poppy and Nina (my parents) never forgave Nana (Dick’s mom) due to arguments over tablecloths and the like at our wedding many years prior.

As a recent divorcée, I met and dated a number of young men. While that sounds unexceptional, after experiencing two stressful years of a failing marriage, I was immensely relieved to be free, meeting new people, feeling good about myself, having novel places to visit. I was busy, felt like a teenager, and enjoyed the novelty of different beaus, with whom I went sailing, dining, and hiking. I think I will leave it at that.

Except that one incident deserves a place in history. While dating a gentleman from Providence, I inadvertently had left a compromising

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE feminine accoutrement at my parents’ apartment. Perhaps two months later, as I was entertaining several guests at a dinner party in my dining room, I opened a side compartment of a wooden cabinet – and out popped onto the floor, in full view, you guessed it.... My mother had obviously chosen this method of return. A particularly prudish guest yelled, “That’s disgusting,” reinforcing my first instinct to dive unceremoniously under the table.

During this period of time, I visited my parents in Florida. Since my good friend Rose Scotch’s mom lived there, I spent some time with her. She suggested, “Why don’t you go out with Tom Gilbert?” To which I responded, “How could I? He’s a friend ‒ it would be incest.” What was eerie was that simultaneously, Tom was on vacation with Robin and Suzanne Farkas, Rose’s sister. Suzanne suggested to Tom, “You should call Margie Gorlin.

You may not marry her, but you will have a great time.” I had known Tom previously because his then wife-to-be and I had dated best friends when we were both working in NYC. Subsequently, she married Tom and I married Dick. She died, I got divorced, and Tom and I got together.

It was extremely comfortable since we had mutual friends with whom we were close. Anyhow, I met Tom in New York for our first date and he proposed on the spot. We dated in Boston, New York and Easthampton where he had an inviting summer house near the beach. Robin Farkas sent his private plane to Boston for me several times, and I always took Doug and his wooden horse. On other occasions, the whole family visited the Easthampton home where we ate amazing grilled steaks, swam in the ocean, played games, went sightseeing and luxuriated in a thoroughly relaxing environment.

Tom and I made arrangements to marry as soon as my divorce allowed. I put my house up for sale, and we saw each other on weekends – everything looked ideal; yet, I could see that Tom’s children, Evan and Clifford, were very different from my brood. Tom’s idea of parenting was distinctly different from mine. Although he was a most caring and loving father to ALL five children – including generosity and attention – nevertheless, our ways of discipline, of socializing the kids, of calling a spade a spade differed radically. We never did reconcile these differences and approaches, and this divide caused a major rift in our relationship.

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Between Marriages Nevertheless, we had fallen in love and fulfilled many of each other’s needs. My family moved from Boston to Westchester where Tom bought an old Dutch Colonial house in Harrison. This you will read about in the next chapter.

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280 Highland Road, Rye

280 HIGHLAND ROAD, RYE

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t was a world event. We all moved into a five floor, rambling house on three acres of green grass and trees. Tom’s sister brought over generous trays of sandwiches on our first day. Everyone was assigned their respective rooms, the children were signed up for school, and we did a minimum of construction and house design. Evan, Tom’s older, took a small bedroom on the top floor of this five-story house, but after watching a scary movie, moved down to the second floor. Billy immediately occupied the top floor vacant quarters, which was a blessing since that removed him from the constant tumult, allowing him to study and construct imaginary maps in peace. Our bedroom was lovely, decorated with colorful floral wallpaper and a dark green rug. Tom had designed a gorgeous bathroom in which we luxuriated with ample space and stunning modern wallpaper. The guest room was frequently occupied by visiting relatives or other peoples’ children whom we housed.

My piano was in the living room, decorated with copious amounts of green plants and furniture which my mother had generously bought. The dining room was traversed constantly since it had to be crossed in order to reach the kitchen. Needless to say, the kitchen was the center of activity. We had two refrigerators, one of which we locked in order to safeguard whatever we could from the mouths of five ravenous children. A trip to the supermarket was a three-cart event, followed by my arrival down the driveway, loudly banging on the car horn, any number of children rushing Page 71

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE out to help with the packages, but some eating the contents before they reached the house. With all modesty, I admit that we ate a lot better than our neighbors who apparently limited their meals to hot dogs and hamburgers.

Besides all manner of chicken, we pigged out on meat loaf, brisket, lasagna, tacos, salad, roast beef, casseroles, and dinners which Tom regularly brought home from Kentucky Fried Chicken.

We all ate out regularly. Our favorites were Manero’s Steak House as well as Cooke’s. The boys played football on our large front lawn and made friends with the neighborhood children, especially the Tardio boys and Dirk Friedkin, the next-door neighbor. On Saturdays, the boys played at the Purchase Community House before which Tom bought them sandwiches at the Purchase Deli. Free at last: Tom played golf (every weekend), and I luxuriated during my well-earned free time. In addition to our family, we intermittently housed guests as well as boarders from SUNY Purchase.

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280 Highland Road, Rye Truthfully, I rarely knew who was sleeping where. In fact, one little boy got stuck behind the bathtub on the top floor, and he was just lucky that I happened to wander up there. Another factoid: I carpooled so much that on a particular Saturday, I actually spent the WHOLE day in the car.

As soon as we had married, I fired Tom’s two child helpers. I then hired a string of unusual house cleaners.

These included an extremely obese woman whom I found riding Clifford’s tricycle, another woman who was usually drunk (I found her passed out in the back of a car in Rye), a Caribbean woman called Elaine who wore woolen hats and sang hymns incessantly, a young woman who had physically disgusting habits, another Caribbean woman who hated her job, and a lovely Barbadian who almost died from a lung fungus, requiring emergency surgery at United Hospital.

However, my luck turned when a friend called saying that her daughter’s live-in housekeeper was available, was I interested. I hired her THAT DAY, and so arrived our live-in Guatemalan housekeeper, Zoila. She stayed with us for 15 years. This lady did EVERYTHING. The children loved her; she cleaned, cooked, was well tempered, happy, and her family used our swimming pool. Arturo played soccer with our boys. Further, she made great tacos and pies.

Regarding life during these years, there is far too much to include in this memoir. Still, a few highlights come to mind: Tom became head of the Harrison School Board after David Scotch and I convinced him to run for the office.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE He coached the kids’ football team and drove them to numerous practices, including hockey. He was doing beautifully at Gilbert Hosiery, a men’s hosiery merchandiser which represented impressive couturier houses such as Pierre Cardin, Tommy Bahama, Coogi and many others. After feeding the dog at 5 a.m., he drove to work in NYC, returned punctually at six, and dined with our large family. Seven people required our dividing up, seating some in the kitchen, others in the breakfast room. Tom berated the children for their noise and lousy table manners, incessantly teaching proper ways to hold forks and knives – I ignored all but getting them fed and then upstairs to do homework or whatever, while I went upstairs to read, study or make calls. I did watch TV and remember watching Gilligan’s Island with the kids, I Love Lucy, wrestling matches and Grizzly Adams.

Our New Year’s Eve parties became legendary. Over 100 guests came yearly. We liberally decorated the house, bought and made tons of yummy food, served copious amounts of liquor, welcomed the New Year with good cheer and grateful friends. When we finally discontinued these festivities, many a friend expressed anger, and they weren’t kidding!

In addition to raising the children, there IS something else I did ‒ which qualified as a passion. I began taking piano lessons when the children were quite young, and I continued well into their adulthood. Like any activity which consumes you, studying piano ‒ practicing and playing with other pianists ‒ took a ton of time and discipline. I was in a group of adults who took their music seriously, we played for each other individually and in a formal group. I recorded many discs, which, though unedited and done without fancy equipment, remain part of my legacy.

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280 Highland Road, Rye Of particular note were the three summers during which I participated in music festivals in St. Petersburg and Italy. (See Appendix.)

On three separate occasions, I played chamber music with a violist from the St. Petersburg Philharmonic, with a violinist (who donned a cape) from Germany, and with an American violinist. I performed Mozart once and Schubert twice, and continued to take daily lessons at the festivals. It was UNIQUE to be part of a group of burgeoning pianists, as well as other instrumentalists, in unusual settings.

Regarding the music festival in Italy: In Tuscany I stayed in a private home and made friends with the owner, an elderly man called Francisco who could barely speak English. He treated me particularly well, and although that summer (and his house) were undergoing one of the worst heat waves ever in Europe, I loved the experience. Each day I walked an hour down steep hills from my lodging to and from the music school, stopping at locations which housed pianos enabling me to practice. Then I continued walking and invariably frequented a typical trattoria for a snack. I was alone, yet relished this daily ritual. And no wonder. We were in Castelnuovo di Garfagnana, a Tuscan hill town with a fortress, moat, gorgeous cathedral in which we performed, and a cobblestone central square with quaint restaurants, shops, pizza places, not to mention stands of multi-colored, delectable gelato.

One day, a violinist and I took the train to Lucca, a historic walled little city, popular for its charm, architecture, cathedral, and curved streets.

The truth is that we noticed that Valentino’s was having a sale, and we stayed in that store so long that we were oblivious to the city itself and nearly missed our train home.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE The following summer, the Festival was in St. Petersburg. (See Appendix.) We stayed in a dilapidated hotel from which we traversed a cow field to reach the music school. It was so rundown that roof tiles kept slipping down noisily outside the windows of the practice rooms. But none of this mattered. The more practice, the better – it was quite competitive since there were more students than pianos, and we were all dying to “perfect” our pieces. Students came from all over the world including Korea, Japan, Europe, the States. One Israeli student had been permitted time off from the army to attend the Festival. He was particularly helpful to me at the piano, and described my earrings as “unforgettable.”

A few times, I stole time from practicing piano to take a taxi twenty minutes into the city of St. Petersburg. I toured the Hermitage, walked the streets, frequented department stores, bought vodka and local souvenirs, and ate dinner in the most gorgeous dining room at the top hotel. I even extended my trip to remain four extra days in St. Petersburg after the Festival, and hired a Russian violinist, Victoria, to be my guide. It was amazing. Each day I dined in a caviar bar, a stunning dark wood paneled room. Victoria’s father was an instrumentalist in the orchestra accompanying the Bolshoi Ballet, so she secretly got me in for free, but she warned me to dress like a Russian.

That meant no white socks with dark sneakers, no speaking any English, no smiling at strangers, no nothing that was obviously American. When I was seated at the ballet, a man asked me for my ticket (which I did not possess).

I stared back and stuck out my tongue as if I were developmentally disabled.

Two girls next to me giggled, they knew exactly where I was from, they were Lithuanian and hated the Russians. As for sightseeing, Victoria, my guide, hustled me around in a small public vehicle which only Russians take. There, strangers never smile at strangers, so when I smiled at everyone and said “Hi,” they thought I was deranged.

One other fact I learned about Russia. Crime was rampant. As I was standing in line to enter a cathedral, two young Russian boys struck up a conversation. An hour later I discovered that my wallet was missing! Gone were my plane tickets, money, and credit cards, but luckily I had checked my passport with the concierge. I wired Tom who sent money but never received reimbursement for my originally booked plane tickets. (I had to book different flights to New York as I did not remember the exact flight

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280 Highland Road, Rye information and the airlines were of no help – in fact, I spent hours wasting time, waiting for help at the Russian airline office and getting a taste of Communist “service.”)

Back to the United States, I had returned to school, this time to Columbia Teachers College for a master’s degree in psychology. That was an appropriate topic since our lives were preoccupied with issues around adolescence at 280 Highland Rd. Clifford went to boarding school, and the other children went to public school, until Wendy and Doug attended Rye Country Day. Having been unhappy in Harrison public school, Wendy switched to private school. She immediately became the most popular girl in her tenth-grade class.

She was an avid student, doing beautifully in all classes. Her choice of bedroom wallpaper was a dark jungle scene of green foliage, yellow bananas and lumbering apes. She admirably defended herself among a household of boys. They were so obviously rambunctious that they occupied lots of Evan & Wendy parental attention. I do think she will Jr. High. Grad. admit that she got away with murder. I might add that she dated assorted boys, even one jokester who purposely tripped and fell while accepting his high school diploma.

Like Wendy, Doug also made friends, but he disliked studying. His specialty was ignoring the rules, taking the dog to school and illegally tying him to the Xmas tree. He admits to calling the Harvard Director of Page 77

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Admissions a XXXXX! This, Doug claims, was said after he had shut the door and so was out of hearing range. He played the guitar as soon as he walked! His bedroom was a virtual band with drums and all manner of instruments. His friends loved music and even today, several went on to become musicians. He was so talented that the Berklee School of Music in Boston gave him a merit scholarship. He was a bit rebellious, grew pot on the fifth floor, but was loved by everyone, including his schoolteachers.

Clifford continued at boarding school, then took auto mechanic training and worked intermittently in Arizona. He had serious cognitive and emotional problems, yet was universally liked since he was really a good kid and an innocent. At one point he lived with a girl and her child out West, ending up in Denver where I visited him one weekend. He was truly grateful, having scrupulously cleaned his apartment and loaned me the use of his bed.

Further, he had what Tom called “magic hands,” thus effectively fixed broken parts, cars, and the like.

Evan attended the University of Miami briefly, left school and ultimately got a job in Tom’s business, where he proved an excellent salesman. He had a cache of friends who called the house constantly – but his great love was Bruce Springsteen.

He lived first in South Carolina and then in Arizona. He nearly got married one time, was a fabulous golfer and equally good instructor. When still young, both boys declined in significant respects and ultimately died in their 40s, resulting in lifelong sorrow from which, understandably, Tom never recovered.

Billy excelled in the Harrison Public School Honors Program, ultimately going to Cornell University and then the Graduate School of

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Cornell Graduation Dick, Billy & Me Engineering. In elementary

280 Highland Road, Rye school, Chester Rothstein, his equal in brains and family background, was his constant companion. While in junior high, Billy was frequently bullied, and complained but never “took the bully on.” One day, Billy came home in quite a different mood – he was ebullient as he cried “I finally did it. I punched him in the face, and he turned around and ran!!” at which point I took Billy out for an ice cream sundae. Billy was very pleased with his quarters on the fifth floor, ‒ he had privacy, peace, and ample time to construct wonderful imaginative maps. I made slides of these for his essay into college.

He and I had a memorable watermelon fight one evening, and I think I slung a wine bottle in his direction. However, he had a more peaceful adolescence than the other kids, and we were buddies. I frequently went up to his room, lay on the bed and complained about life.

Initially, we got a dog named Jorma to befriend Wendy, the only girl in our household. This was a positive move, until Wendy got a call from me, during her study year in London, that her adored dog had died. He was ultimately replaced by Sport, a handsome thoroughbred lab – who was Doug’s official dog.

By then, all the children Sport and Doug had left home. This dog was a perfect pet.

Although big, he was essentially a lap dog – affectionate, loyal, a great friend.

But he took off frequently, necessitating several searches by car, was found wandering around in search of food – invariably resulting in his throwing up in the middle of the front hall. He slept in his bed outside our bedroom – and was unabashedly in love with Fran Ginzberg’s female dog with whom he socialized regularly on our long walks in the neighborhood.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Sunningdale Country Club deserves mention since it was a second home to Tom, who had belonged since early childhood. He introduced me to golf, his passion, and I joined him in loving this sport. I scored miserably but my swing was pretty okay. Tom was a great teacher, and he made me practice on the range a whole summer before actually playing the course. We made several golf trips to, for example, California, Kiawah Isle, Florida, Bermuda, Scotland ‒ but he would not allow me to play at Pebble Beach in California since the cost was $100 and my game “did not warrant the expense.” I might add that in Scotland at Gleneagles, a famous course, we played with an elderly Scotsman who was an inveterate golfer – but Tom picked up my ball and forbade my playing since the hilly course was beyond hard and each hole was a dog leg, making the far-off greens impossible to see. The caddie was drunk but helpful, knowing with eyes shut every detail of that challenging course which hugged the magnificent Scottish coastline. Tagging along, I was not particularly annoyed at being disqualified since the scenery was breathtaking and I was looking forward to the amazing Scottish salmon at dinner. Tom ordered it nightly and nearly fainted from the exorbitant cost.

Years later, Tom and I went to China for a month with the University of Michigan on a wonderfully educational but unusually rugged trip, i.e., eight terrible hotels and local restaurants where they served mountain rat and gerbils housed in cages on the sidewalk. After all that, we were understandably very thin and exhausted but – just the two of us – ecstatic to be headed for a luxury hotel in Hong Kong. However, we ended up being lost souls as we could not find the harbor for the hover craft. No one spoke English, so we wandered aimlessly in extreme heat while lugging suitcases for close to an hour.

BUT suddenly a black sedan pulled up and an elegantly dressed Chinese man stepped out, and responded to my query “Do you speak English?’ with “How else would I have graduated from the Harvard Business School?” Be my guest, he said, escorting us into the hover craft first class lounge and ultimately inviting us to be his honored guests on his private yacht to circle the island of Hong Kong, sightsee in his private chauffered limousine, lunch at his private club and join his family for dinner at the top Chinese restaurant in Hong Kong. Additionally, he sent wine, fruit and flowers to our room. He was Mathew Lee, Vice President of the East China

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280 Highland Road, Rye Bank, and we kept in touch for several years. I sent him a silver trivet, he sent us gold chop sticks. Years later, the New York Times revealed that he was being fined millions of dollars for tax fraud – but I don’t imagine it destroyed their living standard since his wife’s family owned the largest jewelry manufacturer in Taiwan. I forgot to add that I offered to send his wife a cookbook of delectable American dishes, to which he responded, “Not necessary, my wife has 12 in help,” to which I responded: “So do I, but they all quit, one after another.”

Ultimately, Tom and I found ourselves in an empty house after the kids “grew up” and left. As soon as the dog died, we reluctantly began house hunting for something smaller. We did not buy our favorite one, which showed off an atypical spiral staircase off the main hall, because we were not ready to move. However, I spent the next year methodically scouring each room in our big house ‒ labelling, tagging, disposing of, saving specific furniture or art pieces for each child – so that when we resumed house hunting, we were again shown the same house with the spiral staircase and we bought it!

Doug & Me

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Bahamas

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280 Highland Road, Rye

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280 Highland Road, Rye

280 Highland Road

With Betsy and Jack

Wendy and Susan

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

Sport

Visiting Pamela Harriman at her Paris Residence

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280 Highland Road, Rye

Rose Scotch

My birthday lunch in NYC

Tom took us all to the Bahamas for my birthday!

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To The Present

Family Reunion ‒ North Carolina Thank you Mark, Sara and Barbara!

TO THE PRESENT

I

t was roughly 1991 when Tom and I moved into our adult home in Purchase. What a great choice! We referred for many years to this house as “perfect,” and even though I now live here alone, it is perfect.

As you all know, the master bedroom is spacious and on the ground floor. With bad knees, that is a blessing. There are two adorable rooms upstairs for kids, their kids, our friends, etc., to spend overnights. We built a pool, an expensive toy, but more sensible than, say, a costly vacation which only lasts a week or so. This pool is forever and useful several months out of the year. While I fantasize that it has kept me in shape, the problem is: what shape?

As of now, this is still home after 30 years. My intent is to remain here as long as I can, with possible intermittent rentals of apartments in New York City. And I’ve put a down payment on a home in a retirement community on

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Evan

Doug

Marc

Clifford

home in a retirement community on the SUNY campus, although I have considerable doubt about moving anywhere.

Now for some key points of our lives as empty nesters. Starting with Tom, he continued to thrive in his business. Yet, as the Chinese increasingly exported in volume inexpensive hosiery, the need for Gilbert Hose declined.

Tom stubbornly persisted, and unfortunately turned down a substantial sum offered to buy his business. As sales increasingly suffered, he struggled to revive his past success, yet became personally discouraged and increasingly introverted with the tide of events. On top of that, his health declined due to a bad back as well as a blood disease (MDS), the same that killed Susan’s beloved husband, Michael Brecker. He was an amazingly good sport about giving up golf, his lifelong passion, but was beset with too many unbearable personal losses, including the deaths of his two sons. He died on September 9, 2017 in our bedroom just as I was spooning him cough syrup. As he was finally able to swallow a good gulp, I said “You are great, you did it!” he slumped back and stopped breathing. I was as prepared as anyone could be – extremely sad, relieved and yet truly sympathetic for his personal suffering and final demise. Fortunately, Hospice came immediately as did Billy and Natalie, who were indispensable in aiding me with final arrangements.

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To The Present A great gift, and unbeknownst to me, Billy removed the contents of Tom’s office in Harrison after thoroughly examining the contents of each folder which he brought to our house. He did a yeoman’s job, and I am 100% grateful to him. As soon as Tom died, all my children came in, and I was surrounded by comfort, love and companionship.

My friends also continue to be my extended family – as well as my wonderful cousin Susan who calls me almost daily to check in – despite her busy schedule. She helps me in so many ways, like technological difficulties, cooking ideas, getting rid of my household clutter ‒ name it, she is there.

Thank you, wonderful Suze.

Furthermore, hats off to this single woman who has made a full, satisfying life after tragically losing her husband at a young age. She has raised millions of dollars for cancer research, conceived and directed a fantastic gala at Jazz at Lincoln Center, produced an awardwinning documentary called More to Live For, was instrumental in saving close to a hundred lives through vastly increased testing for cell matches, and originated and directed an international saxophone contest at the Red Sea. Her two children, Jess and Sam, are sources of great pride.

Jess is a social worker, and Sam is a police officer. Hats off, Susan. Her younger brother Roger has a successful career in finance and a beautiful family consisting of his warm wife Val and three lovely children.

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As for me, I started working over 30 years ago. I derived enormous satisfaction from each position – and while I never developed a full-blown career, my work experiences preoccupied me completely and I loved it. After graduating from a Master’s Program at Columbia Teachers College, I joined the Daycare Council of Westchester as the Coordinator of a state funded research project to assess the needs and programs for daycare in Westchester.

That position was succeeded by a job at the Mental Health Association where I was the liaison between its board and the New York State legislature concerning mental health legislation. Then, at the same job, I ran galas two years in a row ‒ an exhausting but highly gratifying position in which an unprecedented amount of money was raised.

Following, I took an intensive course in grant writing in New York City and moved in with Tom’s mother on Park Avenue for a week. She was a pleasure to be with and I took her for her favorite dinner, calves liver with red wine and onions. The grant writing course was more valuable than any course I had taken in college. It landed me a wonderful job as assistant and then Director of Public/Community Relations at Westchester Jewish Community Services. I honed my skills by writing volumes of grant applications, press releases, articles for newspapers, annual reports, radio announcements, and hosting a TV show on mental health issues. I hired an excellent assistant, then another, and we enhanced the reputation and fundraising capabilities of the organization. Additionally, I developed close ties with a number of staff and mourned two in particular when they died years later.

I left that position 27 years ago ‒ but not until I had landed a job as tour guide at the American Museum of Natural History, which required six grueling months of daily study as well as several tests. This move may well top any activity I ever undertook. How lucky could anyone be! I have been in the most interesting place, exposed to the most interesting scientific fields, among the most interesting people and met well over a thousand people from all over the world. I guided Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, the Prime Minister of Jordan, President of Nigeria, Ambassador from Egypt and well-known authors. But the most rewarding guests were myriad foreigners, outnumbering Americans, who got turned on by the sheer variety of artifacts

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To The Present and specimens throughout this fascinating building. As four new exhibits open annually, we continue to learn and share information – on a wide variety of topics including Einstein, The Human Brain, Diamonds, Microbiome, DNA, Climate Change, Biodiversity, Indian Jewelry, Pearls, the DaVinci Codex ‒ to mention a sampling of approximately 100 temporary exhibits which we learned.

In 2001, I travelled with the Museum for almost four weeks to Saudi Arabia. We got special permission to go at a time when tourism was forbidden to most people. I have included a news article I wrote (see Appendix) about this forbidden, mysterious land. A few years prior to this trip, I had travelled with the Museum to the Persian Gulf countries – Kuwait, Yemen, Qatar, Abu Dhabi. Again, we were privy to lands generally unknown to Westerners except for government personnel.

Everything was strange, an adventure, and we were so lucky to have this opportunity.

Tom and I took exciting trips – New Zealand, Antarctica, South America, Indonesia, South Pacific Isles, Norwegian fiords, Western Europe, and others – the most memorable were our family travels.

What comes to mind is Lake Louise and Banff where the water was possibly an icy 50°. As we approached a particularly scenic spot, we parked our car, piled out and surveyed Canada’s beauty. Suddenly, one of us dared anyone to jump in, and that catapulted into a succession of like-minded nuts among us to do just that. We peeled off our outer clothes, and one by one, jumped into freezing water while avoiding jutting rocks ‒ everyone hysterical with laughter.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Our most unearthly voyage took place in Antarctica where our ship docked daily. We explored islands completely uninhabited, save colonies of seals and penguins. On one of these islands, mounds of tussock grass barred our vision so that our group splintered into numerous lost, scattered passengers. I was completely alone, but fortunately I bumped into Tom on a beach studded with slippery volcanic rocks. We were LOST. But way in the distance we saw red jacketed people lined up to make their way to our ship.

By that time we were exhausted and speaking for myself, I was flat on my back and physically unable to trek one inch. Tom was my hero. He dragged me by the back of my jacket hood a good twenty minutes to the zodiacs, the small boats which ferried us to the ship. We were the very last people to return – and scared we were, suspecting that the less than efficient staff of the ship would likely not miss us for a scary hour? A day? Or more? That was a monstrous thought....

With Penguins

Our family foray to Costa Rica was among the most popular vacations. We hiked perilous paths overlooking the Pacific, Sam fell often with legs splayed 180 degrees, we swam in the Pacific while Billy dragged me through the shallow waters, we luxuriated in natural springs, we ziplined, everybody but me roped up and down cliffs, Marc carried me across a perilous stream to the foot of an amazing waterfall, I found mice in the bathroom while suffering from an excess of fruit and could not get off the pot, a tarantula occupied my sneaker and Melanie found spiders and other

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To The Present wildlife in her clothes. Our final stop was Wendy’s friend’s animal rehabilitation site where monkeys jumped onto our shoulders while we were approaching in a little boat, AND I got bitten by a monkey whom I had offended by stepping between her and her niece. We remember “Lallo” who escorted us into his “house” and fed us baked beans and rice, then led us on a trek through the jungle while he chopped down branches with his machete, all the while warning us to look out for wild animals, but “it is worth it, wait till you see the waterfall.”

Marc carried me across rows of slippery rocks to view this steep waterfall while the crazy kids climbed to the top, blithefully ignoring my pleas to NOT DO THAT. Easter Island was utterly wonderful. Jason ran ahead as we crisscrossed large swaths of beautiful grass to see the moais. And he made

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE an audible impression atop a mountain so that our guide, Hugo, will never forget us. The Atacama Desert was lunar, a perfect place for star gazing, amazing for hiking, early morning hot springs, (and a unique, sophisticated hotel made of brown lava). I even saw Saturn with my bare eyes glued to a telescope. The sky was filled completely with stars, it was enchanting.

A trip to Washington to see Madeleine while she was at Georgetown Law School was unforgettable (see Appendix).

Dashing with suitcases through Costa Rica New York’s subway stations, Natalie, Richard, Michael and I nearly missed our train to D.C. – which we jumped on as it was literally leaving. We loved our stay at the historic Willard Hotel, and wonderful Natalie brought me bagels each morning. Richard, my roommate, will not let me forget that the ice for my aching knees flooded his bed. Michael and I had a special tour of the White House since I had jumped the long line in a freezing blizzard by requesting a wheelchair. I grabbed Michael and we saw sights unavailable to regular tourists – like the kitchen and the part of the White House which had burned long ago.

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To The Present Another wonderful spot – Bora Bora, where we found that doing nothing beat doing anything. Our wooden hut lay over the water, and Melanie

and Madeleine jumped off our dock and joined the fish underneath – which we could view through our glass floor.

Other than the fact that I had diarrhea and slept in a “bed” diagonally attached to the wall, I had a lovely time and learned how to sleep suspended along a 45° angle.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE

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To The Present On the subject of trips, some of the most unforgettable were taken with my cousin Paul.

These included Rome where we spent five beauteous days of shopping, eating pasta and basking in the ancient culture and beauty of this unique city. Additionally, we took a theatre trip to London, as well as a week in Dubai. There, Paul arranged a three-bedroom suite for us in the Luxury Collection Grosvenor House hotel where we ate breakfast every day outside on the hotel balcony overlooking this fairy-tale city and the Persian Gulf. Highlights Al Ahara Restaurant included a desert adventure, the new Louvre and Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque in Abu Dhabi, swimming in the warm waters of the Persian Gulf, six hours of shopping in “Saga” (a magnificent store ‒ renovated palace ‒ during which Paul fell asleep three times while I shopped), and dining at the Burj Al Arab, ‒ one night at Al Iwan, an opulent Arabic restaurant, and another at Nathan Outlaw’s famous Al Ahara restaurant, where the dining room is completely surrounded (walls and ceiling) by a huge aquarium.

Al Iwan Restaurant Additionally, since Paul lives in Thailand, I spent a colorful day with him while on a trip to the Orient. He hired a driver and guide who took us to a three-headed elephant museum, Jim Thompson’s charming house, and a hotel where he spends numerous weekends in a luxurious suite.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Paul visits me frequently in Purchase and we keep in touch often, despite the distance. He is one of my favorite and best cousins-friends-substitute brothers – he is always there for me, we confide in each other and I am truly grateful. He even orders appliances online for me and arranges discounted plane tickets! Please see the Appendix for more on Paul, a person to whom I owe unlimited gratitude, love and respect. Further, he was indispensable in helping to compile this book which, thanks to him, looks professional. We hope!

Wat Traimit Temple of the Golden Buddha

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To The Present

In the Arabian Desert Page 101

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE So here I am at the end of 2020. I have omitted more than I care to admit and in so doing, realize how full my life has been. A temporary interruption was a bout of pancreatic cancer in 2013 which I thankfully beat, but it necessitated draconian surgery and six months of chemotherapy.

Despite the odds, I never feared the worst and undoubtedly went into delicious denial. I simply surrendered to the whole ordeal. Besides, I had a bevy of friends and family who thankfully never left me alone. And I sported a stunning wig!

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To The Present TO THOSE WHO DESERVE THE MOST THANKS: MY FAMILY

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here has been no greater reward than my family. It has been joyful to watch them develop their full lives and achievements, pleasures, relationships, evolving life changes and loyalty to each other and to me. As I summarize some key points, I have omitted many dates since I never remember any!

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My Family: Wendy

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tarting with the oldest, Wendy, the only girl… and what a girl!

Shortly after my divorce, we moved to Westchester. The changes that occurred were very hard on her for many reasons ‒ further, she was suddenly in a new household with four brothers. Attending public school did not work well for her, and she transferred to Rye Country Day in the middle of the tenth grade. Immediately, she thrived. New girlfriends, new boyfriends, and as always, she was a fine student. She attended Trinity College, loved it and remains friendly with several college classmates. Next, she worked in public relations in New York City, met a boy named Marc, moved to San Diego to reside with him, and married him when he (finally) proposed! Wendy and Marc have three children whom Wendy mothered like a pro, as did Marc. Great parents!

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Today, Wendy is an Assistant Professor at University of California San Diego. Drawing on her Ph.D. degree, she specializes in treating elderly patients with various mental health disorders.

She was part-time there for many years, being a Mom of three, but recently the “powers that be” recognized her talents and offered her a big promotion to a nearly full-time position. Now she is on a late-career fast track, receiving regular kudos, raises, and bonuses. AND with it all, has time for a universe of girlfriends, travels, exercises, walks the dog, gets massages, cooks up a storm, entertains, is in a book club… and I haven’t even begun. But the best thing I saved for last – Wendy is a model daughter, available to me and her siblings at all times, empathetic, wise, kind – and exceedingly generous. She cooks for us all, plans family trips, and could not have produced more perfect children. I don’t think I could have asked for more.

However, I cannot complete my thoughts about Wendy without mention of our trip to Israel and Egypt. In celebration of her graduation from college, the two of us joined a UJA Mission. After an inspirational stint around Israel, we flew to Cairo – where we voluntarily chaperoned an elderly Jewish woman called Mamala, who was Wendy’s Ph.D. Thesis travelling alone on the UJA trip and then to Egypt. At that time, peace with Israel had not yet been formally established. How could we not look after Mamala, especially after touring Israel together? With halting English, she called Wendy “Cindy” and me “Margaret” – and mourned for her two friends, killed

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My Family: Wendy in concentration camps, while we sailed in “feluccas” to Mohammed’s Tomb outside of Luxor. I believe she slept in our room one night. We wanted to take care of her, Mamala – “our Jewish mama.”

That trip was not without strange incidents: Wendy and I were “treated” to a visit to our guide’s friend’s “penis house” which was bedecked with phallic symbols over the front portal, through the garden and surrounding landforms. On another occasion, Wendy ate bad hamburger at a local restaurant, and I use the term “restaurant” loosely since parrots inhabited hanging bird cages and the “popular” hangout was bedecked with filthy “whatever’s” wherever the eye landed. That night, we attended a Sound and Light Show, during which Wendy felt sick from her “lunch.” So, in place of walking with me to the Show, she had hitched a ride with our accommodating tour guide and promptly thanked him by vomiting all over his car. In Cairo, our luxurious hotel was huge, crowded with sheiks clothed in white abayas ‒ who physically shoved us women aside so they could enter the elevators first. Yet, our room “bellboy” was far more admiring of “us” Western ladies and brought us flowers, sweet words and submissive bows.

Wendy and I still giggle about highlights of that trip.

Many years after our initial trip to Israel and Egypt, Wendy and I visited Israel a second time. We took Madeleine and Melanie when they were quite young, probably ages 7 and 10. While educational in nature, the trip also contained colorful experiences specific to us. Our tour guide was named Gershon whom I involuntarily and invariably called Gershwin – one time, confused by crowds of swarming tourists at an underground maze of religious sites, I yelled out “Gershwin, HELP!!” ‒ sending Madeleine into hysterics. On another occasion, we traversed an underground tunnel which required acrobatic balancing to cross extremely slippery rocks. Adding to the extreme discomfort, my entire forearm and hand were immobilized in a cast.

Because there were no steps and I was definitely too old for this exercise, Madeleine saved my life by going in front of me and walking backwards, grabbing my arms, and guiding me through almost an hour of torture.

After Israel, we went to London where bizarre adventures outdid any experiences which we had undergone heretofore. One morning, on our way to the Tower of London, we were warned by a passerby not to take the tube

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE (subway), that “something strange was happening.” Thus, we hopped on a bus which went a block before unexpectedly unloading us. People looked confused, transportation was stopped, and we were going around in circles.

“Rumors” circulated that a terrorist attack had struck one or two subways as well as buses. Unfortunately, the “rumors” were true. (One of the subways, we calculated, was probably the one we had intended to board before we were warned otherwise.) As Madeleine, only around 10 years old, bellowed: “We are leaving, we are not stopping, and Grandma, NO SHOPPING,” we determined to walk directly to our hotel several miles across the other side of London. Going past Buckingham Palace, we saw bobbies surrounding the area as well as uniformed men on motorbikes streaking by. Enough was enough – we were hungry and thus interrupted our trek, stopping at a restaurant for lunch. Exiting onto the street, we saw bewilderment and confusion everywhere. The only recourse was to escape into Harrods – which we did without a moment’s hesitation. We finally arrived at our hotel after a full day’s walking. Exhausted, Melanie and I relished a perfect pasta dinner at a nearby charming restaurant. Following, we collapsed. But not Wendy… after a weird, utterly tiring day, she actually schlepped Madeleine on the subway to visit her college professor who lived outside the city in a suburb!

But nothing outdid the lice incident. The four of us had been infected with tiny black bugs jumping all over our scalps. We sought help immediately. But the closest hospital was cordoned off with yellow ropes, having been designated a danger zone associated with the terrorist attack.

When we finally gained admittance, the doctor who diagnosed the problem as lice, literally raced away from us with the admonition “Those bugs jump, I’m outta here.” However, we obtained medicine from a drugstore which required a four-step process including application, shower, another application, final shower. Making matters worse, our hotel rooms were on different floors separated by a long flight of stairs. Since my right hand and wrist were immobilized by a pre-surgical cast, I was of no use, leaving all the work to Wendy – who had to apply multi-stage treatments to four people on two separate floors. After several hours of medicinal marathons and running up and down the stairs, poor Wendy deserved the medal of honor.

Yet, the problem was, excepting me, the three of them had long hair – with the result that the lice treatment failed. It was only upon returning to

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My Family: Wendy California, after Wendy ordered special lice treatment online, that her efforts were finally rewarded and the lice were defeated!

Wendy & Marc’s Wedding

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My Family: Billy

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ow to Billy, the firstborn son who arrived a few years after Wendy’s birth, and now lives here in Westchester, thank the good lord. While my other two children are in California, I am so grateful for Billy’s attentiveness and common sense. It has been with great pride that I have watched his 30-year plus career blossom. A graduate of Cornell University, he has a Bachelor’s degree in Civil Engineering and a Master’s degree in Structural Engineering. Initially, Billy worked in Salt Lake City on structural analysis and design of roller coasters, applying his expertise in track design and construction. It was in Salt Lake City that he met Natalie. She used to call him her “friend…” at first a platonic relationship, then marriage.

Now in New York, he is Vice President and Division Chief (the driving force) of the entertainment division at McLaren Engineering. Billy Page 111

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE has engineered and overseen thousands of projects involving action equipment, stage sets, theatrical rigging, architectural theming and the like. Examples are some of the world’s largest live theatres, concert touring sets, amusement attractions, casinos, magic shows, the Moscow Circus, shopping centers and the list goes on from Broadway to Las Vegas to Macau. His standout projects include the Dancing Cranes in Singapore, the two flying stages for Cirque du Soleil, Walt Disney World theme park, Universal Studios and Seaworld. Further, he designed the whole show set and staging for tours of Beyoncé, the Rolling Stones, Taylor Swift, Queen, Pink and other notables. Billy has been the exclusive structural engineer to the largest owner of Broadway theaters, Shubert, upgrading their theatrical infrastructure to support modern productions and improve safety. Billy has also been instrumental in writing technical standard for the entertainment industry, including updating the far-reaching live event standard and authoring world’s first comprehensive standard for performer flying.

After 9/11, his firm was hired to oversee the engineering effort and inspect all standing buildings in the area. Quoting Billy, “The scene is unimaginable and surreal. When I have been at National Parks, I am in awe.

This surpasses awe and makes a 360° turn. It is so immense and seemingly absurd that you just accept it.” Further, I remember Billy telling me that he enabled an elderly man to access his high floor office and reclaim some personal items. He said that he was close to tears as bystanders cheered and applauded these hard hat workers. In 2018, the New York State Society of Professional Engineers awarded Bill “The Engineer of The Year” as one of the top global experts in entertainment engineering. Is it any wonder?

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My Family: Billy A quote from one of Billy’s employees when he left the firm: “You hired me when I knew absolutely nothing, fought to keep me from being let go, and taught me everything I know about engineering, project management and how to be a good boss. I’ve gained not only from your technical ability and insights but the way you motivate and care about people, work around people’s weaknesses and rely on their strengths. Every single person in our division will tell you that you are the best boss they have ever had.”

After Billy graduated from Cornell, he and I took a trip to Nepal, India, and Kashmir.

Billy, in his early twenties, was the youngest member of our tour. As he helped with peoples’ suitcases, befriended everyone, criticized me for not befriending everyone, and made amusing comments, Billy was a favorite member of the group. After two sleepless days of travel from New York to Nepal, our group members happily rested in their rooms for the whole day. However, Billy immediately dragged me to a “monkey temple,” then to the center of Kathmandu where we bargained for necklaces, art, and sweaters. That night, I collapsed right after dinner ‒ while Billy went for a long walk, met a young member of the hotel staff and visited the man’s rural home.

On a visit to an elephant training camp on the Indian border, Billy participated in bathing the elephants in a stream. He laughed uncontrollably when an elephant passed air, causing a large wave of water to wash over him.

When a guru stood on his head, crossed his legs and waved his whole body, Carlos (a young Cuban man in our group) yelled out “That’s good for the honeymoon night!” at which Billy all

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE but fell over with laughter. When an Indian pilot landed our plane with major bumps, Billy said loudly “I should kick him in the ass,” thereby delighting our fellow passengers.

While in Kashmir, we lived in historic house boats from which Billy loved riding in colorful “taxis” at the foot of the Himalayas. He also relished a nighttime adventure which took us down winding alleys and over rooftops to a rug store, where we both bought silk rugs which we use even to this day. When we went to Tharu Village, a primitive community which we reached by boat and then crossing a large field of grass by foot, the lodging could not accommodate all of us. We chose numbers out of a hat, knowing that there would be one loser who would not sleep in a room. Billy was the unlucky “chooser,” so we slept in a primitive hut with an even more primitive outhouse. It was particularly unfortunate for me as diarrhea hit with a vengeance that night. It was also unfortunate for me on another occasion when Billy refused to kill a huge, disgusting locust which invaded our hotel room – this precipitated a shouting match between mother and son, followed by commentary the next morning among guests: “Did you hear those crazy people shouting vulgar comments in the middle of the night?” Ugh! We had a great, unique experience. I am sure that Billy remembers other anecdotes, including him giving all our badly needed cans of tuna to Wendy’s friend whom we amazingly bumped into at Varanasi, i.e., the Ganges. Billy dragged himself to see the Taj Mahal although he was so exhausted in Agra that he rested for two days in the famous pink Maharaja’s palace/hotel. While I felt quite sorry for him, I went shopping for gorgeous Indian jewelry in an exotic shop, so it wasn’t a complete loss!

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My Family: Douglas

Tayer Wedding

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ext subject: Douglas, the youngest, is a quintessential ally and friend. He was, I think, three years old when we moved to Rye, where he went to a preschool program at the Purchase Community House. He adjusted very well to his new surroundings and seemed perfectly happy, getting lots of attention as “the baby.” It was when we went to a hockey game – and Doug, probably age 8 or so, jumped up and strummed on a toy guitar each time there was a goal – that his future as a musician was predictable. In junior high and high school, his bedroom was a young musician’s paradise, consisting of drums and any loud instruments worth naming, emanating painfully loud noise/music/songs which drove Tom crazy since he was a nut for quiet.

Doug continues to exercise his lifetime passion in the music field. He

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE captivated guests and the hired band at Wendy’s and Marc’s wedding as he borrowed Marc’s guitar and played his heart out.

An accomplished guitarist of various genres – rock, jazz, blues – he built a state of the art recording studio in his Hollywood Hills home. Always updating it with the latest equipment and technologies, he named his studio Hollyview Sound. It features an abundance of vintage instruments, amplifiers and recording equipment.

Realizing that “State of the art recording in a natural environment where inspiration is everything,” Doug installed an SSL console as the centerpiece of the studio. As he put it, “In pursuit of my ultimate Hollyview goal, I knew there was no other HollyviewSound Sound way to go – when you’re in a tuned room with an SSL console, it becomes obvious what is wrong with a track or mix. I decided to make this a contribution back to the music business: to make the classic sound right again.”

With a breathtaking view of Laurel Canyon, musicians, friends and students record music sessions in a natural, lush environment. Doug has often been the engineer in these sessions. He is also master chef for his many constant guests who revel in their luck: great cuisine and great music. He has composed scores of original, heartfelt songs and has sent me a number of CDs which I continue to play.

On another subject, Doug was the manager of the primary family investment vehicle. Ron Vinder, our financial analyst, got it right: “From my understanding Doug got involved in the family’s finances shortly before I did around 2012. Although Doug did not come from a financial background,

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My Family: Douglas he has taken the time to learn the family’s financials. He asked many questions because he wants a full understanding of how the monetary moves are invested and work together. I strongly believe that today Doug understands the monies as well as anyone does. He looks through every detail. Most don’t want to spend the time or energy figuring this all out.

Doug has done that and the family is far better off for it. He has found mistakes that other advisors have made and has gone through the steps in correcting them. He leaves no stone unturned and has remained conservative which serves our family well.”

As for me, I was relieved that this managerial job was taken over by Doug who took this responsibility very seriously as he was doing a service for the family. He was regularly in touch with the lawyer, accountant and advisors. In Doug’s words: “Helping your family can be a very rewarding and satisfying experience. When the opportunity presented itself, I jumped at the chance. My mother has always done everything in her power to help her kids in so many ways, and now it was my turn to assist her in regards to the family business. In the last decade or so, the family business transitioned from real estate into more liquid assets like equities and other similar investments. There are a lot of investments and transactions to follow daily. So, I became the manager of our family business, and attend to these duties daily. While my mother used to deal with most of these oversights, it was now my turn to watch over the

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE investments and transactions, making sure the financial advisors are in line and acting in the family’s best interest. Of course, my role was based on common sense rather than financial expertise. A manager means watching other people’s money, not just your own. This can be stressful and certainly makes one pay close attention to current events as well as politics. It has been a great experience for me to help the family, especially my mother, and I will continue to be vigilant, moving forward in protecting the family as best I can.”

A special THANK YOU is due to Doug who wears many hats. In addition to his role as financial manager, he is not only my son but one of my best friends. He’s also my computer expert, always exhibiting unlimited patience and skill. We talk several times a week, and have established a close relationship which transcends the usual mother-child connection. But now there’s another individual who has won Doug’s heart: Wonka, his beautiful, frisky and beloved Labrador retriever!

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Wonka

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My Family: Marc

Marc

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With Melanie endy’s husband, Marc, is the best sonin-law in the world… on top of that an incredibly innovative success story.

With all three children launched to college, Marc retired from a rewarding career in the business/tech world where he was an executive at General Instrument/Motorola for many years.

He won an Emmy for his role as team leader in developing the first digital TV system, globetrotted as head of international business, and then became a tech start-up entrepreneur.

In his “second career” he authored the book Televisionaries, about the digital TV revolution. In the words of Donald Rumsfeld, this book is “a welldocumented account of how American entrepreneurship and innovation transformed an entire industry.” Having contributed mightily to the forever changing media business, Marc was a regular radio show guest on Sirius XM’s Wharton Page 123

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Business Channel as well as on NPR. He has been active in theater for years, and was just named President of the Board of Directors of the North Coast Repertory Theatre in Solana Beach, California, near their home. In addition to his stellar career, he has been invaluable in aiding our family in estate planning and general finances. When there is a problem, this man jumps to our aid. Although he risks his life by surfing (and skiing), he is a great comfort and ally to all of us. This man is a prince.

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My Family: Marc

With His Mother

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My Family: Natalie

Natalie

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illy is matched only by his wife, Natalie, a sterling daughter-in-law, who truly excels in all that she does. She works as an occupational therapist in hospitals and other settings. She has held several top leadership positions on the Board of Directors at the Ossining Children’s Center for several years. She spent two years driving the conception and then the construction of the new home for the Center. Natalie was the Board member who was involved with every decision, weekly on-site project meetings, negotiations of every sort, and walking the site to examine progress and scrutinize the details. She did an amazing job on a project that will benefit families for generations to come.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE In addition to being a terrific chef (and very helpful in giving grill advice), she is super hospitable, a wonderful wife to my son, an enthusiastic hiker/tennis player/volleyball player – and best of all, a concerned mom who pitches in every time a mom is needed. During the coronavirus experience, Natalie bought food at the supermarket, washed, and distributed it to her Dad, me, and her own family. This was invaluable because otherwise, her Dad and I would have possibly risked our lives going to a food mart. Moreover, Natalie has formed very close relationships with our family. I could not have asked for a more reliable and giving daughter in law. Case in point: Recently when I needed a new car, without being asked, it was Natalie who carefully researched and located an ideal car, having taken the day off to drive me to the dealer and go through all needed steps. This is but one of the ways in which Natalie thinks of others always. She can borrow my clothes anytime!

Mark

With Her Mom

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Natalie

Sara

My Family: Madeleine AND NOW THE GRANDCHILDREN

Madeleine

M

adeleine is the eldest and fulfilled Grandpa Dick’s prophecy: “SHE will become a lawyer, and I would never want to come up against her in court!” Determined, directed, analytical ‒ she delayed her entry into this world, but once she did, she came out like a rocket.

I know because we were all there (with bated breath) in the San Diego Hospital – the only Jewish family amidst half of Central America. As such, we experienced a major world event as Wendy struggled to give birth.

Superstar soccer and softball player, Madeleine excelled in school, and went to the University of Michigan, where she achieved the distinction of Phi Beta Kappa. She studied abroad in Seville and taught school to kindergarteners in Hungary and Chile.

As an aside, I visited Madeleine for a Parents’ Weekend

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE while she was at the University of Michigan. Attending a class in Oceanography, I was the source of her extreme embarrassment, details NOT to follow! Before a terrific football game, we went to an outdoor fraternity tailgate party where Madeleine saw to it that I slurped much vodka from some hose, after which – feeling no pain, I climbed on top of the roof and danced.

After college, Madeleine attended Georgetown Law School, and was invited to join the Law Review. She started her law career as a litigator at Willkie Farr & Gallagher. I had the honor of attending her induction into the New York State Bar in a ceremony in the New York Appellate Division Courthouse. As she got sworn in, I was proud beyond description as tears flowed down my cheeks. Already, after less than two years in practice, she’s on a number of Supreme Court briefs!! She continues to be a tremendous source of love and satisfaction, as she embodies the best characteristics of her parents and grandparents.

She even wears lipstick and pearls on request!

And currently lives in Brooklyn with a wonderful man, Evan.

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My Family: Madeleine

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My Family: Melanie

Melanie

M

elanie was born with an empathy gene. Even as an eight-year-old, she manifested her innate capacity to care for others.

Instinctively, I think of one of our trips, when due to an injured hand I wore a tightly fitting customized brace. It was Melanie who removed and replaced it so that I could shower. Each time, she stroked my hand and patted my head, frequently inquiring about the pain.

Multi-talented, she won MVP for best defense on her high school field hockey team. Braving the freezing cold, she dumped California for Maine and attended Bates College where she earned top grades. She studied in Florence for a semester and raved about her experiences there. Melanie moved to Seattle for a year to take courses as prerequisites for graduate education in nursing and attained the highest grades, as usual.

Her next adventure took her to Guatemala to participate in a medical program assisting in medical facilities.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Again, she ventured out alone – knew no one – and wrapped herself around a new culture and unknown people. Recently, this girl had the distinction of being accepted by the most acclaimed graduate nursing schools in the country. She chose Penn – and turned down Yale, Columbia and Johns Hopkins!!! Her A+ grades landed her a summa cum laude graduation distinction and she intends to become a Physicians Assistant. The highest of praises goes to Mels. She is brave, loves each and every venture, throws herself into new pursuits – is Madeleine’s personal shopper, makes delish brownies, has distinctive style in clothes, and is beloved with good reason.

Melanie’s Bat Mitzvah

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My Family: Melanie

Melanie’s Bat Mitzvah

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My Family: Jason

Jason

J

ason never brags, but he could!!!

Kindness, intelligence, good looks, Ali & Jason work ethic, ambition and sense of humor ‒ these define Jason. He has eaten at every memorable restaurant worldwide, or so it seems, and photographs each meal ‒ in fact he has an online culinary presence. Currently at Emory University, in order to compensate for the “horrible” college food, he worked as a host at a Jewish deli by announcing that he was Jewish and loved to eat. He joined Hillel, partook in extracurricular activities, is Ali and Jason majoring in economics and “minoring” in environmental studies. He even pulled off all A’s (and possibly one B+) in his freshman year.

Further, he studied coral reefs in the Cooke Islands – only one of the extensive travel destinations he has visited. On the subject of travel, many years ago during our trip to the Grand Canyon, Wendy had underestimated the need for adequate accommodations, reserving only two log cabins instead of the needed three (or four). This unfortunate oversight resulted in Jason’s

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE sisters sleeping atop each other, Sam squeezing in wherever possible, and Jason himself sleeping on the floor of his parents’ room.

One morning, I greeted his sleeping family and accidentally stepped on a blanket strewn on the floor – ’cept it was Jason himself, and toppling over, I was caught between hysterics and fear of breaking a bone.

We all recovered, got Susan her needed daily coffee, and hiked the rim of the North Canyon. An addendum: Wendy’s choice of accommodation for us in Las Vegas, our next stop, actually exceeded the bizarre arrangements at the Grand Canyon. We stayed at a “hotel,” the Stratosphere, that made a refugee camp look luxurious. How can we forget the bums in the casino, the never-ending flashing neon lights, the degenerate character of the entire establishment!!!!

C’mon, Jason, -- Let’s GO !!

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My Family: Jason

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My Family: Richard

Richard

R

ichard: such a special person and an appreciative, loyal friend – a wonderful young man. From the get-go, Richard and I developed a unique relationship. He loved going to the American Museum of Natural History where he knew more than I did (often) – especially in the Planetarium.

When we lunched in the cafeteria, he confided in me his feelings about friends and school.

He was lonely as a young boy… but now says “I am no longer that boy in the cafeteria.” He often stayed overnight at our house and freaked out when a spider appeared near his bed. He was an avid reader, tree climber and excellent eater. (Today he is best turkey cutter AND accomplished chef, only two of the reasons why I love having him for dinner.)

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE surgery, Billy, Natalie AND Richard were there, and as semi-conscious as I was, I recall my feeling of pure delight at seeing my loyal Richard… Billy and Nat, I was very happy to see you too!

But back to Richard’s life: he attended Cherry Gulch School in Idaho, a school designed to assist boys with various types of challenges. Richard adjusted (he threw his parents out as soon as he entered the school front door), made significant progress, and was described to me by his mentor, Ryan, as “a wonderful boy.”

Richard spent over a year at SUNY in New Paltz, took summer courses as well, then discontinued his education there but remained in the vicinity with his friends. While at college, he worked in scenic design shops where he excelled, since his engineering acumen far exceeded his actual job description.

Recently, he has been working as an arborist with a group of men who admire Richard’s knowledge in botany and aligned sciences. In his journey to “find himself” in a satisfying occupation and rewarding life, Richard has made many choices befitting his talents: rock climbing, skiing, hiking, ice climbing, assisting people in need of guidance, chef – Richard, whose IQ is off the charts, may have some unknowns in his future – but that future holds rewarding surprises and successes for a confident man named Richard Gorlin.

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My Family: Michael

Michael

A

nd now – Michael! This gentleman spent his first weeks in an incubator as a preemie. Michael has always been surrounded by a bevy of friends. He had Richard to play with as well, and developed super social talents. This is a happy, good looking young man who charms without even trying. His real love was Camp Walt Whitman where he spent five summers. His hiking included the White Mountains of New Hampshire including summiting Mt. Washington four times and hiking the whole Presidential Range in one day. Michael joins his family in constant hikes and nature walks – as well as snow removal, mandated by Billy.

For quite some time, his passion for music has exceeded all other pursuits. He started playing saxophone in the fourth grade and auditioned to be trained at the Lagond Music School at age 13. He trained with Charlie Lagond, an accomplished musician and peer of Michael Brecker. In middle school, he joined the school band and was moved up to the high school jazz band in seventh grade. A member of the music honor society, Michael was in the River Towns Jazz Band and in the Westchester All-County Jazz Band.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Currently, he and Yuval, his girlfriend, attend McGill University in Montreal, where he is in the Jazz Performance Program. Loving the saxophone, he often uses Michael Brecker’s instrument – as well as a piano which sits in his home in Briarcliff. At McGill he has formed a funk style band to supplement his required jazz ensemble and big band. Michael has talent – I have heard him play and can sense his heart, which is solidly in the music he plays. I wish him a beautiful career and music-filled life to which he is heading – he is already making an album!

I have particularly enjoyed our dinners and walks together. We have talked about family matters, friends, and life in general. He doesn’t hold back, and his honesty and insights make time with him most rewarding. I particularly remember him and Richard many years ago playing on the floor of the upstairs bedroom.

They were little kids and spent hours with Lego, toy soldiers, blocks, and countless toys – all of which they ultimately cleaned up years later, much to my delight!

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My Family: Michael

Natalie Michael Richard Sam

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Yuval

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Michael

My Family: Michael Michael Gorlin Irwin 4 ELA 6 11/14/11

Yellow

I hung on for dear life knowing this was my last chance to live....

I rowed peacefully along. The smell of the green morning dew on the land filled me with joy. The bords chirping made me want to laugh out loud, but I couldn’t because I was fishing. If I made a sound the birds would go crazy and scare the fish away. “Go cast at 10 degrees to the starboard position!” My grandpa croaked. “What!?” I yelled. Even though I had just scared away all the fish, my grandpa instructed. “Turn right and cast out 40 feet!” I did as he said. My lure hit the water with a little plop.

I waited a little bit. Almost out of the blue I got a tiny nibble. Then the madness started. I blinked, and magically, I was on a rowboat in the middle of the ocean. A gigantic storm was in the midst of happening. The waves were crashing at heights of 10 feet. Some were even bigger. I had changed too. I was in a yellow deep sea coat. I had yellow waterproof pants that went up to my shoulder. The only problem was that they weren’t so water proof. The waves crashed over my boat and the hail and the rain

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE made it hard to see. From all this water my clothes were destroyed in minutes. After I had, had my fill of sea sickness I saw him. Or was he an it? The fish had splashed through the water and one moment he was there and one moment he was gone. I now had this burning fire in me to catch the monster Cold salty water stung my eyes as I looked for my for again. In my hand I clutched my rod and cast as far as it would go. I couldn’t see my lure now. All I could see was my metal line across the water. The rest of it was probably 40 feet down, miles away from me. He was messing with me. I started reeling in my bait. It was probably 200 yards out. 20 feet in the fish started to swim back out to sea. “Yarraghu!!” I screamed in a battle cry. I ran off the bow of my small boat and grabbed the fishes’ tail.

He wriggled all about. He twisted my arm in a 360 rotation. Howling in pain I started to drag him through the water. I took one hand on my boat.

Pulling with exerted strength I got my legs on the boat. Quickly I got my net over him. Letting go he pulled me all over my boat. Almost horizontal on the side of my boat I heard a huge crack. My leg was broken. The world got darker. I guess I had forgotten about the titanic wave because it was crashing over me. In a second the world was water. It was as black as night. I needed nothing. I forgot about the fish clenched in my fist. I held on my boat underwater forever. I started to black out. I wasn’t under the Page 162

My Family: Michael water in my eyes. I gasped for breath but it was only water. In the rushing madness of water I was still alive. I hung on for dear life knowing this was my last chance to live. I opened my eyes and saw the yellow of my coat.

The color reminded me I was still alive. In a rush of mad desperation I pulled my body, my boat, and my new fish, above the surface into lushes, wonderful air. I couldn’t take in enough of it. I looked down at the bottom of the boat. What I saw overjoyed me to the point of falling. I had the fish! I guessed in all that water the net and the fish got tangled together where the fish was hopelessly stuck. “Yeeeeeeesssssss!!!!!!!” I shouted joylessly.

My scream echoed over the sound of the storm, waves and ocean.

In the blink of an eye I was back home. I was on the little mucky pond. It was sunny. My leg wasn’t broken. The birds were chirping. I was back in my orange Walt Witmen shirt with my light tan hat and dark tan pants. The only thing that was strange is that I still had my 13 inch small mouth bass. I rowed back in. “Very good! Very good indeed!” my grandpa chuckled happily. I was speechless. I picked up the fish. “I’ll get the camera!” my grandpa shouted.

As he snapped that picture I experienced magic. The flash of the camera stopped in time. Everything was white. I relaxed that throughout my whole adventure I didn’t give up. The odds were wrong. I never gave up.

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Herb Reich

HERB REICH

I

t was shortly after my husband Tom died in 2017 that I met Herb Reich. A coincidental meeting between my daughter, Wendy, and Herb’s daughter, Amanda, resulted in our being “fixed up,” ergo he called me out of the blue and we met. It only took around three dates for the chemistry between us to take effect, and a bombshell was born. He had been widowed for nine years and had learned to live alone in ways which less independent people might not have achieved. Although he adored his children and grandchild, he was resigned to his solitary way of life in his home in Hastings, New York. So I really do not know why he called me.

Apparently he initially hesitated, so I emailed the absolute best picture of me to Wendy who somehow got it to Herb, and I believe that inspired him to contact me.

We spoke for over an hour on the first phone conversation, and I recognized a fascinating and diverse intellect, gracious person and hopefully a good date! We first met at what we later referred to as “our restaurant.” We ate Chinese food (which he wanted incessantly), and the magic began.

During the first five minutes, he leaned over his outstretched elbows and declared with enthusiasm: “You are so attractive!” Five minutes later, he repeated the same declaration. I invited him to a performance at SUNY and kissed him on the cheek when we went to our cars.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE for an explanation, which came down to “chemistry.” Later we realized we had an inexplicable number of characteristics in common. Herb stimulated me, amused me, flattered me, and he didn’t fool around – very early on he said “You know, we don’t have much time” ‒ and on another occasion said “I have a feeling this is going to be a long drawn-out affair” – we became lovers. He called me “his woman” and I called him “my boyfriend.” We took care of each other, confided in one another, talked for hours, relishing each other’s company no matter the subject. We loved each other without restraint.

This was a genuinely content person… mired in pragmatism, wisdom, without any pretension, ‒ he knew what was important and what was not.

Herb knew who he was and what he was about. Further, I never heard a nasty word from him in 24 months – I told him he had a tact gene, he was gentle, adoring, and totally ignored everything he did not want to do – like a cluttered garage, would not get a Life Alert, had stale food in his refrigerator, never tucked in his shirt, and was absolutely delicious. As we hugged, we defined “the perfect fit”… we were home.

He referred to us as “Love Among The Ruins” as we struggled to get out of our cars. He told me that I talked too much, and we both giggled. We brought each other little gifts, and all his cards were signed “To My Love.” I raced to my phone each time I entered my house and treasured the ensuing phone call. We went on three trips during our time together, – Philadelphia, New Orleans and Boston. He was treasuring the idea of a River Cruise or a trip to Paris or Rome, past travels he had made with his beloved wife. Our recently planned trip to Washington was cancelled but we were planning another in May. Herb wrote six books mainly disproving facts we were taught in school. For example: “Lies They Teach in School, Exposing the Myths Behind 250 Commonly Believed Fallacies,” “101 Things that Piss Me Off and Thousands of Other Things That SUCK Just As Much,” “2501 Things That Really Piss Me Off, a Catalogue of Insults and Intrusions That Are Sure to Ruin My Day,” “Numberpedia: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know (and a Few Things You Didn’t) About Numbers.” Additionally, he served as Senior Editor at John Wiley & Sons for 15 years, approving publication of a manuscript which won the National Book Award.

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Herb Reich Herb was an invited contributor to several editions of The Random House Dictionary of the English Language and the Corsini Encyclopedia of Psychology. After completing a Ph.D. in Psychology, he edited and chose publications for educational books for professional psychologists. Moreover, the Westchester Advertising Club bestowed on Herb the award for writing the best radio ads for three running years.

This Renaissance man also wrote comedy over many years for the NBC-TV Comedy Hour, delighting us with his hilarious lines on any number of our favorite shows. His colleagues and friends included Mel Brooks, Neil Simon, Woody Allen, Milton Berle, Jonathan Winters – and countless others who became famous in the early days of live TV in New York. Also sent to work in Hollywood, Herb joined a group of “comedic royalty” – his experiences never failed to delight me, and I made him repeat them over and over.

As my son Billy put it, Herb wasn’t just some old guy. When he greeted you, he did it as if he had known you his whole life. He made you feel like you were the only person in the room. He had a hysterical sense of humor and loved jokes, -- the dirtier the better! Brilliant and stimulating, he was a pleasure to be with. He was crazy about my mother, and it didn’t take long before it felt like he was a member of the family.

I adored him. And I feel blessed to have been his closest friend, uniquely in tune with each other, in his final years. This impish sweetheart of a man died the way he lived – with quiet pleasures, self-confidence, and infinite love for those he treasured.

He was stardust.

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In addition to everything else, Herb was a funny and creative wordsmith. Here is some of his work: A bicycle built for two is such That I really don’t enjoy it much When I sit in front I always hear Directions coming from the rear But if I choose to sit in back A view of what’s ahead I lack Any future tandem that I ride Will have the seats side by side.

Mary, Queen of Scots Admitted having hots For the royal throne of Britain But as it came to pass She should have gone to Mass Then headed home to do her knittin’ Instead She lost her head For being smitten, it is written

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Herb Reich

He bragged he had a corner on the market He said it to impress her While hoping to undress her As he attempted to suborn her In response she wisely told him to “Go park it.”

She knew just what he was A low-down lying scuzz He really had a corner on the market.

A deer can be a dear to another deer But be aware they share a hidden feature They are not really as coy as they appear For in truth the deer’s a sexual creature When you see one in the forest on the go Watch quietly and learn what it will do If a he you’ll see him try to make some doe If a she she’ll try to pick up a buck or two

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Appendix A PERSONAL NOTE

A

s for me, as I was re-reading this Memoir, I realized that my superlatives might seem exaggerated and unrealistic. However, what I write is what I feel – my pride is reflected in my writing. I love you all and wish you the best, the brightest, and the opportunities to fulfill your dreams.

At age 85, I am not closing down as much as reflecting on my life.

Compared to many people, my experiences have been anything but dull.

Much turbulence and disruption have made big, not small, waves through it all. Many adventures, travels, happenings, two marriages, multiple opportunities have collectively produced a FULL and multi-faceted existence! Would I have chosen all of them? No way. Pancreatic cancer was not my first choice, to say nothing of multiple errors and missed opportunities which beset the best of us.

Yet, look at the counterbalance. I am, at present, in excellent health.

My family is doing unbelievably great in so many respects. We are financially privileged, therefore can exercise choices which would otherwise be unavailable. Most importantly, we all get along – and that is the big plus.

On a personal note, my “widowhood” has been seriously atypical! I met Herb Reich two months after Tom died – thanks to a “shittach” made by Wendy and Herb’s daughter in California. As a result, the past two years were a romance story, as two “oldies” found in each other a loving companion, unique friendship, and security unavailable to many people living alone. This new lease on life ended abruptly with Herb’s death on March 25, 2020.

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My journey in writing this Memoir led me to rediscover the rich fabric of our lives, for which I am deeply grateful.

I love you all!

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APPENDIX

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Appendix From my cousin, Paul: Margie and my mother were close when they were children, so it was probably inevitable that she and I would be seeing a lot of each other. And once she moved to Newton Centre, that made it easy. My first distinctly clear memory of a specific time with Margie was the night that she took me to the movies. My mother drove me over to her house (87 Gray Cliff Road in Newton Centre). Margie made dinner, then we were going to the movies.

She made vichyssoise. It was the first time I had had it, and I loved it. She served it cold, and to this day, I prefer it that way. I can actually still see her kitchen in my mind, sitting at the table, eating, etc. My memory of that evening is very clear. Then we went to the movie. In Cold Blood. Great movie. Turns out that she and I both like horror movies.

It’s funny how insignificant details sometimes stick in your mind. I used to ride my bicycle to Newton Centre on some Saturdays to have lunch with my father. Many times I also rode to Margie’s after lunch to visit, and she was always so happy to see me. I would just hang out with her for an hour or two, do errands with her, follow her around the house. She always made time for me, made me feel special to her. And she does to this day.

She eventually married Tom and moved to Rye. I graduated high school, went to Penn in Philadelphia, and I remember taking the train to Rye for many long weekends. Tom had a velvet easy chair in the den/sitting room, which I loved sitting in. I really liked Tom, and loved that he allowed me to sit in his chair. When I was there, they always had wine and cheese in the late afternoon. It was just a nice, relaxing time together, sitting around and talking. When I was in college, Margie’s house was my second home. I always slept in the same room upstairs, next to Wendy’s room. It felt so good to be there. Margie and Tom used to have grand New Year’s Eve parties. I went once. Tom knew that I liked wine; and at one point in the evening, he gathered me and two or three other people to go off into a side room where he opened a very special bottle of wine for us to enjoy. Tom was always very kind to me, and like Margie, always went out of his way to make me feel special.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE I continued my regular visits to Rye after college, and still visit Margie regularly today.

Tom didn’t really like movies, and Margie and I both do. Particularly trashy horror films. So when I was there, she and I often went to the movies. The one I remember most clearly was called He Knows You’re Alone, which was also Tom Hanks’ film debut. The scene that both Margie and I remember so clearly was, as described in Wikipedia, “Amy returns and is attacked by Ray after discovering Nancy’s severed head in the fish tank.”

When the head-in-the-fish-tank flashed on the screen, we both turned to each other, grabbed each other and screamed. I’ll never forget it! It’s the only time I’ve screamed in a movie!!

Margie and I travel together, too. One year, we met in Rome. Our flights were scheduled to get in around the same time, so we decided to meet in the airport. I walked into the baggage claim area of Fiumicino Airport, and there was Margie, sitting on her suitcase in the middle of the floor. The theme of that trip was saldi. Every time we walked by a store that had a SALDI sign in the window, Margie went in. And bought something.

We had the most wonderful dinner in Rome, at La Pergola Restaurant, the only three Michelin star restaurant in Rome, in what was then the Cavalieri Hilton (now the Rome Cavalieri Waldorf Astoria). The hotel is outside the city on a hill, and the restaurant is on the top floor of the hotel. We sat in the outside area on the roof, with a view over all of Rome. There was a string quartet playing by the pool on the ground below, and the music just wafted up to us. It was a such a lovely evening. We stayed at the top of the Spanish Steps in the Mediterraneo, next to the Hassler, in the cheapest rooms they had. Our rooms were next to each other. Walk-in closets are bigger than those rooms were.

A few years ago we were in Bangkok together for a day; she was in on a cruise that stopped in Bangkok. I set up a day of sightseeing and off we went! We saw and did so much. Erawan Museum (multi-story high threeheaded bronze elephant), Wat Traimit (Temple of the Golden Buddha), Jim Thompson House, and so much more. And, of course, shopping, as always.

Around five in the afternoon, we headed back to my hotel to wash up,

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Appendix Margie wanted to shower, I thought that we’d have a drink and relax a bit.

At least that was my idea. I was pretty well worn out; it had been a very full day. On the way back to the hotel, Margie only had one question for me, -where are we going next? I was dead tired; she, 20 years older, was, and is, indefatigable.

I have so many memories with Margie, it’s hard to select just a few from a lifetime. She is a wonderful cousin and friend. We talk about everything, from politics to religion to travel to food to our crazy family. We are silly with each other, laugh together, bounce ideas off each other. My life is so much better for having her in it.

Shopping in Dubai!

At the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque Abu Dhabi

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My amazing trip to Saudi Arabia inspired this article.

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In July, 2001, I traveled to Alaska with a Smith College Alumnae group. As the official reporter, I published the following in the Smith Alumnae Quarterly issue of Winter 2001/2002:

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With a student At the Hermitage

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Appendix

Inle Lake, a Sweet Memory of Burma By: Marjorie Gilbert Every few years, when a severe case of wanderlust strikes, I find myself yearning to travel to places both exotic and far away. This year, I chose the most unlikely destination I could imagine. I have long been entranced by Burma, now called Myanmar, and the thought of this striking and far removed place served as my recent adventure.

Although war torn and repressed, Burma would be certain to yield its remaining untouched beauty and colorful stories, and I was not disappointed. The entire trip was exceptional. But what captivated me the most was the magic of Inle Lake, a peaceful oasis dotted with floating vegetable and flower gardens, islands, fishermen and canals lined with wooden houses, making it one of the most picturesque places in all of Southeast Asia.

I came to this beautiful region while traveling with a private tour.

We traveled in comfort with two local guides who ushered us through endless whimsical pagodas, monasteries, peaceful teak forests and spicy, bustling restaurants. Although a single traveler among 15 strangers, I nonetheless felt at ease with these seasoned voyagers, who parenthetically tolerated my distinction as the only New Yorker.

Our approach to Inle Lake in Central Burma was directly preceded by a tour of Shan, the largest hill tribe state in Burma. The drive from Mandalay was a scenic privilege, revealing rough peaks and rugged river gorges. Along the way, we viewed women balancing heavy loads on their heads and men leading oxen to market. Many chewed betel, staining their mouths the color of plums. Tattoos were common, and many females used a white paste to protect their facial skin from the sun.

In Shan, we stayed in the small town of Pindaya, noted for caves in limestone ridges, where endless caverns containing over 8,000 marble, brick and lacquer statues of Buddha re-define the meaning of the word “awesome.” One such cave is preceded by a 200-foot Page 207

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE staircase where, on our way down – not up ‒ we passed locals wearing black layered tunics, colored turbans, and typical shoulder bags of the region.

Occasional trips to markets revealed the fiercely independent spirit of the tribal people. Their heads wrapped in bright bath towels, they shoved by us to inspect huddles of scrawny chickens, oddly shaped melons and heaps of aromatic spices. Jostled between hordes of noisy children and scurrying women, I noted a determination and seriousness that differed from shoppers I had seen elsewhere. As a foreigner, I was surprised that nobody noticed me, and suddenly felt uncomfortably anonymous among throngs of pushing buyers, elbowing each other for consumer rights.

I was relieved when we left aboard the bus. As we hunkered down for a three hour drive to Inle Lake, I was anxious for solitude, but nothing could have prepared me for the serenity which lay ahead.

When we landed at a lakeside dock, we boarded, in groups of five, motorized dugouts, so low that as we chugged off, tiny waves scraped the boat rims and skipped onto our arms and legs. All evidences of today’s world had vanished ‒ no roads, no technology or telephone wires. Glassy waters, encircling hills and sapphire skies formed a perfect background for lazy day dreaming or meditation.

At first, we were surrounded only by the lake and the calm. But shortly, patterns formed as pools of water were interrupted by isles of gardens scattered like throw rugs. These isles are formed naturally by farmers who weave together hollow stemmed floating weeds or dried reeds and grasses matted into strips. It takes fifty years for silt and weed to produce a thick humus layer suitable for planting. Long bamboo poles anchor the gardens, filled with mud scooped from the lake bottom and fertilized free of charge from seaweed. These farms yield 60 percent of the country’s tomatoes, as well as cauliflower heads, cabbages, bananas and papaya. Such agriculture makes the Intha people, who live on the lake inhabited by 150,000 residents, the wealthiest Burmese ethnic group.

As we ferried along snaky canals, we noticed the well-kept condition of the dark bamboo houses on stilts. Tall sprouts of sea

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Appendix grass fluttered amidst bright flowers to complete a picture of lush green fertility. Carefully tended flower pots on balconies, little boats tethered to railings, people bathing and swimming in clean water ‒ were all signs of material comfort which contrasted with the poverty so obvious throughout much of Burma. As children peering from windows smiled and waved, we followed suit. I remember wondering where they could play, with only water surrounding their floating homes. Water games seemed the answer, but due to the language barrier; I was never able to satisfy my curiosity.

As our boat trip continued, the beauty on the lake was remarkable.

Graceful water lily pods and purple bell-shaped hyacinths sprinkled pools of water. There are over 100 monasteries and several hundred pagodas nestled in the hills around the lake.

Pyramid-like towers crowned these surrounding pagodas whose gold leaf caught the sun and reflected back its luminosity.

Suddenly, we saw a procession of boats celebrating a rite of passage for a boy crowned by an impressive white turban, seated like a king amidst baskets of vibrant primroses and honeysuckles.

Accompanying family members wore shocking pink or sequined robes with elaborate headdresses flanked by pompons, marking the event with unfamiliar nasal sounds of Eastern stringed instruments and with gifts wrapped in sparkling silver boxes.

Unexpectedly, our driver slowed down and pointed to the famous, unique leg rowers. Instead of using their arms to maneuver the boat among unusually thick weeds and algae, these fishermen navigate by acrobatically standing on one leg while twisting the other around a long oar. A nearby fisherman demonstrated for us his tall cone-shaped netted trap. When he suddenly thrust this to the shallow lake bottom and produced a rare flathead fish, we applauded his catch.

But his quiet repose appeared to reveal the inherent consideration and modesty which prevails throughout this country, so thoroughly immersed in the Buddhist belief system. Our guide told us that many Intha people donate half their income to public welfare. Since nothing is permanent, material wealth is not Page 209

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE important. These gentle people further adhere to the ethic that good karma is what one gains by merit, attained by doing good acts through charity or meditation. This is something which one cannot miss in Burma. Be it their actual good deeds, gracious treatment of guests, soft voices or patient manners, their demeanor simply captivated us over and over again.

One hour through our idyllic boat trip, a massive triangular dark wooden building loomed in the distance. The Inle Princess Resort was straight ahead, where we were to stay for three nights.

Approaching, I distinguished wide verandas and rows of small cabins framed by tiny red, pink and white flowers lining the shore.

Typical Shan style, upward curving roofs displayed at both ends delicate statues of dancing goddesses, Shan princesses, and mythical animals.

When we disembarked, I couldn’t wait to see my cottage which I approached via a bougainvillea lined wooden platform topped by leafy trellises. Our luggage was delivered immediately by cheerful porters in white karate style suits, trained to cater to our every need. Resembling a luxurious sauna, my accommodation was a place I simply didn’t want to leave. It was one of twenty-eight chalets, with spacious multi-level rooms of natural teak wood, sensual Burmese silken fabrics, smooth lines and an outside terrace. While hiking, boating and bird watching were available at reasonable prices ‒ everything in Burma is MOST reasonable ‒ I must admit to choosing an aromatherapy and back massage at the hotel’s “La Source” Spa. After a typical Burmese dinner of fish, salads of minced chicken and mint, bowls of noodles, as well as green beans and rice, we retired. In such hospitable surroundings, I was not altogether surprised to discover a hot water bottle at the foot of my bed. After tying the mosquito netting, which had covered the bed, to a pole, I surrendered to the coziest night’s sleep in many a night.

That comfy feeling dissipated the next morning in 40 degree Fahrenheit temperature. Thankful that I had packed a sweatshirt from Antarctica, I relished a European buffet breakfast on the outside verandah. Scrambled eggs, bagels and croissants were a

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Appendix relief from the Oriental food which had been our continual diet.

Later, back in the boats, the wind whipped our faces as we huddled to avoid the slightest hint of cold waves. Our first stop was “the wooden tin roof monastery” called Nga Phe Kyaung, which displays massive Buddha statues on elaborate wood and mosaic pedestals. The main attraction was a show of trained cats that leap through hoops held by young seated monks. Next, we visited a blacksmith shop where teams of hammering smiths, naked to the waist, managed to withstand enormous heat while forging swords and agricultural implements. Knowing their reputations as skilled blacksmiths, we saw the sharp contrast they afforded to our machine driven world of today.

We next visited a cheroot workplace where cross legged women rolled cigars by first boiling the tobacco in palm sugar, lining it with cinnamon and vanilla, then drying it in the sun. One of our group lit a cheroot, took several puffs, creating a pungent smell of incense. We then toured silk weaving workshops, where young women foot pedaled looms and hand wove threads made of silk and lotus flowers into intricate patterns. At the adjacent gift shop, we saw silk scarves of every conceivable hue, petite Mandarin blouses, and longys (typical straight Burmese skirts which wrap around the waist and miraculously stay tied). The most expensive item was approximately $30. There are almost no fixed prices in Burma ‒ in fact, you can just about name your price in roadside stalls and bazaars, and frequently even in higher end stores.

One of the most fun stops of this day was the Shwein Tain Pagoda, where over 1,000 stupas (pyramidal monuments to Buddha) are perched at every angle outside the building. The approach to the pagoda is known as “the largest shopping mall in the world.” Over a mile of stalls line both sides of a pathway, with no end to inexpensive artifacts and wall hangings, including knife sharpeners, parasols, sandals, wooden elephants, colorful gems set in necklaces and bracelets, and brocade cotton jackets. So many things to look at ‒ so little time ‒ in truth, I never even made it to the pagoda!

On the third day, our final excursion was to the Phaung Daw U Page 211

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Pagoda, which had been brought to Burma from Siam 700 years ago. The ornate character of Siam manifested itself in five Buddha images, so plastered with excessive gold leaf that they had lost their original shape. The visitor is awed by a five story gold and red ceiling, supported by impressive gold leaf columns. Seated monks pray, their heads bowed and hands tucked under their chins. No distraction seemed so great that it affects their concentration.

After heading back to the hotel for lunch, we departed for our flight to Rangoon (there are daily flights from Inle Lake to both Mandalay and Rangoon). But on that final boat trip prior to our flight, we weren’t quite finished with the wonders of Inle Lake. While we spotted unusual coconut and areca palm trees, as well as redflowered African tulip trees of whitish bark, farmers were bathing bulky water buffaloes against a background of assorted bamboo lining the shores.

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Appendix

Who Needs To Work At The Guggenheim?

By Marjorie Gilbert Sure, the architecture seduces you - a stunning white spiral staircase –showcasing an avalanche of avant garde art –captivating the eye with splotches of color and zigzags, all crisscrossing each other like a subway map gone awry.

Who could resist a chance to train as a tour guide at the Guggenheim? A place to explain the inexplicable to anyone from everywhere, to those speaking anything and occasional English, knowing more or less, or absolutely nothing or everything about Impressionism and Expressionism.

When I applied for a tour guide role, I was told the one requirement for my interview was to study ONE piece of art in the Museum in order to present it as I would to a visitor. And that a training program would educate us for all relevant material. Fine.

Immediately, I bought a Picasso art book in the Museum library and memorized verbatim the whole spiel behind The Girl with the Yellow Hair, a prominent Picasso work. Not a big deal. She looked half normal, if you discount multiple chins, crooked eyes and crazed facial expression. I even delved into my college texts to relearn the strange art world -altering styles of this brilliant, oversexed manly man, Picasso.

Admittedly confident, yet with forethought ,and wearing a damned stunning upper East Side looking outfit suitable for interviews and funerals, I march into the interview. John, the head of volunteers, looks like the head of the Yale bulldog parade: closely cropped dirty blond hair, waspy thin frame, cashmere sweater, tapered brown slacks.

He reads my curriculum vitae, looks up and declares my suitability to the task under discussion.

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Immediately, he reaches for a nearby art book, flips open a page at random, and says What’s that? My pulse speeds. All I see is white paper, a boat and numerous people who are ON the boat but appear to be PULLING the boat like they are dying of exhaustion. I don’t know who the hell they are ,I don’t care. I say “people on a boat”.

Duh. He opens another page and pulls the same routine. I offer a similar you-don’t-say reply.

We’re off to a stunning start. I hate his guts. He can hardly slither out of his chair to accommodate his slipped disc. I offer to “just sit there and talk” rather than schlep around the Museum. NO is his reply with a muted reference to “my kindness”.

Walking to a series of tall, multi-colored canvasses replete with irregular and illogical lines and dots and diagonals, we stop, and he says “well”? I point to the paintings, and declare “Kokoschka – my college friend lived with him for over 10 years.” Intuiting that was the extent of my aesthetic interpretation, my creepy little friend ,now horrified, whips around and whines ‘You would never say that to anyone, would you?” – and obviously I , knowing full well that “what I just said” is the single most interesting fact about Kokoschka, say “OF COURSE NOT!” Now I am anxious to get to the Girl with the Yellow Hair, I deserve it, I obsessively studied the freaking thing and yearn to show off my prowess. So, naturally, we walk directly to a David Smith piece of sculpture which looks like an escapee from a garbage dump. “What do you see?” he queries. Instead of “how the hell do I know”, I invent similes like “dejected piece of construction”, “steel or iron or geometric slabs with polished lines to give it strength” as I ad lib- ad infinitem.

His slitty eyes dart sideways to me, I need a tums.

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Next stop: a veritable who dunnit. Two tortured white slabs with bombastic diagonal black lines. I stare without uttering a syllable. He offers words which have fortunately escaped my memory, but sounded like “this one forces suggestion of surrender, that one realizes truth of idealization” - I offer a simple explanation like “well,to me it seems…….” And the next words I hear are :Do you always need to have the last word?” Stunned, I answer a banal “No”.

At some point, we meander over to the Picasso. I recite my carefully rehearsed analysis, excellent in my opinion, during which he stares around the room and in particular at a Kandinsky on the opposite wall.

I then strongly suggest we wind up the “test”. I escort him back to his office, and he introduces me to an intern, half my age, who “really knows her stuff”. I am admittedly humiliated enough to feel an undeniable urge to incapacitate his testicles.

A month later, a rejection arrives highlighting his comment that better qualified candidates have been accepted. Sometime later, I heard that the whole tour guide program had been replaced by acoustic guides and that this John person had left. What had I learned? That you don’t need to know what you don’t know, and that the guy was a freak.

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Appendix TAKE YOUR GRANDKIDS ON A CRUISE ALONE….

IT CAN EVEN BE A GOOD IDEA!!!!!

By: Marjorie Gilbert Planning a cruise is smart thinking for people who may wish to avoid unnecessary air travel but still want a special family trip. When I tell my friends that I - just me - recently took my granddaughters, Madeleine and Melanie ages 8 and 5 - on a three-day boat cruise from Los Angeles to Mexico, their response is instant disbelief: “WITHOUT THEIR PARENTS? ARE YOU CRAZY?” Our cruise, my first solo with grandchildren, could have been a Harry Potter nightmare had we not enlisted ground rules which I firmly recommend for intrepid grandparents (see final page). While planning in advance may appear like a buzz kill, believe me, in the heat of battle one does not always think - so rules up front are your life saver.

Our adventure begins one day in July as we attempt to board the most enormous ship I’d ever seen. We spend two hours winding along a serpentine line of fellow passengers filling out forms and switching sweaty hands between hand luggage and guitar cases. Finally, we are allowed to walk on board. As we negotiate the route to our cabin, we face ten floors, four sets of elevators in varying locations, stairways too numerous to count, and 2,650 passengers scurrying around a seventy thousand ton vessel whose 700 crew members know absolutely that everybody is lost. Once located, our cabin proves more than adequate. In fact, it features a toilet which flushes like a bomb blast. On the bed is a bath towel folded like a rabbit.

Originally I believed this would be a cruise for families. Later, I learned this is a cruise for making families: the ship is named Ecstasy. According to the brochure, Ecstasy would “Make your cruise a memorable one with Your Kind of Fun.” Pleasure seekers have a wide range opportunities - board games, a camp for kids, slot and video machines, dance classes, sweet treats, “teen scene final blowout” in the Stripes Disco, and Hey Mambo Shows with Ziegfeld feathers and fluted fans. What I hadn’t expected was the bevy of bare-legged, hip swishing Baywatch babes busily gyrating to loud “hot cool and swing” music. Yet, for “my kind” there are seminars on anti-aging, eat more to weigh less, cellulite solutions, and aching back remedies. As for the kids, they seem oblivious to the more “mature” aspects of the cruise.

Day # 1 goes like a dream. The kids eat right, talk right, sleep right. They even act like troupers when Melanie pulls an ankle muscle charging down the corridor and Madeleine slams a heavy glass door against her head.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE Day # 2 gets a bit dicey. Arriving in Ensenada, Mexico, we sign up for the “blowhole” tour. The girls especially want to see foam shoot up through an underground tunnel. A cheerful local guide herds us onto a bus which takes us to a refugee camp look-alike. Tents as far as the eye can see sell all manner of lures to eager tourists: beaded and silver jewelry, striped Indian blankets, handsomely decorated pottery, embroidered blouses, and Mexican team baseball caps. My two girls are satisfied with gorgeous dolls, gecko T-shirts and “fashionable-for-the-funky” toe rings.

As we re-board the bus and it leaves, I ask the guide when we’d be going to see the blowhole. She says “theees is the blowhole” which we never see since it is hidden behind the tents. But the worst moment is when she interrogates all the other passengers with “deeed anyone else not understand me except for theeees lady? I am sure not!” At least my two girls don’t cross their arms and glare.

They don’t even tell me I’m not cool.

But on day #3, the darlings strike. They take their positions and FIRE. It was the talent show that started it. Since the love of Melanie’s life is show biz in the form of “ballet,” she jumps at the opportunity to display her talent. So, we register her at “cruise camp” where she spends the morning presumably practicing her steps, painting her face, playing pirate and going on a scavenger hunt. The treat of a lifetime, think I, querying her as she returns with: “Tell us everything - it was wonderful, yes?” Stone-faced and mute, she bunches up her mouth, raises her head like a queen and marches off. Efforts to find out what went wrong are rebuffed, and the silent treatment prevails.

At lunch, even the waiters notice the mood problem. To their credit, they, who are invariably kind, are now beseechingly attentive to Melanie. The Chicken McNuggets and fries don’t leave the plate, but at least they never hit the floor.

Melanie practically has to be dragged to the cabin for a badly needed rest.

For an hour while Madeleine sleeps, Melanie lies on her stomach, elbows bent, resting her chin on her hands - all the while repeating her mantra: “I will not sleep, I will not sleep, I will not sleep.” Well on my way to hypnosis, I dress the diva for her upcoming performance in a long taffeta blue-green dress with bows and streamers, redden her pouting lips and create a Rita Hayworth coiffeur. The performance goes adorably as she tap dances her way across the stage between bows and assorted kicking movements. As she tips her hat and points her cane toward the audience, we respond lovingly with “yeahs” and “hurrays” in a flurry of applause.

AND THEN THE SUN COMES OUT, the first time in three days. I rush the little ladies out to the stern deck where it is surprisingly peaceful, and encounter their commentary: “This stinks - it’s boring - we’re going inside.” Of

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Appendix course, they do just that. But knowing the hazards of leaving them unattended among 2,650 strangers any one of whom might be a serial killer, I stick with them. My mouth waters for fresh air and sunlight. I am burned out on newlywed games, karaoke and ice carving. And “Teen Scene Slammin’ Jammin’ Welcome Parties” have lost their appeal.

I take the upper hand. Pulling the girls this time to the bow deck, we are outside at last. We sight a pool with a thirty foot spiral slide, hot tub, and enough people to populate Chicago – all sprawled out and hanging over chaise lounges. Deftly dodging glass after glass of rum cocktails and pina coladas strewn over the deck floor, I make a beeline for the one unoccupied lounge chair into which I release my aching back. I then look up blissfully at the sun.

Its heat soothes the incurable – my body. My immediate thought: “ An Affair to Remember” … visions of Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr on that glamorous cruise to Europe flash through my mind.

Immediately, I hear five frightening words: “I want my bathing suit.” So, all three of us wind through the labyrinth back to the cabin, then return to the deck. Again, I lie down. Thirty seconds later, the same five words emerge from the other child, so I don’t have to tell you the routine. Once back to my deck chair, I can hardly believe my ears: Melanie is demanding her suntan lotion, which of course is in the cabin. By then, I’m ready for a lobotomy but dutifully schlep back and re-emerge onto the deck – only to hear “Grandma, where are my glasses?” My fourth trip within one hour takes its toll big time.

So when I return, I’m into stress reduction. I actually join the mambo dancers and sway my spastic body to the soothing tunes of six maniacal steel band players. I am mesmerized by the sleek nymphoid bodies in rhythmic gyrations on the dance floor, and wonder if I should have had silicone implants myself before the Age of Managed Care.

A muscle pulls and I lie down. Spirits wilted, I look at my watch to see how many minutes I have left to live. And guess what – we have thirty measly minutes to get to our early seating dinner. Recovery mission aborted. We trek – now on remote control – back to the cabin. We’re in fast gear – shower, shampoo, dinner, pack and put suitcases out for early morning DEPARTURE!!

With 6,520 guests – or 2,650 – (who remembers?), the ship has efficiently arranged for disembarkation. Suitcase tags are color-coded. Our tag is a nauseating mixture of light tones, presumably orange. But when we go to the “orange” location as instructed, we learn that our color is actually another color – also of unknown hue. We are then sent to “yellows” – then to “browns” and finally to “beiges.” Each change of venue is a veritable obstacle course, especially since we are the only people going UP the stairs jammed with people

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH LIFE rushing DOWN. Knowing my horrendous sense of direction, Madeleine yells “That way!” Melanie yells “This way!” and I go into zigzag mode. Meanwhile, as I reach down to retrieve Melanie’s Mexican doll whose head is lolling down the steps, I lose my balance. Nothing breaks, but almost three hours pass – we’re still on the ship and logic dictates we will be in place for the next millennium.

Yet, miraculously, we finally achieve the impossible and get off the ship with our luggage.

In retrospect, it was clearly not the fault of the cruise operations that we were “miscast.” The staff members were courteous, the ship was clean and programs were organized. The girls had their own comments. Madeleine loved the trip because “The ship was huge and amazing – and three waiters liked me.”

Melanie said “It was good.”

But there WERE some hair-raising moments – which I am convinced could have been avoided had we employed some of the following do’s and don’ts: • • • • • • • • •

Set rules up front – before boarding Predetermine bedtimes No one stays alone in the cabin to sulk Set daily deck time (one hour minimum for grandparents) Reserve quiet time each day to rest or recover Never be without sun block, band aids, room key, Kleenex, money Leave ample down-time between activities Let everyone do a favorite thing each day Whole trip – three days tops

A grandparent alone CAN successfully travel with grandchildren. Best of all was hearing my phone machine when I got home: “Thank you, grandma, it was a neat cruise and we love you. When’s our next trip?” Soon, I hope, now that I know the ropes.

Melanie, Madeleine & Me Page 220

Appendix Trip to Washington By: Natalie Gorlin

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Willard Hotel Page 222

Appendix

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