Wendy

Wendy

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 S 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!

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 travelling alone on the UJA trip and then Wendy’s Ph.D. Thesis 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

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

(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

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

Wendy & Marc’s Wedding