Truth Lies in the Eyes, Not in the Hat

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This past Shabbat I went to one of the shuls I belong to but don't frequent weekly for various reasons; I'm usually at one closer to my house. But this week I went to this one and was in the main sanctuary where there was a bar-mitzvah going on.

I'd gone to day school with the bar-mitzvah boy's uncle and I said to my friend, "I wonder if Mark came in from Israel for the bar mitzvah." She said he doesn't go by the name Mark anymore, and my memory worked for me and I recalled the classmate's Hebrew name. She pointed and said, "I think he's the one down there wearing the shtreimel." My eyes sort of fell out of my head and she explained, "I was told that he follows the Bostoner Rebbe..."

I'd heard that this classmate had become quite religious, I just had no clue as to the extent! I still remembered him from days when he went to a conservative shul in Toronto. But I knew I'd like to say hello to him -- IF he'd be willing to talk to a female.

To my luck, when I left the women's gallery, he (the only Jew in this Orthodox shul in the shtreimel) was at the door I'd have to pass through. I stopped in front of him, waited till he finished speaking to someone and said boldly, "Mark _____!" And after a brief pause, I said, "I guess you're better known these days as Avraham."

"Yes," he answered, but he still had a questioning look. I announced myself with my maiden name: "Pearl ______!" And then he gave a smile and proceeded to make small talk and said how pleased he was that I'd come up to him to say hello.

I knew I'd put him on the spot and watched as his eyes sort of furtively looked at me and then looked away while he spoke. Here I was, speaking to someone I'd known in class from preschool through junior high, but who looked so very different than anyone I knew personally. Aside from the shtreimel, I'm guessing (but didn't quite notice if) he also wore a "bekeshe" and the rest of the Chassidic look, but he also sported a gray beard down to his belly button and now wore glasses. Normally I would've passed this man on the street, would have given him a second look -- not because I recognized him, but because it is rare for me to see a Jew dressed like this where I live. They do live in the city, but in the "south" end.

I stood before him, looking for anything I recognized of this person of the past. And then I spotted it...in his eyes. I did not know the beard, I did not know the glasses, I did not know the shtreimel nor the garb, but I knew those eyes.

It is very clear to me that there is truth in the saying that the eyes are the window to the soul. Keep your eyes open at all times and you will see things that other people might not.

It's a Beautiful Day (Again!) and Could Be for U2

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Back in May, I posted using the title, "It's a Beautiful Day." That U2 song is catchy in its lyrics: "It's a beautiful day -- don't let it slip away..." I wrote that May post after a doctor visit where I'd been given a clean bill of health. I'd stepped out of the hospital where I'd seen the doctor, took a great big healthy breath while I gazed at the clear blue sky and wonderful sunshine.

Today while I drove to work, that song played on the radio. It was perfect timing: the sky was blue, the sun was shining...and life is generally good.

I know that life can't always be good for every one of us, and we each have to cross bridges, jump hurdles, take detours to get where we want to go, but I hope that it isn't just shadows crossing those paths, but sunshine, too -- sunshine that can take your breath away, it's that blinding.

Wishing you all sunshine...and beautiful days.

A Poignant Portrait

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The other day I posted about a fellow blogger's upbeat blog suddenly becoming a downbeat blog. Life had thrown him a curveball to deal with.

I opened my computer this morning to read this most recent post of his. And such is life--sometimes you don't go out with a bang, but rather, with a whimper.

Queens General

TUESDAY MORNING
The doctor said his movements were just reflexes. But the Jamaican nurse said my father could hear if you talked to him. So, I did. I held his hand. I made some small talk. When I mentioned that we flew in on American Airlines, his favorite airline, I thought I saw my father’s head move slightly in approval.
Sitting here in my father’s hospital room feels like a scene in a movie — the scene where loved ones gather around someone who is unable to talk or breathe by himself. Movie scenes are the only real experience I have of these things.
It’s not looking too good. It’s still not clear if it was a heart attack or not. Whatever the reason, my father, Arthur Kramer, collapsed in the living room. He is over seventy and not in great health, so it was shocking, but not entirely unexpected. No, I’m lying — it’s always unexpected.
I’m not sure I’m ready yet to talk about my feelings. My head is spinning with confusion. My mother is much stronger than I am.
I would like to bring up my usual favorite subject — Sophia — and say how heroic she’s been. I was with Sophia when we got the frazzled phone call from my mother. Sophia and I were in midst of the most mundane moment possible — we were examining some fake Tupperware in the 99 cents only store to see if it would be a good container to hold some nuts. When the phone call came, I became a zombie. Sophia picked up the slack and called up NY, to talk to the paramedics working on my father. One paramedic said that it was hopeless and they were going to pronounce him dead. Sophia insisted that they keep on trying, and after a few minutes, they actually did revive him! It was like a miracle. Even if my father doesn’t make it through this, it has been wonderful to have this added time to be together and say goodbye.
While we were still in Los Angeles, we lost contact with my mother. My long-time friend, Rob, called around and found out that my father was admitted to Queens General Hospital. This was ironic since my father has worked at Queens General as a physical therapist for forty years. When we called the hospital for information, no one would give us any. Sophia called again and again and found Marina, a Russian-speaking clerk. This wonderful clerk said she would get the information for Sophia. Not only that, she said that since couldn’t use the hospital phones to call Los Angeles, she would buy a calling card at the gift shop to call back, if Sophia couldn’t reach her. What a terrific person!
We arrived in NYC in the morning. My father was in the emergency room, but doctors were not to be found. When a doctor finally showed up, he came with 7 interns in tow. Sophia thought that he was spending more time teaching his students than caring for my father, and spoke up, something my mother or I didn’t have the nerve to do. The doctor huffed and puffed, but Sophia was right. He apologized and promised to come back to give a personal consultation.
It’s really important to be proactive in a sterile hospital setting. It was amazing to have Sophia to talk to the medical staff and it was amazing to see how it changed things for the better. When she saw that my mother and I were scared to touch my father without a doctor’s permission, she showed us that we could talk to him and hold his hand. She’s still the only one who is not afraid to wipe his brow, massage his neck and put his head in a better position. She was so knowledgeable about things that some of the doctors assumed that she was a doctor herself.
Eventually, the nurses realized who my father was — someone who worked at the hospital for years. Many didn’t recognize him without his large black "Woody Allen" type glasses. When they knew he was "one of their own," they all promised to give him the best attention.
Things are not looking good for my father. But I’m glad to have people around who are loving and collected. Like Sophia. Like my long-time friend Rob, who came visiting today. And that Russian clerk. I remember during the Katrina disaster wondering to myself why some just stayed in town, doing nothing. But very few of us are ready for a disaster or tragedy in our life. It just comes, sometimes even when you’re in the middle of examining fake Tupperware at the 99 cents only store.

TUESDAY NIGHT
Sophia and I went for dinner across the street — at the Hilltop Diner, which ironically, I wrote about a few days ago. My Dad likes this place because it is close to the hospital. After the cat scan, the doctors told us that the prognosis was "very grim." There was severe damage to the brain and kidneys. We had our first big cry.
Despite it all, things haven’t been totally depressing. My father wouldn’t want it that way, and it is not my mother’s personality. We snuck in some food from the Hilltop Diner and ate in my father’s room. We told him that he would have liked the pot roast.
Afterwards, my mother and Sophia went home to rest. I decided to spend the night near my father.
I haven’t read any of your messages yet, but I know you have written. One of my mother’s friends called my mother, asking about my father. "How did you know?" asked my mother. "It’s all over Neill’s blog," she answered.. "And so many people wrote such beautiful things."
So, thanks.
And by the way, my mother doesn’t call my blog a "bolo" anymore. Now she calls it a "blodge."
Like, I said before, my father was a pretty happy and friendly guy. He wouldn’t want gloominess, even with the grim outlook. If anyone wanted to do something to make him happy, it would be to watch one of his four favorite movies:
1) The Guns of Navarone2) Gunga Din3) The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly4) Lawrence of Arabia

WEDNESDAY MORNING
Finally, read your comments. Thanks again… everyone. It was so touching.
My mother spoke with a rabbi about the inevitable. My uncles are coming to town. Moore stress!
As I type this, I am eating pizza — the hospital cafeteria is a pizzeria! How New York is that?!

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
This afternoon was extremely emotional. Word got around the hospital that Arthur was in ICU. One after another, doctors, nurses, and staff came to visit my father. They called him a "sensitive person," "dedicated to the hospital," "always there to help everyone who asked and everyone who didn’t," "a godsend to his patients," "funny," "a man who was the president of the Jewish doctors and nurses organization AND was the yearly Santa Claus," and "someone who flirted with all the nurses. (that one sounds familiar!)" I actually didn’t realize how loved he was by people at his work, almost as if he had another family apart from us. I didn’t know that he was so involved with the hospital auxiliary that provided funds for things the hospital couldn’t afford . I was also surprised that everyone seemed to know me because I was apparently the only thing he talked about (other than the flirting).

WEDNESDAY NIGHT
The neurologist spoke with the family. The hospital did more tests and the doctor said that the damage to the brain was even more extensive than they thought. All the other doctors agreed. There was no chance of him ever regaining consciousness or any awareness of things around him. We said that we knew that my father would never want to live this way. We had to sign all sorts of papers to allow them to disconnect the support tomorrow.
Afterwards, my uncle, his wife, my mother, Sophia, and I went out for dinner at one of Dad’s favorite diners and we shared funny stories about his life.
Tomorrow morning, we’re going to say our goodbyes to a kind and generous man, Arthur Kramer, my father.

G-d and Science

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G-d is sitting in heaven when a scientist prays to Him, "G-d, we don't need you anymore. Science has finally figured out a way to create life out of nothing. In other words, we can now do what you did in the "beginning."

"Oh, is that so? Tell me..." replies G-d.

"Well," says the scientist, "we can take dirt and form it into the likeness of you and breathe life into it, thus creating man."

"Well, that's interesting...show Me."

So the scientist bends down to the earth and starts to mold the soil.

"No, no, no..." interrupts G-d. "Get your own dirt."

Blogging: A Circle of Friends

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You may note links in my margin to fellow bloggers (still needs updating...don't fret if you're not there). These people -- some whose blogs I just read, others whose blogs I comment on, and others still, who I correspond with offline -- have become in essence a circle of friends.

There are many kinds of friends in this world: best friends, fair-weather friends, needy friends, long-distance friends, acquaintances, casual "Hi, how are you?" friends...and now, blogging friends.

When you open up your world to us, exposing us to nearly every nook and cranny of your life, you are opening your mind, your heart and your arms to new friends...whether or not you realize it. Even if blogging is perceived by some people as some kind of superficial bridge, for other people it's very real.

I'd been planning to blog today about something light, but this light became a little dimmer... and I'll soon tell you how so.

I've tried to back off the blogging mode for the past week; I haven't succeeded fully (you'll notice), but I have managed to diminish the time spent around blogs. And that's been good for me. However, I've still peeked in on my favorites, even if not every day, then every other day. I need my "fill" -- your posts entertain me, enlighten me, tap into my social, moral or emotional consciousness. In essence, they help to enrich my already-rich life.

One of the newer blogs I read is written by a California-based writer/Web producer. He is extremely funny and sharp; his tremendous following proves that. I know that when I turn to his blog, I will end up laughing silently or out loud as I read his offbeat words, accompanying photos and follow-up comments. His posts are lighthearted, FUN and a wonderful diversion in my day.

It is evident that this blogger has attracted a like-minded crowd; comments are riddled with wittiness and many inuendoes of all kinds. It appears that his commenters like to "joust" with this blogger, like to top one another's comments, and each seeks some kind of personal recognition from the blogger.

This, in essence, is what my post was going to be solely about today: this fun blog I read and the fun comments that surround it. I was going to question aloud where the blogger gets his often-outlandish and wacky ideas to blog about. I was going to question aloud why women primarily read, or at least comment, on his blog. I was going to question aloud why this blogger is rather popular.

But this morning I was told by a blogging friend (used sincerely) that this happy-go-lucky blogger had a new post...that wasn't funny, that wasn't witty, that wasn't happy-go-lucky. His post entitled "Bad News" was indeed that -- his father had had a severe heart attack on the East Coast and he was leaving California to go and see him and be with his family.

Of course, the comments were still there. Those same readers who usually leave witty, snarky and chatty words left brief heartfelt messages that relayed prayers, warm thoughts and heartfelt words.

Blogging about our worlds and ourselves shows that life is about good and bad, good and sad. We've read Jack and Stacey's posts about their very ill fathers and the personal/emotional/anguish they've gone through as a result; we've read David Bogner's posts about young friends who've taken ill, been severly wounded or have passed away; we've read the anguish of parents who have lost children through illness, sudden or lingering; we have read bloggers' personal trials and tribulations as they've described them to us.

We have been up when you, the blogger, are up; we have been down when you, the blogger are down. We ride that emotional roller coaster with you: we cheer you on, we console you, we laugh with you, we cry with you, we give you the hugs you need, we give you the space you need.

It is my sincere hope that the Californian's next post will be called "Good News" -- but G-d forbid it isn't, he should know that we are with him in spirit, if not in body; his widespread array of readers may not be there in proximity, but they will be there in soul.

Because, after all, we are all [blogging] friends....

In Good Company

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I definitely share something in common with the following people, some alive, some deceased, but all notable folks:

Mickey Rooney

Walter Pidgeon

John Coltrane

Ray Charles

Ben E. King

Julio Iglesias

Bruce Springsteen

Jason Alexander

Ani DiFranco

So, if anyone has access to Mickey Rooney (like, if he's sitting at a restaurant table beside you, having lunch) or Jason Alexander (if he's not busy, trying to make a sitcom comeback), or if you don't care that I wasn't "born in the U.S.A." and if you have access to Mr. Springsteen, please pass on this message: "I'll be expecting a call/e-mail/card from you.... Remember mine, and I'll remember yours!"

Mind Your P's & Q's

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(again, it's not really me...it's my evil twin blogging)

Spent a few late-afternoon hours in the park with my children today. They played baseball; I played "conversation catch-up" with neighborhood/shul friends.

When my husband went off to learn before mincha, my older son and his friend were playing baseball, and my youngest had some kind of tantrum, so I offered to play baseball with him -- I'd pitch, and he'd bat, and then we switched roles.

I joined him on the baseball diamond, and as I moved closer to him, I noticed the front part of his shorts were a bit wet.

"N, did you pee in your pants?" I asked. (he's been trained since he was age two, but if he gets a bit "too involved" in a game, he might just forget he needs to go to the bathroom, which is a common practice among boys, young and old, apparently)

"No, it rained a little." (wow, how far a child can stretch the truth...)

A Jew by Any Other Name...Is Still a Jew

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Original Birth Names of Jewish Performers

Woody Allen --- Alan Stewart Koenigsberg

June Allyson --- Ella Geisman

Lauren Bacall --- Betty Joan Perske

Jack Benny --- Benjamin Kubelsky

Irving Berlin --- Israel Baline

Milton Berle --- Milton Berlinger

Joey Bishop ---Joseph Gottlieb

Karen Black --- Karen Blanche Ziegler

Victor Borge --- Borge Rosenbaum

Fanny Brice --- Fanny Borach

Mel Brooks --- Melvin Kaminsky

George Burns --- Nathan Birnbaum

Eddie Cantor --- Edward Israel Iskowitz

Jeff Chandler --- Ira Grossel

Lee J. Cobb --- Amos Jacob

Tony Curtis --- Bernard Schwartz

Rodney Dangerfield --- Jacob Cohen

Kirk Douglas --- Issue Danielovich Demsky

Melvyn Douglas --- Melvyn Hesselberg

Bob Dylan --- Bobby Zimmerman

Paulette Goddard --- Marion Levy

Lee Grant --- Lyova Geisman

Elliot Gould --- Elliot Goldstein

Judy Holliday --- Judith Tuvim

Al Jolson --- Asa Yoelsen

Danny Kaye --- David Daniel Kaminsky

Michael Landon --- Michael Orowitz

Steve Lawrence --- Sidney Leibowitz

Jerry Lewis --- Joseph Levitch

Peter Lorre --- Lazlo Lowenstein

Elaine May --- Elaine Berlin

Yves Montand --- Ivo Levy

Mike Nichols --- Michael Peschkowsky

Joan Rivers --- Joan Molinsky

Edward G. Robinson -- Emanuel Goldenberg

Jane Seymour --- Joyce Penelope Frankenburg

Simone Signoret --- Simone-Henriette Kaminker

Beverly Sills --- Belle Silverman

Sophie Tucker --- Sophia Kalish

Gene Wilder --- Gerald Silberman

How Curious George Escaped the Nazis

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(Okay, so I'm not supposed to be online, but it's my lunch hour -- does that count? And I wanted to share this very interesting article with you. All those times that you read a Curious George book for yourself or to your children, did you ever think of the story that came before the ones you're familiar with? Here's that story...)


From the New York Times



By DINITIA SMITH
Published: September 13, 2005

Curious George is every 2-year-old sticking his finger into the light socket, pouring milk onto the floor to watch it pool, creating chaos everywhere. One reason the mischievous monkey is such a popular children's book character is that he makes 4- to 6-year-olds feel superior: fond memories, but we've given all that up now.


In the years since the first book was published in the United States in 1941, "George" has become an industry. The books have sold more than 27 million copies. There have been several "Curious George" films, including an animated one featuring the voice of Will Ferrell that is scheduled for release this February, and theater productions, not to mention the ubiquitous toy figure. Next year, PBS will begin a Curious George series for pre-schoolers.

But in truth, "Curious George" almost didn't make it onto the page. A new book, "The Journey That Saved Curious George: The True Wartime Escape of Margret and H. A. Rey" (Houghton Mifflin), tells of how George's creators, both German-born Jews, fled from Paris by bicycle in June 1940, carrying the manuscript of what would become "Curious George" as Nazis prepared to invade.

The book's author, Louise Borden, said in a telephone interview from Terrace Park, Ohio, that she first spotted a mention of the Reys' escape in Publishers Weekly. "But no one knew where they had gone from Paris, the roads they took, the dates of where they were, the details," she said.

Her account, intended for older children, is illustrated in whimsical European style by Allan Drummond, and includes photographs of the Reys and wartime Europe, as well as H. A. Rey's pocket diaries and transit documents.

For her research, Ms. Borden combed the Rey archives of the de Grummond Children's Literature Collection at the University of Southern Mississippi, interviewed people who knew them and traced their journey through letters and postmarks.

Hans Reyersbach was born in Hamburg in 1898 into an educated family, and lived near the Hagenbeck Zoo, where he learned to imitate animal sounds, as well as to draw and paint. During World War I, Mr. Reyersbach served in the German Army; afterward, he painted circus posters for a living. After studying at two German universities, he went to Rio de Janeiro in the mid-1920's, looking for a job. He wound up selling bathtubs on the Amazon.

Margarete Waldstein, who was born in 1906, also in Hamburg, had a more fiery personality. After Hitler began his rise, she left Hamburg to become a photographer in London. In 1935, she too went to Rio.

Mr. Reyersbach had first seen her as a little girl sliding down the banister of her family's Hamburg home, and now they met again. They eventually married, and founded an advertising agency. Margarete changed her name to "Margret" and Hans changed his surname to "Rey," reasoning that Reyersbach was difficult for Brazilians to pronounce. Crucially, the two became Brazilian citizens.

For their honeymoon, they sailed to Europe, accompanied by their two pet marmoset monkeys. Margret knitted tiny sweaters for them to keep them warm, but the monkeys died en route.
The Reys ended up in the Parisian neighborhood of Montmartre, where they began writing and illustrating children's books. In 1939, they published "Raffy and the 9 Monkeys." Mr. Rey drew the illustrations, and his wife helped to write the stories. Hans initially had sole credit for the books, but eventually Margret's name was added. "We worked very closely together and it was hard to pull the thing apart," she later said.
Hans was a fanatical record keeper, listing exp
enses and details about their work in tiny pocket calendars. In 1939, he began a story about the youngest monkey in "Raffy," who was forever getting into trouble but finding his way out. It was called "The Adventures of Fifi."

That September, war broke out. The Reys had signed a contract with the French publisher Gallimard for "Fifi" and other stories, and in a stroke of luck received a cash advance that would later finance their escape.

By the time the Germans marched into Holland and Belgium in May 1940, the Reys had begun a book of nursery songs in both French and English. "Songs English very slowly because of the events," Hans wrote in his diary.

With refugees pouring into Paris from the north, Mr. Rey built two bicycles from spare parts, while Margret gathered up their artwork and manuscripts. They then joined the millions of refugees heading south, while German planes flew overhead.

The Reys found shelter in a farmhouse, then a stable, working their way by rail to Bayonne, and then to Biarritz by bicycle again. They were Jews, but because they were Brazilian citizens, it was easier to get visas. One official, perhaps thinking that because of their German accents they were spies, searched Mr. Rey's satchel. Finding "Fifi," and, seeing it was only a children's story, he released them.

They journeyed to Spain, then to Portugal, eventually finding their way back to Rio. "Have had a very narrow escape," Mr. Rey wrote in a telegram to his bank. "Baggage all lost have not sufficient money in hand."

The couple sailed to New York in October 1940, and "Curious George," as Fifi was renamed - the publisher thought "Fifi" was an odd name for a male monkey - made his first appearance the following year.

The Reys wrote a total of eight "Curious George" books; Hans died in 1977, Margret in 1996. The ensuing "George" books were created by writers and illustrators imitating the Reys' style and art.

"Like Hans Reyersback and Margarete Waldstein," Ms. Borden concludes, "the little French monkey Fifi would change his name, and it would become one to remember. "

*************************************

Addendum: Thursday,10:50 p.m

My apologies to Rabbi Neil and to Jack who, I found out earlier this evening, already posted the Curious George story. I did not steal the story from them; I thought I was giving non-NY Times readers a breaking/interesting story. This is what I get from weaning myself off of blogging. I'm late to get a piece of the pie!!!

See, I said "weaning"; I didn't say "going cold turkey". THAT would be much more difficult, but for the most part I curbed my enthusiasm greatly these past couple of days regarding blogs. As tough as that is for me, I had to -- and still have to -- do it. But then again, if something as interesting as the George story catches my eye before a week from now, I might just have to post it.

In the meantime, Shabbat Shalom to my Jewish readers; happy weekend to all others!

Your friend (who is really only here in spirit; if anyone asks, I wasn't here!),

TorontoPearl

Elul: A Time for Introspection, A Time for Change

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I've "introspected" and have decided I need some changes in my life. I'm pretty happy overall with myself as a person, but there is always room for improvement and growth. One of these changes involves my getting off the computer. Instead of getting tired of blogging and reading blogs, I'm finding new ones to read and comment on. This cuts into a big chunk of my personal time. Even before I discovered the world of blogs last October, my life was pretty quick paced. I'd tell people, "Life gets in the way." These days, it's life -- AND BLOGGING -- getting in the way.

As tough as it will be for me, I have to step away from the computer ("Place both hands in the air where we can see them, and s...l...o...w...l...y step away from your computer"). I have freelance work deadlines to meet, family time that needs to be doled out, household and work commitments.

So I'll make like Houdini and disappear for a while...and then show my face yet again. Perhaps in a week. I'll be a year older by the end of next week, and supposedly a year wiser. Let's see if the latter proves true.


In the meantime, watch me s...l...o...w...l...y back away. G'bye ... G'bye ... G'bye

*****************

And in a meek, little voice I say, "I can only try..." That goes for not reading blogs, not commenting on blogs, not reading comments on blogs -- and not writing my own posts.

It's Worth a Shot in the Dark

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I apologize for the "look" of this piece; I'd copied it when I found it online, but now you can only plug in to NYTimes to read it. This (minus images) if from the copied piece I had.

It's a most interesting article...and apparently he's not the only screenwriter who's ever felt the urge to attack his own work!






A Screenwriter Shoots His Own Unproduced Scripts, With a Gun



Published: September 7, 2005

INGLEWOOD, Calif., Sept. 2 - In the dim light of a shooting range, a figure clad in black baggy trousers and a black T-shirt is carefully loading a .45-caliber pistol. He adjusts his glasses, plants his feet and aims straight ahead.

Misha Erwitt for The New York Times
The screenwriter Tom Benedek displaying one of his original works of art: an old script of his that he shot full of holes and then turned into a bronze sculpture.

Misha Erwitt for The New York Times
After firing a gun at a script, Tom Benedek photographs the results.

Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Five ear-splitting cracks ring through the cavern, and a flurry of paper - like tiny white feathers - wafts to the floor.
"That's 'Ivory Joe,' " says the screenwriter Tom Benedek, who has just pumped bullets into one of his 22 unproduced scripts. "It's a rewrite of an adaptation I did after 'Free Willy' for Lauren Shuler Donner," he adds, referring to a well-known producer. "A romantic comedy-drama."
Many a Hollywood screenwriter has bemoaned the brutal Darwinism of the movie business, has felt the dull pain of too many pages and too many years of orphaned work unproduced and unrecognized. Few, however, have found the path of catharsis and creativity discovered by Mr. Benedek.
After 20-plus years of a middling career as a Hollywood screenwriter, Mr. Benedek, 56 - the brother of Peter Benedek, a partner in the United Talent Agency - is forging a new path in the field of fine arts, using the raw material of his past failures for a canvas. Having shot the "Ivory Joe" script, which he wrote in 1992, Mr. Benedek will make it into a bronze sculpture, or take photographs with a special camera for striking jumbo prints. He will show these and other pieces this month in an exhibition at the Frank Pictures gallery in Santa Monica titled "Shot by the Writer - Works on Paper: 1982-2004."
In an era of self-referential entertainments like "Entourage" and "Fat Actress," it all seems somehow appropriate. With his shuffling gait, hangdog air and dark-rimmed glasses, Mr. Benedek might be the contemporary answer to the Michael Douglas character in the 1993 vigilante drama "Falling Down." In that film, Mr. Douglas was an otherwise peaceable Everyman who, after being fired from his white-collar job and suffering other indignities, takes control of his life by shooting his way across Los Angeles.
In the Hollywood hierarchy, the screenwriter is Everyman, an undervalued cog - albeit a well-paid one - in the whirring entertainment machine. Mr. Benedek's move to take control of his own work sounds like a dark fantasy for many of the movie world's ink-stained wretches.
But he prefers to call it closure rather than catharsis. "Sometimes it's fun," he said, as the harsh smell of gunpowder still lingered. "Sometimes it's sad. When I look at the exit wounds, and the paper and the words exploded by the bullets as I photograph them, it feels like I'm taking the words back."
Mr. Benedek said the project started when he realized he had run out of storage space in his garage, which was filled with 20 years of script projects, both produced and unmade. Among those that did become films were "Cocoon," "Free Willy" (for which he did not receive a credit) and "The Adventures of Pinocchio."
But there were nearly two dozen other completed scripts that never got a green light: An adaptation for Sydney Pollack about mental health. A drama about the Israeli spy Elie Cohen for Martin Scorsese. A comedy about a Soviet collective for the producer Ray Stark. There were stacks of boxes filled with drafts and notes, movies "that remain on paper and nowhere else," Mr. Benedek recalled.
Before throwing out some of this paperwork, he said, he felt he needed to "memorialize" the work. "Mentally, I was as encumbered as my garage."
Initially, he considered chopping the scripts into small cubes with a table saw and filming the process. Then he had a vision of one of his scripts, riddled with bullets, bronzed.
Somehow, that image stuck. He hired a shooting coach and the project grew into a serious endeavor, step by step. "It started as 'I'm just going to do one for myself.' I'd do it, and have it bronzed like a baby shoe," he said.
But it turned out to be complicated to make a bronze sculpture out of paper, and every two or three weeks Mr. Benedek would explore another step to make it work. He tracked down a foundry that could perform an age-old process, eventually using a wax mold and a rubberlike cast as preludes to pouring the bronze. And he found that the objects he was creating - the shot-up scripts - were visually intricate and often quite beautiful. A local gallery owner suggested he photograph them.
"It just snowballed," Mr. Benedek explained.
The artistic experience connected to a long-neglected interest in photography. Born and raised in Great Neck, N.Y., Mr. Benedek pursued fine-art photography as an undergraduate at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. He entered the movie business because he wanted to be a cinematographer. But his first break in the industry, in the 1970's, came from writing a screenplay, so he took that road instead.
It has turned out to be a path of only intermittent satisfaction. But the photographs and sculptures - those have turned out to be exciting, and deeply satisfying. The poster-size prints are exotic swirls of torn paper and random words like "love" and "time." The 30-pound bronze sculptures, pockmarked with holes, have their titles etched in gold letters: "Viagra Falls," a comedy written for the production company Working Title in 2001; "Spells," a 1986 rewrite of a horror film.
After two more rounds, Mr. Benedek reels in the script, now puckered and swollen by the force of the bullets. He flips it over to shoot the other side. "I feel like I'm creating something new from something old," he says, refilling the clip.
But is he still a screenwriter? Mr. Benedek hesitates before answering, as if weighing how prospective employers will perceive his response. Finally, he answers glumly: "Yeah. I just got a call to go to a meeting."

I'll Raise Your Heehee with My Ha

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"Yesh li jewkim ba-rosh." Loosely translates from the Hebrew as "I have bugs in my head."
I have quirks, neuroses, wacky ideas.

I have a problem with the way I've seen people note in blog comments that something is funny.
I'm used to seeing LOL or ROTFL (laugh out loud or roll on the floor laughing).
I'm used to plain out saying "That's funny." Or I like to say "Ha" as counterpoint to LOL (right, Randi?)

But I have a pet peeve; I can't explain it, but it's there...this bug in my head. I cannot stand seeing someone comment about a blog and then the words "heehee" showing up. What is up with that?

Either it brings to mind some little schoolgirl hiding her laugh, actually her "titter" behind her hand, a little shy, a little embarrassed to be laughing out loud, or if there's a third "hee" in there, it brings to mind a sinister, mocking laugh of an evil person. (and I've seen guys "heehee" as well)

I like hearty, robust laughter, and "heehee" is not it; it actually comes across as wimpish even if the reader has been entertained. We need people to comment and write: "Loud guffaw"; "This is so funny, I peed in my pants"; "Hilarious"; "Make the laughter stop!"

You wanna "heehee", go back to your play group; you wanna "ha" or "guffaw", hang out with the grown-ups!

I. blog.

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Its vortex sucks you in
leaving you
dry
or sometimes high.

Too much of a good thing
can't be good.
Can it?
Or perhaps I should use the affirmative
and just say

CAN IT!!!

This blogging of mine has replaced TV --
not that I was a big watcher anyhow --
for the past near year
you can find me sitting in front of
the little screen,
not the big one.

I find it equally entertaining,
educational and exciting.

My friends say I'm addicted.
Sometimes I admit it, other times I deny it.
Should I start a support group?

Will I have to start by writing on the blackboard twenty times:
I will not blog.
I will not blog.
I will not blog.
I will not.
I will blog.
I blog.
I.
blog.

Snobs: The Sequel

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This is a book cover; it's the name of a piece of fiction.

This is a post; it's the name of a piece of non-fiction.

When I finished my high school studies in public school that had a 95% Jewish population, I encountered A LOT of snobs, or as we preferred to say, JAPS. (no Canadian version of that term)

The irony about these girls is that so many of them kept mirrors in their lockers so that they could look at themselves, at their hair, at their makeup throughout the day. Yes, they looked...but they did not see. They did not truly see themselves beyond their masks of artificiality. Or if they did see themselves, it wasn't evident that they cared how they were perceived.

A good indicator of this was when it came time to the graduation yearbook, and filling in grad forms. Many of these girls wrote under the caption "Pet Peeves/Dislikes": JAPS.

It is many years since I graduated high school. Snobs are still clearly evident around me. And it is not just women, but men, as well, who suffer from this very ugly disease.

The "snob syndrome" runs rampant in our synagogue; it runs rampant in our children's school. My husband and I are friendly, unassuming types. Just as he came to this city and said that he'd go out with any blind date he was offered (it's only a couple of hours, a cup of coffee, he claimed) because he had nothing to lose and much to gain, he is equally friendly to all. He nods hello or shakes everyone's hand at shul, and some of these men just pass him by or grudgingly give a limp handshake in return, often without even looking in my husband's direction. Is a simple gesture so difficult to undertake? Or he can see the same men weekly when he takes my son to his shul sports teams and although he's friendly and tries to have a conversation, he's generally excluded by many who just don't bother with him.

And women? Equally if not more nasty. You're lucky if you get a response to a hello. A limp handshake to your firm one. You're lucky if you get into a conversation, however brief, however superficial. But many times the other person is looking around to find someone "better" to talk to, and G-d forbid I should be in the middle of the conversation with one and someone else comes along; often I'm just ignored, hung out like clothing on a line and forgotten for a while.

A hello in return to mine might constitute a woman looking me not in the eye, but starting at the toes of my shoes, slowly working her glance up my body, over my outfit to the top of my head where my hat sits. Is she looking at me like I'm a Claiborne model on the runway and she's contemplating buying the outfit I'm modeling? I don't think so...

Is it that money walks and money talks? Is it a holier-than-thou persona speaking loudly in actions rather than words? Is it just that common decency is lacking, as in giving someone the time of day?

I like to twist Shakespeare's famous words, "Get thee to a nunnery" and make them my own by saying, "Get thee to a snobbery."

It is really unpleasant to be amidst men and women of this lowly caliber. My husband and I and our equally unassuming, decent and pleasant friends often discuss this issue. It isn't that we need to be "accepted" by these types, it's just that we'd like to be on the receiving end of common decency when we ourselves display it wholeheartedly.

What kind of examples are these people setting for their children? Perhaps it's an inherent characteristic, something learned from their own parents, which continued to rear its ugly head throughout their lifetime. Where is the derech eretz? You send your children to shul to learn to daven and "treat your fellow man as you'd like to be treated"; you send your children to expensive Jewish day schools and camps to learn derech eretz and positive behaviors and nice manners. Yet in the home and publically you display negative qualities, which your children learn and carry with them into the public arena, as well.

I guess that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and if you'd ask, a snob would probably qualify this statement and say that their apple is a fabulous quality, the tree it fell from is thriving, the yard it fell into is beautifully landscaped. And even if you didn't ask, the snob would make sure that you heard their story.

But in fact, you don't have to stick around to hear it. You can each get out there and tell your own.

*******

A (morning after) thought: You know that famous slogan "A mind is a terrible thing to waste"? Well, I think I will adopt it, with modifications, and print up some snobby designer T-shirts that announce: An Ego Is A Terrible Thing To Waste

Breakfast Date

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A couple of posts ago I talked about going out to a friend's house with my husband and another couple and hanging out...like adults, sans children. (although they came up frequently in conversation)

I'm pleased to say that I took this morning off work, as did my husband, to settle our youngest into his first day of school. Then we went out for a tete-a-tete (imagine the appropriate accents on the words) and had breakfast at a nearby cafe.

Yay, I had a breakfast date with my husband. Let the good times roll...!

Back to School, Back to Reality

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Umm...does this image caption refer to stress on the kids or on their parents?

'Cause I think I might already need to take a long, hot bubble bath in the Jacuzzi, and sign up for a 90-minute session with a masseuse...

And it's only the first day of school -- for two of my three kids.

Tomorrow, child # 3 starts senior kindergarten, school for the first time. Until now, he was with a home day care provider. This provider babysitter has been the surrogate mother for my children since my eldest ( now 10 years old) was 6 months old; he stuck around with her till he was three; my daughter stayed till she was five, and my youngest is also leaving at age five.
In essence, this wonderful woman has raised my children on a daily basis from infancy through early childhood. Every day with her was "back to school."

Giddiness fills the air, carpool traffic fills the neighborhood streets and school parking lots on the first day of school. Forms and notes fill the children's knapsacks on the first day of school. Appointment notices and schedules fill my bulletin board on the first day of school.

The cycle repeats each year...and I recall my own first days as a student. Tradition held that my mother would take a photo on the first day of school, capturing me dressed in a new article of clothing or wearing new shoes and toting a new schoolbag. That tradition has carried over into my married life, and we ushered the children out early this a.m. to have them stand in our front yard and capture their faces on camera, in their first-day jitters and twitters.

These kids of mine now write in a daily school agenda, listing assignments, tests, homework, memos. I think I ought to get one of those agendas for myself...to help manage -- and minimize -- that back to school stress. Or maybe I should go back to school myself, take a stress-management course, and maybe by next year, having had a wonderful practical placement in my own home, who knows....? Maybe I'll get to teach the class.

Hope all of you who attend school, or those of you who send off others to school, had a good first day back. Break out those books; you've got some studying to do!

Tickle My Tichel

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I just found this bit in the NY Times online section. It certainly tickled my invisible tichel -- and funny bone.

Correction: August 27, 2005, Saturday An article on Aug. 19 about a peddler at the bungalow colonies in the Catskills where many Orthodox Jews spend summers misstated the length of Tishah b'Ab, the observance of mourning for the destruction of the First and Second Temples of Jerusalem, when the faithful wear plastic sandals to abstain from leather. It is a single day -- the ninth of the month of Ab -- not nine days. The article also misspelled the term for a head covering sold to some Orthodox women. It is a tichel, not a tickle.

Yay, I Feel Like a Grown-Up

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I pay taxes. I pay bills. I own a home...and a mortgage. I own two vehicles. I had three children by natural birth and reasonably quick labors. I work outside the home. I am a mother and a wife.

I would say these qualify me as pretty much a grown-up.

But because I'm a grown-up, my life, together with my husband's, is so wrapped up in the lives of our children, our parents, our siblings. It is pretty rare that we go out together as a couple, just because circumstances seldom allow us that luxury, and if given the chance to do so, we're really just so tired from keeping up with daily family and work life. So in essence, and for the most part, we're homebodies. (I might still yearn for jazz clubs, or comedy clubs, or galleries or concerts, but those do appear on my social calendar once every few months...um, I mean years.)

We were invited to another couple last night for coffee; they too were seeking adult company after having been on holiday for two weeks with their four children. We accepted the invitation, and hired a new babysitter and went to the other couple's home. Another girlfriend and her husband showed up, as well, a short time later. She, too, exclaimed that it was so nice to get such an invitation.

We three couples, who have ten children between us, sat and discussed how, aside from going to people's homes for Shabbos and Yom Tov (and with our children in tow!), really never went out. Okay, does going to a simcha (wedding/bar or bat mitzvah) count?

It was a nice evening to sit and shmooze about this, that and other, with: this = kids; that= school; other = shul. We hadn't strayed too far from our homes geographically, but mentally and psychologically it was as if we were miles away... we were able to be grown-ups, not just family people.

Today I talked about the evening with my husband, and we actually could not remember the last time we ever went over to someone's house or out with another couple. Let's hope this might be the start of a new phase in our lives...

A Thought for Today (not original...unfortunately)

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I received this today from a distant cousin in Australia. It stood out amidst the rest of the e-mail message. It's probably worth remembering...


A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.

Write On...

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I have to admit something (isn't my entire blog an admittance of something or other anyways?).

I love it when I know that I have actual writers reading my blog, with some of them even commenting from time to time. Screenwriters, fiction writers, copywriters, freelance writers, columnists, etc.

I'm not really sure why the thought of writers reading my words means so much; perhaps it's because I find myself on the periphery of that particular category, and I feel a need to belong. The fact that these people read Pearlies of Wisdom is perhaps my way of belonging...? The fact that I might have something interesting to say that draws them in is an ego stroker for me. These people hone their writing craft daily, I polish off my writing skills semi-regularly (not counting writing a blog, of course) and actually attempt to create something publishable. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

But in the meantime I can be content to know that my blog's words act as a drawbridge, allowing these writers to cross over to the other side and act as readers.

Just Say "We're Fixin' the Road"... Okay?

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On my way to and from work, I take varying routes-- no highways, but lots of side streets and main streets. I prefer driving through residential areas, looking at landscaping and architecture, rather than driving through commercialized main thoroughfares.

On one of my semi-regular routes is a big posted sign: Road Rehabilitation Program.

What a fancy-schmancy name; it just translates as "These roads are being fixed!"

But it sounds as if it's like a medical rehabilitation program -- a diagnosis, a prognosis, a method of care and paying lots of medical bills. In this case, it's break up the concrete, dig up some earth, add tar, flatten the tar, pave the road nice...and get lots of drivers irked because they have to slow down or find alternate routes.

Have any of you seen signs around (not necessarily roadworks-related) that say something basic but in a fancier way? Care to share?

Something To Ponder

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If it's called Labor Day, how come I have the day off from work...?

Hmmm????

(an aside: in Canada we spell it Labour Day, but for the sake of my readers, who are primarily American, I've continuously been using American spelling in my blog and personal correspondence with fellow bloggers. Reason: I don't want any of you to think that I, a copy editor, don't know how to spell! Look, I can even spell in Canadian and American! You say labor, I say labour, you say mold, I say mould, labor, labour, mold, mould, let's call the whole thing off... You say jewelry, I say jewellery, you say honor, I say honour, jewelery, jewellery, honor, honour, let's call the whole thing off...)

We Need a 12-Step Program in Our Home/ And On Another Note... (Wow, a 2-for-1 Post!)

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I admit it loud and clear. I'm an addict. To the blogging life -- reading, writing, commenting.

Lately, my family members have developed addictions of their own.

Late at night, when I want to get online to check out my favorite slew of blogs, I've started to find my husband at the computer...checking out Ebay. He hasn't been an excessive bidder, but he's become an excessive bid watcher. And he's taking up my valuable computer time by doing so!

Son #1 is addicted to watching baseball games or the highlights on TV. Give it a few more weeks, and the sport of the day will be hockey. (I was so thankful there was no Canadian hockey for him to watch this past year.)

Daughter is addicted to watching these teeny-bopper shows that feature Britney Spears's younger sister, Jaime, or shows that feature Raven Simone, the now all-grown-up girl who used to be a cute tot on the Cosby show.

Son #2 is addicted to playing GameCube. He gets up very (and I mean VERY) early in the morning, runs into my room to ask if it's light outside yet, and if it's not, I say it's too early and he goes back to sleep for a couple of hours. If it's a reasonable hour, I just give him the head nod and "okay" and within minutes he's dressed himself, brushed his teeth, washed his face and is headed to the family room to spend some precious time with his game before Son #1 wakes up and competes to play a different game.

So what's wrong with this picture? Well, we're all addicts, and we're all addicted to something that has to do with a screen, with something you watch.

Yes, my kids and I and my husband read books too, play board games, play outside, so it's not as if we spend ALL our time in front of a screen. But maybe there is a group, Screeners Anonymous, that we can join. Maybe at the first session, we deal with a Primal Screen. That would be an audiovisual screen listing the group's 12-step program. I'm not too sure what those 12 steps would entail, but I figure we could get a group rate to partake in them, and wean ourselves off these terrible vices of ours, then perhaps go on to mentor others who also got waylaid in life by screens.

Yes, I guess in essence that this post is just another "screen for help"!

*******

And On Another Note....


Happy September 1. It's hard to believe that we're already in September.

I have absolutely NO CLUE where summer went after I returned from California and Florida. But it sure didn't have an in-your-face attitude this year.

It's hard to believe my kids start school next week -- grade 5, grade 3 and full-day senior kindergarten. It's hard to believe that my kids are already those ages for those grades.

It's hard to believe that later this month I'll turn 44.

I have absolutely NO CLUE where my life went after I left the one-womb schoolhouse all those years ago. It's just zipping along...

...and I'm trying to keep up.

My Son the "Crack Dancer"

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We had a family simcha this past weekend; it was a niece's bat mitzvah party...celebrated Moroccan-style. That means fabulous Sephardi music with lots of drums and nasal voices, a colorful spectrum of caftans and fez hats parading through the social hall, rose water sprinkled around, a procession of family members holding above their heads trays with sweets, nuts, coins and jewelery for the bat-mitzvah girl. The piece de resistance was when my niece was carried out on a litter, not unlike Cleopatra being carried by slaves on a canopy covered sofa. My niece was wearing a white caftan with a beautiful jeweled headpiece on her forehead, and marched around the room in circles high above the shoulders of uncles and cousins. It was like something from a MGM film from the fifties. Later, women were invited to receive henna on their palms.

I watched in wonder, thinking that technically my daughter should celebrate in the same way because I am married to a Sephardic man. Only difference...he was raised very Ashkenazic...and although these Morrocan traditions might be in his roots, it's not part of his cultural awareness and upbringing. (his brother, on the other hand, although raised the same way, is married to a Morrocan-born girl who thrives on the culture and traditions, and so, he is immersed in that style of living)

Well, while all this great music was playing, with some very upbeat tempos, my five-year-old was suddenly on the floor, lying on his back, spinning around and doing some great moves. I looked at my husband in surprise: "How does he know how to do this, how to dance like this?" He shrugged, and was equally amused.

It isn't as if my son watches American Bandstand (is that even on still, I wonder?) or Soul Train, two favorite shows of mine, while growing up. But he kept smiling and spinning and showing us and everybody "what he's got"!

When he was finally finished, I asked him how he knew how to break dance. He smiled and shrugged with an "I dunno" look. But he did know to correct me...because according to him, he wasn't break dancing, he was "crack dancing"!

72.129.110.# Where Are You?

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When I was just a babe in arms, there used to be a TV show called "Car 54, Where Are You?"

My post is entitled "72.129.110.# Where Are You?"

Somewhere out there in blogland is someone who has this number/server number (don't know the technical term) allocated to them. All I know is that the location is United States, and they link to me via www.seraphicpress.com. Whoever this is seems to spend time reading my posts... Which is good, in my eyes.

I'm curious to know who this is...or perhaps I already know them. If that is your "secret number," please do write and let me know.

(I once put out the same appeal on a post. Someone with the "address" of www.nbc.com had linked to me and I was curious who. A celebrity? A behind the scenes person? Of course that appeal went unanswered. Maybe I'll do better with this one.)

You Don't Bring Me Flowers...Anymore (again!)

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MCAryeh, firstly I must apologize if that other photo from the original post was misleading. It wasn't meant to be. It just caught my eye. I'm sure there's a story behind it, but it isn't mine.

This image caught my eye, too. Nobody can really top THE THREE STOOGES and their attempt to woo me...except for my husband, and this post is about him.

When I was newly married, my husband used to bring me a bouquet of flowers for every Shabbos. Yes, the vase enhanced the dining room table or the coffee table -- the only two places I had to display the flowers -- but after several weeks, my practicality won out. I told my husband that although I appreciated the thoughtfulness, we should save our money and he could buy me flowers on certain Yom Tovs and birthdays and anniversaries. So yes, I'd see flowers on Pesach, Shavuot, Rosh Hashana and Sukkot usually, as well as on a special day in September and a special day in December. That was enough for me, especially since I'm lacking a green thumb and flowers never last too long under my "watchful" eye.

My husband is rather private and not one for public displays -- so why is his wife keeping a blog? He might not be too outward in his affections, but he definitely shares them.

He believes in the theory of "whenever"-- whenever the mood strikes, he might give me a gift or a bouquet or a single rose. These "just because" gifts mean so much to me and to him. Here are 2 wonderful examples:

1. Several months after we married, we were walking and window shopping in the Toronto Beaches area, a trendy neighborhood at the lakeside, with a boardwalk, and funky shops at street level. I noticed a wonderful serving tray in the window of a store, we looked at it briefly on the shelf and then left.

A day later I came home from work to find a wrapped gift on the kitchen table. It was that serving tray. He'd seen how much I'd liked it and made it a point to take a co-worker during lunch hour (extended, in this case!) to help him maneuver his way to that end of the city, and retracing his steps to find that store.

2. I was at a sprawling mall and noticed a beautiful wrought-iron bench that I thought would look perfect in our entrance hallway. It was rather expensive, as was the separate pillow, so I walked away from it. But that night I told my husband all about the bench.

Several weeks later I came home on my birthday to find that wrought iron bench, with pillow, in our hallway, wrapped with a red ribbon. He'd searched out that store in that mall with the described bench, and had bought it and schlepped it home in preparations for my homecoming.

It's these "just because" gifts that speak to my heart because they show that my heart was speaking to him and he was listening at the time.

So, too, when it comes to words. I am the evident wordsmith in this family, but it's as if my husband stores up deep-felt feelings and thoughts for birthday cards, anniversary cards, Mother's Day cards, Mazel Tov on baby cards. No gift in the world can surpass the gift of his words -- the beauty and boldness of them or their impact. Those few lines encapture a deep, abiding love, and it's not because I need to read them that he writes them; it's because those feelings are clearly there.

I don't need flowers, or jewelery or big-ticket items from my husband. It's just so nice to know I always get a gift from the heart, whether it's in words, whether it's in a finely detailed and thought-out or spontaneous action. And this, my friends, speaks volumes above all.

Yes, I'll accept these flowers from THE THREE STOOGES, but Mr. TorontoPearl...? No need to
order a dozen red roses with baby's breath, because you, your words and your actions continue to take my breath away!

20 Ways To Bring Out the Best in Your Children

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Rabbi Zelig Pliskin has these wise words to share. I read them, they make sense, and they are a wonderful road map to follow when parenting. I'm on that road, and am still trying to be the best navigator I can be.

Here is the road map to keep in your glove box:

1) Love your children unconditionally -- irrespective of whether they "behave nicely," clean up their room, and do their homework. Your love must go beyond this. Your children will feel it.

2) Each day tell your children that you love them. All you have to say is three words, "I love you." If this is difficult for you, that is a sign you really need to say it.

3) Speak and act in ways that gives your children a positive self-image. Believe in your child. Believe in his abilities and potential. Say explicitly, "I believe in you." How do you know when you are successful at this? When your child says, "I see that you believe in me."

4) Be a role model for the traits and qualities that you want your children to possess. Share your day with your kids so they know what you do and can learn from you and your experiences.

5) Clarify the main positive qualities you want your child to develop. Keep praising those qualities. Reinforce each quality when your child speaks or acts in ways consistent with that quality.

6) Each child is unique and different. Understand each child's uniqueness and take it into consideration when a challenge arises. Don't take the "cookie cutter" approach. A method of disciple that inspires one child may discourage another.

7) Word your comments positively. Focus on the outcome you want. Say: "By developing this quality (for example, taking action right away), you will be more successful in life." (Rather than saying the negative.)

8) Keep asking yourself, What is the wisest thing to say to my child right now? Especially say this when your child has messed up.

9) Read great books to your children.

10) When you come across a story that has an important positive lesson for your child, relate it. Look for stories that teach lessons. Ask people for stories that had a positive influence on their lives.

11) Create a calm, loving, anger-free atmosphere in your home. Consistently speak in a calm and loving tone of voice. See, hear, and feel yourself being a calm person who has mastered the ability to maintain an emotional and mental state that is centered, focused and flowing.

12) Master patience. Life is a seminar in character development. Your children are your partners in helping you become a more patient person. Even when challenges arise, speak in a tone of voice that is balanced.

13) If you make a mistake when interacting with your children, apologize. Ultimately they will respect you more than if you try to deny the mistake.

14) Watch other parents interact with their children. Notice what you like. Apply the positive patterns.

15) In watching other parents, also notice what you don't like. Think about ways that you might be doing the same. Resolve not to speak and act that way.

16) Keep asking people you know and meet, "What did you like about what your parents said and did?"

17) Every day, express gratitude in front of your children. Ask them regularly, "What are you grateful for?"

18) Become a master at evaluating events, situations and occurrences in a realistic positive way. Frequently ask your children, "What would be a positive way of looking at this?", or "How can we grow from this?"

19) When your children make mistakes, help them learn from those mistakes.

20) Each and every day, ask yourself, "What can I say and do to be an even better parent?"

You Don't Bring Me Flowers...Anymore

I'd sat and written a beautiful post with this header in the wee hours of the morning-- somehow the screen froze, the post was lost and unable to be recovered. I'm hoping with some time on my hands, I can recreate the post as best as I can. In the meantime I'll leave you with this photo.

Gerolsteiner

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I like this name. Gerolsteiner. Gerol-steiner. Ger-ol-steiner.

It is the name of a mineral water from Germany. I'd never before heard of it, but made its acquaintance this past summer at a Shabbos table. The host kept saying, "Could you please pass the Gerolsteiner?"

I decided this mineral water deserved a taste test. I tasted it. It was not really different than any other designer water I've had...in spite of its label. And that label kept reminding me of something, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Until... The host asked again, "Could you please pass the Gerolsteiner?"

Then one of his guests reached for the bottle and said, "Ohhhh, you mean the 'Nazi vasser.' "

Keeping Up with the Cohens*

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* For the sake of this post, it has been determined that my last name is COHEN.

I mentioned at some point, long ago in my blogging history, that I resisted moving to this area of the city we live in because I don't believe in "keeping up with the Cohens" (years ago, I came up with a list of imaginary Jewish TV shows; that was the name of a sit-com I'd conjured up). It is common knowledge in this community that money talks -- in a school setting, in a shul setting, in a social setting. Children are being raised with fewer values and more materialism on the brain, and frankly, it disgusts me. Our children understand the value of a dollar and understand that we might look to be like everyone else but we're not and prefer not to be.

We have some friends -- they used to be friends in our old neighborhood, preceeded us to the new neighborhood -- or rather, they're only acquaintances now, but used to be friends. In spite of our proximity to them geographically, and the fact that our sons are good friends, we're grown distant.

It appears to my husband and I that these people have issues of envy/jealousy. (perhaps not the wife, but certainly the husband) We bought a FoozeBall table, they soon had one. We bought a new van 'cause we needed one, they saw it, made a comment and had a new van shortly after. They found out that my son was taking an extra-curricular course; they had to sign their son up too. I mentioned that I had been in L.A. and we were then going at the end of that June week to Florida's Universal Studios, and immediately the husband said "Yeah, we're probably going away too." My husband, who has seen this "copycat" pattern, piped up, "Does your wife know?" Well, they just came back from a week in L.A. and Universal Studios there.

Their son is a spitting image of his father. When I drove him to school this past year for a few months, he'd get into the car, not say hello to my son or I, but immediately pipe up: "My dad is gonna get me..." or "My dad bought me..." I cannot stand braggarts, even if they're young kids. I was thankful that my son never reacted positively to his friend; he knows bragging is the wrong thing to do, and I'm thankful that my children don't do that. They also understand financial limitations are financial limitations, and they don't need to have all the same things that some of their friends have.

It is not just mere coincidence that these people ended up with things that we had or did. They saw these things; they wanted these things, too; they bought or did these things. Once upon a time, the husband asked my husband his salary: that spoke volumes...especially when my husband told him it's none of his business.

Not too long ago, my husband sarcastically told that guy, "We're gonna buy a boat...are you planning on buying one, too?" Of course we're not buying a boat, but I'm pretty sure that if they did see a boat trailing our van, that family would soon be setting sail, as well.

There is a wonderful children's book by Canadian children's author, Robert Munsch. It's called "Stephanie's Ponytail" and is about Stephanie who wears her ponytail differently each day. The kids at school call out "Ugly, ugly...very ugly." But of course, the next day, they're wearing their hair exactly as Stephanie wore it the day before. This pattern repeats and then one day Stephanie announces, "When I come to school tomorrow, I'll have shaved off my hair!" And the next day, she comes to school, ponytail intact, while everyone else has indeed shaved off their hair.

Keeping up with the Cohens... indeed a tough act to follow!

Musically Tagged

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I've been tagged for this, but don't worry, I won't tag anyone else...not everyone, I understand, appreciates these things.

Here's my mission:

The Rules: List five songs that you are currently digging - it doesn't matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they're not any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying right now. Post these instructions and the five songs (with artist) in your blog. Then tag five people to see what they're listening to.

1. This song has been running through my head constantly for about 3 weeks...the chorus is just that catchy.

Breathe (2 a.m.) by Anna Nalick.

2. I heard this last week while driving, turned the car radio up full blast, and reminisced about the eighties.

Bad Girls by Donna Summer.

3. Any Ella Fitzgerald/Louis Armstrong duet

4. Hotel California by the Eagles

5. Since seeing Madagascar with the family in June, I can't get this soundtrack song out of my head: "I like to move it, move it, you like to move it, move it..."

Okay... and there are my 5 songs.

Stop Interfering in My Life!

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I just wanted a catchy title to pull you in. This post has absolutely nothing to do with that title, but now that you're here, why not stay for the rest of the show. Turn up the volume on your computer speaker and listen to "Sounds of Silence" by Simon & Garfunkel.

This brief post is just about one of my observations about blogging (again?) and commenting (again?). I have noticed that one never knows which posts will incite a mad rush of comments and which won't. As I peruse my favorite blogs, I see great posts that receive nada, zip, "efes" (zero) comments, and I wonder why. Then I read other posts that, like much of Seinfeld's routine, are about "nothing" -- and 30 comments follow.

Apparently there is sometimes absolutely no rhyme nor reason as to why certain posts get comments while others don't.

Someone I know has nearly 45 (at last count) comments on a very powerful post. That is the number of online comments; he told me he has over 100 post-related comments to read and respond to. Apparently that particular post struck a match in peoples' psyche, and very clearly that subject matter deserves not just a post, but a BLOG, of its own.

I've looked to my own blog to see if there's any kind of trend when I might get more comments than others.

Here's what I've figured out: 1.) when I do a lot of name dropping of fellow bloggers with links to their blogs, and 2) when I question out loud whether or not I should continue blogging. That's when the comments come.

Guess what: I QUIT THE BLOGGING LIFE!
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(I'M WAITING..... tap, tap, tapping my foot!)

A Colorful World

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This was sent to me this morning. It is a beautiful piece that I wanted to share with all of you.

Keep smiling, and stay colorful.

http://www.spiritisup.com/colors1.swf'

Yiddish, Yuddish and Yoodish

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When I was a kid, and I'd ask my father, "Are you speaking German or Yiddish?" he'd always answer, "I'm speaking Yiddish, Yuddish and Yoodish."

I never learned Yiddish formally but often heard my dad speak it with family and friends; I heard my mother and father speak German, too, between themselves and sometimes I was able to differentiate between the two languages...usually based on the accompanying body language.

My ear tuned itself to the language and if given the opportunity, I'd sometimes throw around a sentence or two.

Although some might think Yiddish to be guttural and archaic, I've always loved hearing the "mamaloshen", whether it was a Litvischer Yiddish or a Polnyisher Yiddish. The language embodies so much of Ashkenazic Jewish cultural history and has a richness all its own that transcends time.

I was recently asked about my knowledge of Yiddish because a business contact of mine knows of a freelance copy editing job -- work on a humorous book featuring Yiddish curses and expressions. Oh, that would be a great and fun challenge for me. And think of all the new curses I might come away with and be able to embody in a post or two...

So if I get this gig, great! If I don't, it's "nisht geferlech." (not the worst)

In the meantime, everyone, "zei gesundt!" (be well/healthy!)

Oh My Goodness -- I'm a (Kosher) Blog Hog!

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Oh my goodness; today I noticed that I display a rather nasty tendency in the blogging world: I'm a "blog hog"!

I don't know if that phrase exists already, but if not, consider it mine. It means that I'm hogging comment cyberspace. Not that I do it all the time, not that I do it on every blog that I read and choose to comment on, but certainly I've found that I make some comment that has its own way of directing its spotlight on me, rather than exclusively on the blogger's post.

One would think that I don't have my own soapbox on which to stand and recite or rant or display or point out, when in fact I do. But sometimes I'm moved to make a comment elsewhere that relates to the post at hand, but suddenly takes on a life of its own as I put myself and my experiences into the comment. Am I taking something away from the blogger, or am I enhancing what he/she has said? I wonder.

I really don't like this quality and dislike that it's reared its ugly head; I've talked before about not being egotistical and disliking egoistes...so why does it appear that I've seemingly joined that group?

Maybe you'll comment and say that a comments forum is for opinions and speaking your mind; comment threads often take tangents and eventually steer themselves back to the original topic. But like anything else in life, there's a wrong way and a right way to do things. Perhaps I've taken the wrong way...?

I REALLY Do Thank G-d for My Blessings

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Growing up, I didn't light Shabbos candles unless my parents were on holiday and I was the only female in the house. But all the years I was used to watching my mother light the Shabbos candles and make the bracha silently. I don't recall her lingering over the candles.

When I was in my twenties and staying over for Shabbos at single girlfriends' who were living on their own, I'd watch them light the candles, make the bracha and linger, eyes closed, hands covering them. Once I politely asked what sort of thoughts were running through my girlfriend's head, ie. why she hesitated so long. She explained that she was thinking her private thoughts, among them that G-d should help her find an appropriate husband. I lit the candles at that friend's place, but did not linger over the candles. I figured that when the time was right, I'd have my appropriate match. [ooo...in rereading this, I noticed the unintentional pun: candles/match]

And when that appropriate match did arrive, and I did marry, and I did light two candles every week and every Yom Tov in my own home, I did linger there, eyes closed, hands covering them. In the first couple of years, I thanked G-d for my husband; then we added a candlestick and I added my son's name to that list; then we added a candlestick and I added my daughter's name to that list; then we added a candlestick and I added my other son's name to that list. Then I added every family member -- parents, siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews -- to that mental list of thanks, and the names of friends or family members that needed their own brachot.

This ritual is my personal way of saying a bracha [over Shabbos/Yom Tov candles] while at the same time thanking G-d for the brachot he has granted me. My children have not yet questioned why I linger at the candlesticks for a few moments longer...but if they do, I'll know what to answer...

...because SHOW & TELL is as much a part of my life as it is to a preschooler. And as it has been said, "Everything I ever needed to know I learned in kindergarten."

Emotionally Saturated

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If I were a sponge that you were to squeeze just about now, tears would be falling endlessly from that sponge.

It has been a tough and trying weekend.

Friday's weather that I blogged about started that deluge; the very close friend that I mentioned in my last post who popped in during the storm to use our telephone, lost his mother within a couple hours after he came here. When he stopped here, he'd been trying to make his way to his mother's to give her a painkiller because she was suffering the pain of end stages of cancer -- it was coming fast and strong.

He did eventually make it to his mother with his wife and son, and about 1/2 hour before Shabbos came in she took her last heavy breath. He'd sang "Shalom Aleichem" for her and "Aishet Chayil" and kissed her Gut Shabbos, and within minutes she was gone. Everybody has their own memorable version of Shabbos Nachamu; unfortunately, this was my friend's version.

We had my friend's son over Shabbos and much of the day today, until after the funeral. This little 4 1/2 year old boy had been told by his mother that his "Savta was now with Hashem" but we didn't know just how much he understood of that. And when the little boy said, "My savta and sabah live beside your savta," my youngest piped up: "NO, YOUR SAVTA'S DEAD!!" There was a long pause as my husband and I turned to each other, wondering what to say, but the little boy said it for us: "She's with Hashem now." And when my little one asked, "Why?" the boy said, "'Cause she's dead!"

I'm physically, mentally and emotionally sapped after a weekend of dealing with the ins and outs of curbing discussions around a curious child who'd lost his grandmother but didn't quite "get" what that meant; after dealing with all the mitzvot my family could do to help our friends prepare for shiva; after contacting back and forth other friends and acquaintances re. funeral preparations, shiva preparations, childcare preparations.

Today we tried to hit two birds with one stone: we wanted to fulfill the mitzva of "Bikur Cholim" (visiting the sick) and visited a sister-in-law's father, but he wasn't in his hospital room at the time and we couldn't find him on the premises of the nursing home/hospital. And then an hour later we went to a cemetery for a graveside service, and then to a shiva house.

Really, who should I be to complain? I thank G-d for my blessings, and will try to help my friend and his family as much as I and my family can. It is lovely to do mitzvot, but yes, they can and often do take their toll on people...

May we all share in simchas!

"...Cold Black Waters, Keep on Rollin'..."

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On Friday afternoon I thought Judgement Day had arrived. The heavens opened, and the rain fell...and fell...and fell.... Pounding the roof, pounding the pavement, slapping against the windows.

I thanked G-d that I was already home because it would have been hellish to be out of doors in that weather.

Hailstones fell from the sky, landing on our balcony, on our deck, pinging heavily against the front door and windows. The lights flickered several times...went out along with all power systems...came on a few seconds later. After readjusting the clock and resetting my stove and oven (I hadn't yet cooked for Shabbat), a few moments later the power went off again.

My children were rather distressed; they'd heard me only a short while earlier listen to the news and repeat after the announcer, "Tornado warning in effect for the Greater Toronto area..." My little one panicked and said, "Are we going to be picked up and land somewhere else?" Oldest son comforted him by piping up, "This isn't THE WIZARD OF OZ." The problem was that at Universal Studios in June, my kids had been at a "reality" display of the Spielberg film "Twister" and thus knew what could happen. I appeased them and said it wasn't supposed to be in our immediate area and not to worry. But it didn't help that I was telling them this with the lights out, with the pounding rain and hailstones, and with the storm sewer in front of our house backed up halfway up our driveway and halfway up the street.

We watched as cars tried to maneuver the neighborhood streets and couldn't because the waters were rushing and knee-deep. A friend stopped at our house; he'd been out and couldn't get through many of the streets, his cell phone wasn't getting reception and he needed to use our land line.

Yes, eventually the waters receded, the sun weakly poked its head through the clouds and the storm was gone. (but it left many basements with water damage and some severe flooding)
My husband opened the front door and brightly announced: "Yup...just saw a dove fly by with an olive branch in its mouth." I interjected: "And there was no ark at the curbside...?"

M.'s Words Are Powerful

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Please link to Ink as Rain, M's beautiful and eloquent blog. Her latest post will definitely move you.