Sweet Home Alabama

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I noticed in my stats that someone linked to Pearlies of Wisdom from Hatchechubbee, Alabama. Is that, in fact, a real place?

They didn't seek me out intentionally; they were Googling "sexy hoarse voice".

Try saying "I come from Hatchechubbee, Alabama," in a sexy hoarse voice. But first one has to know how to pronounce that town name!

THE CHINMUSCLESTONIFIER

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Bet you think my title was a typo, that somehow I strung the words together by mistake. Nuh-uh. That was written in one breath, so imagine it being said in one breath.

I was just in our en-suite "library" reading one of those free health magazines you pick up when you're hurrying through the mall, and passing a health-food store. "Healthy Directions" -- hmm, let me pick this up and see where it leads me...

This magazine is filled with more ads than articles, most of which deal with topics that have absolutely no connection to my life. Anyhow, one of these ads stood out for me, because of the accompanying photo. (see above)

What the heck is that!? I couldn't help but wonder. And I read on:

"A face-lift without surgery.

The chinmusclestonifier (edit. note: there's that "said-in-all-one-breath" word again!) prevents or eliminates a double chin, tone neck and jaw muscles, soften the appearance of wrinkles and increase blood circulation and oxygen flow to give your skin a healthier glow.

Tone & strengthen chin and facial muscles with just 3 minutes of exercise each day!"

So I have a few issues with this products AND the copywriter...

1) Where did the copywriter learn English, and learn to write in English? As it reads now, this product prevents/eliminates a double chin, a tone neck and jaw muscles! Go back to school, person. Write right! It s/b "tones", "softens", "increases".

Phew, now that I got that editorial critique out of the way, I can move on to my next complaints:

2) As for using this product for just 3 minutes a day of exercise, and getting results? I'd rather work my jaw, talking for 3 minutes to friends about this ridiculous-looking product. Guess what? I'd be laughing hysterically, as well. Guess what? My stomach muscles would then have a 3-minute workout too. Guess what? My face and tummy would both benefit from my type of exercise.

3) Is this something I should be wearing in public? "Honey, I'm gonna run to the supermarket for some milk. Ya think I should wear my chinmusclestonifier at Sobey's? You know what -- actually I'll go to No Frills. There I'm more likely to see some neighborhood ladies and men wearing them."

4) Who designed this monstrosity? Someone who was fired from the costume department at MGM? Or rather, from the props department at Universal Studios?

"Hmmm...let me see what I can make with these plastic-and-rubber fat suits I stole from my department just after they showed me the door."

I was on the company's website and read this little summary:

The Main Benefits of the Chin Muscles Tonifier (Edit. note: they can't even get their OWN trademark straight; here it's three words!)

The Chin Muscles Tonifier is a revolutionary and very effective device for face lifting without surgery. With just 3 minutes of exercises a day it:

*prevents or eliminates a double chin and droopy jowls
*tones up the muscles of the chin, jaw, neck and face
*firms up the face and slows down the apparition of wrinkles
*softens the appearance of wrinkles and the puffiness of the face
*increases blood circulation and oxygen flow to facial muscles and skin
*improves facial skin elasticity and appearance, and
*makes you look and feel more relaxed

So 5) Can you truly imagine looking and feeling more relaxed...especially while wearing this contraption?

"Is anyone looking at me now? Can I cross the room without anyone staring? My face feels tight...I feel tense...I think I'm starting to hyperventilate. HONEY, GET A PAPER BAG!"

I think I should stop now, 'cause in truth I have more I could write about his product, and who knows how far that could get me. But I truly would like to know "Who has bought this trademarked THING? Did it in fact help them...or just help fill the company's coffers?"

So, a face-lift without surgery... What's next? A nose job without surgery?

"Buy this new product of ours: The NOSECRACKER! Brilliantly designed by a team of "nose it alls" the NOSECRACKER does the job -- without surgery. Just wrap it around your nose, give a few cracks, a twist...and voila! You've got yourself a new nose.

Don't put your nose to the grindstone...put it to the NOSECRACKER!"

Today's products have been brought to you by the Cynical Corporation...

For the Literati

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Yesterday an email was forwarded to me from a publishing contact in NYC.


You may want to check this out: http://www.worldebookfair.com/

The World eBook Library Consortia and Project Gutenberg are offering free access to and downloads from their online archives for the next few weeks. Besides e-books, they have audio books, movies, government documents, scholarly texts in over 100 languages...something for every lover of literature. Have fun, and pass it on!

I just checked out the children's book collection and began reading an old storybook I'd never heard of. I want to go back and read some more...

There is something for just about everyone in these collections. Check them out for yourself -- and happy e-reading!

OPI Revisited

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After I posted about OPI colors and paint colors and the fact that I'd like to have the honor of naming fashion shades, I began to search for more information about the OPI company. Here is an article that holds some verrrry interrrrresting information -- at least to me!

Local color
OPI gives its nail polishes eccentric names with regional ties. Could Boston be next?
By Kate M. Jackson, Globe Correspondent August 4, 2005

Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves; others wear their attitudes on their toes.

Whether you're throwing confetti or throwing a tantrum, OPI has probably assigned your mindset a color and bottled it. Since 1989, the nail lacquer company has captured all moods whimsical and wily with shades like ''Not So Bora Bora Pink" and ''My Auntie Drinks Chianti."

For Suzi Weiss-Fischmann, nail color is as much about creating an experience as it is about making a statement. Each season Weiss-Fischmann, OPI's executive vice president and artistic director, assembles a creative team to name new lacquer colors based on different locations worldwide.

''Six or seven of us get together in a room for about five to six hours. We take out the map, and then things get really goofy," said Weiss-Fischmann, who's drawn inspiration for past collections from such places as Canada, Greece, and Italy.

During naming sessions, the goal is to capture the colors of the landscape and the eccentricities of each location -- and then tie them into the season's fashion trends, she said.

OPI's most popular color to date is a feisty red shade titled ''I'm Not Really a Waitress." ''That was part of our Hollywood collection," Weiss-Fischmann explained, ''because everyone in LA says they're not really a waitress."

For the Canadian collection, OPI gave local colloquialism a shout-out with a shade titled ''Nice Color, Eh?" ''Aphrodite's Pink Nightie" was the goddess of the Greek collection. For the Italian collection, Weiss-Fischmann said the lacquers mirrored the hues of a Tuscan vineyard, and also paid tribute to some beloved mechanics from New Jersey with the color ''Hey Vito, Is My Car Red-y."

The creativity and humor pasted across the tiny name tags on the bottom of each OPI bottle have secured a worldwide following of customers who are not only fans, but devotees.

Kelley Cyr of Milton almost switched nail salons when her regular manicurist suggested she try a similar color from another brand. ''I insisted on my 'Coney Island Cotton Candy,' " Cyr said.

''Home on the O-Range" is an OPI color that Kathleen Norton of Hingham calls ''the perfect summer shade."

''It's a bright coral that really complements your tan," said Norton, who found the color had a hidden bonus: ''It makes my wedding and engagement rings look bigger."

At Neet Nails in Norwell, owner Anita Asci said an OPI-inspired venting session once erupted among the manicures and pedicures.

''Everyone seemed to be annoyed with their husbands or life in general, and we started making up colors based on our feelings and thought about submitting them to OPI," she said.

Some of the names they came up with that day included ''Push Me Over the Edge Red" and ''Can't Find the Vicodin Violet," said Asci.

Yesterday OPI unveiled its latest creation, the Chicago Collection. ''The 12 new shades feature a lot of creamy browns and rich reds, which are the hottest colors for this fall," said Weiss-Fischmann.

New shades include ''That's an 'EL' of a Color!" a brick-red polish named after Chicago's elevated transit system, and a shimmery nude hue called ''Skinny Dip'n in Lake Michg'n."

Whether or not OPI plans a Boston-based collection ''is top secret," said Weiss-Fischmann, ''but you never know."

Somewhere out there ''Red Sox Red" or ''Pahk the Cah-rimson" are just begging to be bottled.

Notice the section I highlighted in "Mauvelous Mauve" (you like that shade name I just came up with, Cruisin' Mom?). And think back to the scene I imagined at OPI, the round-table tactics to come up with names for new collection.

See... I wasn't so far off the mark, was I? Maybe there is a place for me at that corporation, after all. Suzi Weiss-Fischmann, hope you're reading this and not just contemplating your next manicure...

The Man in the Moon

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Last night, between 9:20 and 9:50 I walked the dog. And as I walked through a neighborhood park, I noticed the HUGE, beautiful moon suspended in the sky, a beacon for all to see and admire. It was as if the moon was saying, "Hey, look me over!"

And as I looked at the moon, I smiled, for not only was it majestic-looking, full and beautiful, holding court in the astral plains, it looked a tad different. And I was inspired to write a poem.

The Man in the Moon

Tonight as I walked
through the darkening streets
I looked up to the sky
And saw you.
A beacon of light.
An orb all aglow.

A disc suspended high, high above
the greening of the earth,
the people and animals down below
shutting down for the night.

I looked at you
and saw that burnt amber face powder you wore
atop the natural ivory
and I wondered at the color you chose to wear tonight.
Your finest? I asked myself. Is that maquillage necessary?

And your jovial self continued
to look down at me and smile,
knowing that the man in the moon was playing his role,
was lighting up the sky brighter than usual,
was causing people to look, point and smile.

For you wore an accessory.
The thin wispy, thready clouds around you
had designed an accessory just for you -- for tonight's performance.
A handlebar mustache.
The man in the moon was seen wearing
a handlebar mustache.

"Encore, encore," I silently called.
"Encore, encore," I silently clapped.

Silence.

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

I went home and before I sat down to write this post and create the poem, I checked out information about the moon on July 10, 2006, and this is what I found:

July 10, 11:02 p.m. EDT: The Full Buck Moon, when the new antlers of buck deer push out from their foreheads in coatings of velvety fur. It was also often called the Full Thunder Moon, thunderstorms being now most frequent. Sometimes also called the Full Hay Moon.

Color Me OPI

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On my walk with the dog Monday evening, I was looking at the full moon and felt inspired enough to write a poem (for another post). It came about because I was looking at the color of the moon, trying to determine the exact shade. And as I thought of that, I thought of names of paint colors, and nail polish shades, and wondered "Who comes up with them?"

And not for the first time I decided that I want to become an official name-caller.... I want to be one of those people who thinks up these illustrious and innovative names for up-and-coming shades of paints and cosmetics.

"Color naming in fashion and paint exploits the subjectiveness and emotional context of words and their associations. This is particularly seen in the naming of paint chips (samples) where paint is sold. This may in fact be an aid to moving a customer through the store more rapidly, as closely similar shades may be equally vailid in a specific application, with selection being determined by individual preference, colors of furnishings and artwork, and the quality and character of light, both artificial and natural. The attachment of an emotional context to a color sample by choice of name may enhance the rapidity of selection.

In fashion and automotive colors the objective of naming is to enhance the perception of color through apropriate naming to fit the emotional context desired. Thus the same "poppy yellow" can become either the hot blooded and active "amber rage", the cozy and peaceful "late afternoon sunshine", or the wealth evoking "sierra gold".

I discovered a list of 1970s Behr Paint palette names and wondered at many of them. Although creative, the names don't always even give a hint as to what color family the shade is part of.


1970s Color Palette
Cinnamon Cherry
Burley Wood
Sugar Berry
Almond Cream
Licorice Stick
Ocean Pearl
Chamois Cloth
Ryegrass
Maple Leaf
Tate Olive
Pumpkin Patch
Jungle Trail
Firebrick
Celtic Gray
Chesnut Stallion
Teal Bayou
Navajo White
Peacock Feather
Honey Tone
Creek Bend
Dry Sea Grass
Dark Caven
Golden Chalice
Bear Rug


It's amazing to think that people get paid to sit and think, and think, and think and come up with these names. And I have to tell you, throughout time, there have been many households having domestic disputes about paint shades, paint names and what they represent, and lots of "Don't you dare put that mustard color on the walls!" or "Cotton candy pink? This ain't a baby's nursery, this is a dining room!" or "If you paint this bedroom that shade of regal purple, so help me, I won't be sharing this bed with you any more!" (the wife grins broadly at her husband's outburst, happily plotting to reclaim the queen-size bed now that he's made his announcement)

I am especially impressed with OPI cosmetics, and their use of color names, specifically their nail polish collections. An example is above; it's their Italy collection. I've been equally impressed with the NY collection and the Chicago collection. But can you just imagine the scenario as a brainstorming meeting gets underway at OPI...

A boardroom has a large table with several people sitting around it. On the table are English and foreign-language dictionaries, a thesaurus, an atlas, lots of scribble pads and pens, random color photos, and the Internet is hooked up at several computer stations, just waiting to be used if necessary.

"Okay, people. There's lots of work to do. We need a new collection for Winter 2008, and we need ideas, names, big concepts. Sandra, this time it's you. Cover your eyes with one hand and with the other open up that atlas, flip through the pages and pick one. That country you pick will be the new collection."

Sandra happily does as Derek says, and comes up with SWTZERLAND.

"Perfect, Sandra...seeing as it is a winter collection we're working on. Okay, people, start thinking..."

And they come up with: (maybe I should TM these ideas of mine)

Bern, Baby, Bern (deep red shade)
Fondue 4 Fun (brown shade)
Swiss Miss Magic (cream shade)
Come Blow Your Alphorn (yellow shade)
Zany Zurich (silver shade)
Bahnhofstrasse Boogie (copper shade)

So, OPI, if you happen to stumble across this little blog of mine, consider my offer to become a "name-caller" for you. I love wordplay, I have creative ideas and I'm a colorful character. And if that's not enough for you, I've just designed your new Winter 2008 collection: Switzerland: It's a Matter of the Matterhorn.

Things That Made Me Smile Today...

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...the image above

...seeing a rabbit run out of my neighbor's bushes and hop across the street

...receiving and reading a thank-you letter from my mother and father regarding their 50th wedding anniversary celebration dinner, and the poem that I wrote and the donations that we made in their honor

...hearing a Barry White song on the radio, turning up the volume and dancing across the kitchen floor with only Max, the dog, for an audience

...seeing my children leave this morning, happiness on their faces at another day in camp, another day of adventures

...watching my husband interact with my kids this evening, listening how nicely he talks to them, seeing how much patience he has with them, and just watching the warmth that exudes from him towards his offspring

...the humorous writing style of a particular author, whose romance novel I'm copy editing

...watching Max the dog run outside in the rain and head straight for protection under the patio table

...finding out that the adoption of a baby went through for a couple that I know

...seeing a glorious full moon about 25 minutes ago when I walked the dog

...reading Cruisin Mom's "Jelly Belly" post

...reading the human emotion behind Neil Kramer's latest post about his late father and his collectibles

...feeling inspired to write posts and poetry

Realization

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Last week I wrote a post in a humorous vein about lack of comments; it's not the first time I've written about that topic, and I doubt it will be the last time.

But this week, while panning through my fave blogs, I suddenly realized that I, too, am guilty of the same thing that I'm pointing out about others. I often read these posts of favorite bloggers, but if I have nothing to add to the "conversation" I will move on without leaving a comment.

Can they tell that I've visited? Can they tell if I read their recent post in detail or skimmed over it? Can they tell that I sometimes feel inadequate just because I have nothing to add to a thread of comments, that I don't know enough about what is being talked about to be able to add my two shekels?

So, slap my wrist for writing that "Are You Being Served?" post. I guess I just somehow associated lack of comments with lack of readers. But I realize that lack of comments might also just represent "a comfortable silence."

A Poem-in-Progress

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I was recently given a gift of an informative, coffee-table-style tome of Holocaust chronicles -- a pictorial, journalistic timeline of the Jews, as their decline began to be marked as soon as Hitler came to power.

It is a powerful book, both in its detailed information and in its photos, and one can sit for hours with it. But there is a dilemma similar to a "push me, pull me" one. One wants to read the book, one wants to lay it down because it is so graphic, one picks it up again, cautiously turning the pages in fear of what one will read or see.

But I did pick up the book, sat with it a long while, slowly turning the pages and reading bits and pieces here and there. In a sidebar, I read about "Canada/Kanada."

Kanada, the storehouse where confiscated belongings from prisoners arriving at Auschwitz-Birkenau were kept and meticulously catalogued — clothing, toys, shoes, eyeglasses, prosthetic devices, gold teeth, wristwatches, jewelry, pots and pans, books, shorn hair — anything that might allow a dehumanized slave to feel human, anything that could be used by the German people, craving both luxuries and essentials. Prisoners working in Kanada were lucky; they could sell confiscated items to the S.S. for special favors or food.

The Nazis nicknamed the storehouse "Kanada" because they considered Canada to be a land of limitless bounty and wealth.

I could not shake off the thought or image of this other "Canada" and was inspired to begin a poem. This is my poem-in-progress:

KANADA

There were heaps and heaps
of discarded goods,
discarded lives,
discarded souls
tossed upon each other.

Nestled in a storehouse
amidst the bloated bellies,
the hollow cheeks
of human mankind.

The Soul of a Poet

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The soul of a poet = poetry of the soul.

For years I've been referred to as "a writer" but I don't believe it's an accurate title. I usually correct people and say, "I write." If I'm told, "You write well," I WILL accept that, but I deny anything that resembles an identifier of "writer."

However, I've also been referred to as "a poet." And for some reason, I've accepted that title all these years and worn it proudly. Partially because it truly defines who I am, what I am about.

My thoughts flow better in short sentences...in word trails that conjure up images and feelings, sounds and scents. I take a simple thought and design it as a poem -- laying it out in such a way that words are grouped together, making a reader understand that the visuals have as much an impact as the words themselves. Is this called "poetic license"?

Yes, I've been known to write cutesie limerick poems for years, especially for a celebration or special event. But that is not the mainstay of my poetry, and I don't deem myself a poet when I write those or read them aloud. Regarding those, I prefer to accept the compliment "You're clever."

The heart of my poetry lies deep within me -- in my teen years, it was the teen angst surfacing, (similar to Janis Ian's "At Seventeen" lyrics) and as the years went on, the poems dealt with my identity, my roots, the important people in my life...and people I never knew personally but read about. For some reason, I truly absorb someone else's life and what they represent, when I read about them. Is it sensitivity, is it compassion, is it a transference of putting myself in their shoes...or simply all of the above?

The Holocaust has figured greatly in my poems, my parents -- especially my father -- has figured greatly in my poems, often tied in to those Holocaust poems, people who've left this world are given a life once again in my poems, people whom I may have met briefly, but who have left a lasting impression on me, appear in my poems.

Sure, I studied poetry in school -- primary, junior, high and university -- and I know that one can learn to write poetry. One can take courses to learn how to write poetry. One can do afternoon or evening workshops to learn how to write poetry. Or one can simply write...without learning the craft...without learning about timing and an audience. Without worrying about whether one should write free-form verse or rhyming poetry. Without worrying whether a poem will be published or not.

Yes, one can simple write....

TABULA RASA

Read Between the Lines

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Are You Being Served?

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Imagine some dusty, godforsaken town in the Old West. Main Street is empty of foot traffic, but there are horses hitched here and there, waiting for their riders to return.

In front of the Know-It-All Saloon stands a gunslinger. A stranger. Dressed in black from head to toe. And he's wearing the pointiest cowboy boots ever been seen 'round these parts of the county. The gunslinger calls them his "cockroach killers"...

Music and raucous laughter flow out of the saloon, the sound of bottles being smashed, high-pitched squealing feminine voices of the dancin' girls, and the music and laughter of men continue.

The gunslinger spits out his plug of chewin' tobacco, pushes through the swinging doors and looks over the room. The laughter stops, the music stops, the talking stops.

"Whaddaya gotta do to get a drink 'round here?" says the gunslinger in his twang.

"Comin' right up," says the handlebar-mustached bartender, already polishing a glass and pouring a finger of whiskey. He slides it across the bar to the stranger...

Now imagine me. Not a gunslinger. And certainly not a stranger 'round these parts. I don't use chewin' tobacco, I don't wear cowboy boots, and I don't even ride horses!

But almost each time I open my blog to see my previous post, I (with a slight swagger and Queens, NY-like twang) have to say, "WHADDAYA GOTTA DO TO GET A COMMENT 'ROUND HERE?"

And I'm waitin' for y'all to say, "Comin' right up!"

TROTSKY?*

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*For the sake of this post, names have been changed to protect the identity of a local Toronto fellow...

Many of you who are married or are involved in relationships might have a "buzzword" or a "secret signal" that you and your beloved share to help get you out of awkward or uncomfortable positions, or just to have as a common denominator.

My parents, for example, are represented by : "Okay, Mrs. Lilli..." That's my father's cue to my mother for them to take their leave wherever they are. I guess it's worked for 50 years!

As for my husband and I? Our buzzword is "TROTSKY?"* I will tell you the origins of that word, and let you understand when and how we use it.

Back in January 1994, about 6 weeks after we married, my husband and I took our honeymoon in St. Martin in the Dutch Caribbean. It is a jewel of an island that is half-Dutch, half-French, and small enough to drive across in a couple of short hours.

We would spend the day at the pool and beach or sightseeing, and the evenings at the casinos and walking through town, on the Dutch side, where there was a more vibrant night life.

One night, we were in the center of town when I heard my name being called. I turned around to find, Barry Trotsky*, an acquaintance from Toronto, who, although a couple years younger than me, shared some mutual friends with me. I hadn't seen him in a few years, and so we briefly caught up. Of course, I introduced him to my new husband, and he introduced me to his friend with whom he was traveling.

Now this guy is very friendly, rather animated, and talks a mile a minute. But he wasn't talking too fast for me to notice that he had some vegetable -- spinach or parsley -- stuck in his front teeth. It was so difficult for me to keep my eyes off that piece of green and listen attentively to his words. I couldn't understand why his traveling companion had not pointed out the obvious to his friend.

As Barry* went on and on about the fabulous dinner he and his buddy had just come from, I couldn't help but think "Yeah, and I can see some of that dinner even still."

If I'd have been closer friends with him, I wonder if I might've said something in a nice way, but as it stood, it was a rather awkward encounter all around, making small talk, catching up, and at the same time wanting to run away from the SPINACH MONSTER.

Finally we parted company, and after several steps my husband and I turned to each other and just burst out laughing and talking at once, "What's with that guy? Didn't his friend think to tell him about the green? How awkward was that!"

We deliberated if I should've said something, too, and to this day I sort of wonder about that -- 'cause the situation was and would've been somewhat awkward no matter how you sliced it.

But since that day, whenever TorontoPearl's husband and I finish a meal, and especially if we're in a public place, we turn to each other with big toothy smiles and simultaneously ask, "TROTSKY?" (ie. anything stuck in my teeth?)

A Feel-Good Story*

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* I was advised to post this on my blog. When Hollywood talks, you listen!

The Shabbos Goy by Joe Velarde

Snow came early in the winter of 1933 when our extended Cuban family moved into the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. I was ten years old. We were the first Spanish speakers to arrive, yet we fit more or less easily into that crowded, multicultural neighborhood. Soon we began learning a little Italian, a few Greek and Polish words, lots of Yiddish and some heavily accented English.

I first heard the expression Shabbos is falling when Mr. Rosenthal refused to open the door of his dry goods store on Bedford Avenue. My mother had sent me with a dime to buy a pair of black socks for my father. In those days, men wore mostly black and Navy blue. Brown and gray were somehow special and cost more. Mr. Rosenthal stood inside the locked door, arms folded, glaring at me through the thick glass while a heavy snow and darkness began to fall on a Friday evening. "We're closed already," Mr. Rosenthal had said, shaking his head. "Can't you see that Shabbos is falling? Don't be a nudnik! Go home." I could feel the cold wetness covering my head and thought that Shabbos was the Jewish word for snow.

My misperception of Shabbos didn't last long, however, as the area's dominant culture soon became apparent; Gentiles were the minority. From then on, as Shabbos fell with its mutable regularity and Jewish lore took over the life of the neighborhood, I came to realize that so many human activities, ordinarily mundane at any other time, ceased, and a palpable silence, a pleasant tranquillity, fell over all of us. It was then that a family with an urgent need would dispatch a youngster to "Get the Spanish boy, and hurry!"

That was me. In time, I stopped being nameless and became Yussel, sometimes Yuss or Yusseleh. And so began my life as a Shabbos Goy, voluntarily doing chores for my neighbors on Friday nights and Saturdays: lighting stoves, running errands, getting a prescription for an old tante, stoking coal furnaces, putting lights on or out, clearing snow and ice from slippery sidewalks and stoops. Doing just about anything that was forbidden to the devout by their religious code.

Friday afternoons were special. I'd walk home from school assailed by the rich aroma emanating from Jewish kitchens preparing that evening's special menu. By now, I had developed a list of steady clients, Jewish families who depended on me. Furnaces, in particular, demanded frequent tending during Brooklyn's many freezing winters. I shudder remembering brutally cold winds blowing off the East River. Anticipation ran high as I thought of the warm home-baked treats I'd bring home that night after my Shabbos rounds were over. Thanks to me, my entire family had become Jewish pastry junkies. Moi? I'm still addicted to checkerboard cake, halvah and Egg Creams (made only with Fox's Ubet chocolate syrup).

I remember as if it were yesterday how I discovered that Jews were the smartest people in the world. You see, in our Cuban household we all loved the ends of bread loaves and, to keep peace, my father always decided who would get them. One harsh winter night I was rewarded for my Shabbos ministrations with a loaf of warm challah (we pronounced it "holly") and I knew I was witnessing genius! Who else could have invented a bread that had wonderfully crusted ends all over it -- enough for everyone in a large family?

There was an "International" aspect to my teen years in Williamsburg. The Sternberg family had two sons who had fought with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade in Spain. Whenever we kids could get their attention, they'd spellbind us with tales of hazardous adventures in the Spanish Civil War. These twenty-something war veterans also introduced us to a novel way of thinking, one that embraced such humane ideas as From each according to his means and to each according to his needs. In retrospect, this innocent exposure to a different philosophy was the starting point of a journey that would also incorporate the concept of Tzedakah in my personal guide to the world.

In what historians would later call The Great Depression, a nickel was a lot of mazuma and its economic power could buy a brand new Spaldeen,our local name for the pink-colored rubber ball then produced by the Spalding Company. The famous Spaldeen was central to our endless street games: stick ball and punchball or the simpler stoopball. On balmy summer evenings our youthful fantasies converted South Tenth Street into Ebbets Field with the Dodgers' Dolph Camilli swinging a broom handle at a viciously curving Spaldeen thrown by the Giant's great lefty, Carl Hubbell. We really thought it curved, I swear.

Our neighbors, magically transformed into spectators kibitzing from their brownstone stoops and windows, were treated to a unique version of major league baseball. My tenure as the resident Shabbos Goy came to an abrupt end after Pearl Harbor Day, December 7, 1941. I withdrew from Brooklyn College the following day and joined the U.S. Army. In June of 1944, the Army Air Corps shipped me home after flying sixty combat missions over Italy and the Balkans. I was overwhelmed to find that several of my Jewish friends and neighbors had set a place for me at their supper tables every Shabbos throughout my absence, including me in their prayers. What mitzvoth! My homecoming was highlighted by wonderful invitations to dinner. Can you imagine the effect after twenty-two months of Army field rations?

As my post-World War II life developed, the nature of the association I'd had with Jewish families during my formative years became clearer. I had learned the meaning of friendship, of loyalty, and of honor and respect. I discovered obedience without subservience. And caring about all living things had become as natural as breathing. The worth of a strong work ethic and of purposeful dedication was manifest. Love of learning blossomed and I began to set higher standards for my developing skills, and loftier goals for future activities and dreams. Mind, none of this was the result of any sort of formal instruction; my yeshiva had been the neighborhood. I learned these things,absorbed them actually says it better, by association and role modeling, by pursuing curious inquiry, and by what educators called "incidental learning" in the crucible that was pre-World War II Williamsburg. It seems many of life's most elemental lessons are learned this way.

While my parents' Cuban home sheltered me with warm, intimate affection and provided for my well-being and self esteem, the group of Jewish families I came to know and help in the Williamsburg of the 1930s was a surrogate tribe that abetted my teenage rite of passage to adulthood. One might even say we had experienced a special kind of Bar Mitzvah. I couldn't explain then the concept of tikkun olam, but I realized as I matured how well I had been oriented by the Jewish experience to live it and to apply it. What a truly uplifting outlook on life it is to be genuinely motivated "to repair the world."

In these twilight years when my good wife is occasionally told "Your husband is a funny man," I'm aware that my humor has its roots in the shticks of Second Avenue Yiddish Theater, entertainers at Catskill summer resorts, and their many imitators. And, when I argue issues of human or civil rights and am cautioned about showing too much zeal, I recall how chutzpah first flourished on Williamsburg sidewalks, competing for filberts (hazelnuts) with tough kids wearing payess and yarmulkes. Along the way I played chess and one-wall handball, learned to fence, listened to Rimsky-Korsakov, ate roasted chestnuts, read Maimonides and studied Saul Alinsky. I am ever grateful for having had the opportunity to be a Shabbos Goy.

Aleichem sholom

JULY 4

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Tomorrow is America's birthday.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMERICA!

Tomorrow is my dear father's birthday.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD.

There are not enough stars in the sky, enough fireworks being lit across America's landscape, to reflect my love for you. Endless and evermore...

Meme's the Word...Again

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I spotted this cool -- I thought! -- meme on another blog, so I borrowed it for myself:

Instructions:
1. Go to Wikipedia.
2. In the Search box, type your birth month and day (but not year).
3. List three events that happened on your birthday.
4. List two important birthdays and one interesting death.
5. One holiday or observance (if any).


Re. September 23

EVENTS:
1941 - The first gas experiments are conducted at Auschwitz
1962 - The Jetsons aired for the first time.
1980 - Bob Marley's last concert.

BIRTHDAYS:
1926 - John Coltrane, American saxophonist and composer
1930 - Ray Charles, American musician and singer

DEATH:
1939 - Sigmund Freud, Austrian psychiatrist

HOLIDAY/OBSERVANCE: (This particular one makes me say "Hmmm..." as I imagine Sigmund Freud would!)

September 23rd of every year is designated as Celebrate Bisexuality Day and celebrated by members of the bisexual community and their allies worldwide. Observed annually since 1999.

"Summertime...and the Livin' Is Easy"**

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** contrary to Randi/Cruisin' Mom's belief!

The other day I read a wonderful post written by Cruisin' Mom, as she reminisced about summer. It was picturesque, conjuring up mental images of my own. So I'm carrying the torch that Randi unwittingly passed on to me with that post, and I will proceed to share a few of my own summertime images...

--sitting on the front porch, watching the sky darken, heavy clouds floating by, the onset of rain, first some fat drops, then a light drizzle, then a torrential downpour heightened by the sound-and-light show in the sky...and if we were lucky: a rainbow to follow the summer storm

--sitting with my older brothers and watching as they used magnifying glasses and the sun's hot rays to perform "science experiments"

-- not just running through sprinklers, as Randi and her friends did, but I'd try to walk slowly through them, head held high, with a little swish of the derriere, as I mimicked a fashion model walking down a runway

--family picnics in a lovely park or at a lake

--outdoor concerts at Ontario Place, listening to the Toronto Symphony, or seeing the National Ballet of Canada in performance

--lying on a chaise in the backyard with a stack of old SEVENTEEN magazines, reading and rereading...over and over and over...the articles and checking out the (now-outdated) fashions

--going to the drive-in theater...when they were still around in my area

--going to the Canadian National Exhibition every summer with my mother and my brothers

--sticky watermelon juice dripping off my chin

--ripe, plump peaches, and deep-red cherries eaten in abundance

--visits to the country; exploring barns and discovering cats and kittens

--bicycling around familiar and not-so-familiar neighborhoods

--seeking out a breeze amidst the sticky, hot and humid air of our house (pre-air conditioner days)


Perhaps some of you have a summer image of your own that you've captured and would like to share...?

"Oh, Lord, Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood..."

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How many of you have been singing songs for years, perhaps having learned them at a young age and just routinely singing them: anthems, school songs, patriotic songs, family favorites, Hebrew songs, Yiddish songs, Top 40 songs...?

Did you ever stop to actually read the printed words to a particular song that you're supposedly so familiar with, and then been shocked to see that what you've been singing is contrary to what you SHOULD have been singing?

Canada celebrated its national holiday on Saturday, July 1, and somewhere I caught a printed snippet of "Oh, Canada," our anthem. I read "...true patriot love" and was just jarred a bit -- I always sang, "true patret love"! I never stopped to think if what I was singing made any sense, but since I was a kid, learning the anthem, that's how it sounded to me, and I don't recall ever verifying the words in print.

Every now and again, a local radio station plays snippets of contemporary or older songs; the deejays tell the listening audience what "is heard" when these songs are played, and what the lyrics really say.

I've discovered a great Web site to illustrate the "art of being misunderstood" musically.

http://www.kissthisguy.com/

So I guess it's time to make the time to listen a little closer to songs being sung or to take the time to seek out the lyrics of a song.

You know what? Scratch that last bit of advice. Sometimes the lyrics we sing, the lyrics we imagine to be correct, are more fun than the actual published ones.

I'll get you started with a misinterpreted lyric I used to sing; the song was by Hot Chocolate.

"I believe in Malcom
Where you from, you sexy thing..."

The correct lyrics are "I believe in miracles..." but every time I heard the song or sang the song, I always wondered who "Malcom" is!

Do any of you have song lyrics that you misheard...and mis-sang for years. How did you discover the true lyrics, and when you discovered what they REALLY should be, how stupid did you feel!?

Want 'Em, Need 'Em, Got 'Em**

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Am I a needy person? Sometimes.

Sometimes I need attention; sometimes I need privacy; sometimes I need reassurance and a sense of security; sometimes I need to retreat while other times I need to soar.

And over time I've decided that I need a blog. I need my blog. I need others' blogs.

Yes, I had a life BB (Before Blogging) -- and I certainly have a life with blogging.

A fellow blogger once implied something, which my brain just won't shake off. He implied that the blogging world is just that: a world of bloggers. We are strangers, who primarily continue to be strangers.

But I beg to differ. My already-rich world has certainly expanded. Because over the years I've had dwindling patience to read novels (I read 8 hours/day for my job; it saturated me), reading blogs has become, in a sense, my open door to learning about the world. I've learned many life lessons by reading the words of people who put their hearts on the line. I've learned about music, politics, current events, medicine, literature. I've learned about psychology, sociology, religion and the culinary arts.

Reading a blog is not always the equivalent to reading a newspaper or a magazine. I may get insight to a situation, but it is a first-hand account, a personal retelling that creates color for its readers, creates the need oftentimes to comment.

I think I can count a number of bloggers as friends, and not merely acquaintances. Perhaps it's because I choose to often correspond offline, and so we step outside the perimeters of our posts. We have a first name, and a last name. Our personal histories, our impressions are shared.

And it is about sharing. "Listening" when someone else "speaks." Offering up advice, a personal POV, an editorial or literary critique, etc.

Over the past several months, in my blogging world, I've watched babies being born, family members being sick, beloved friends and family members dying. I've watched people prepare for aliyah, people preparing for marriage, people finding their way in this world. Mazel Tovs, messages of condolence, Yasher Koachs have been exchanged. I've watched blessings pass through cyberspace time and time again -- blessings for good health, blessings of compassion, blessings for happiness.

All in my little community of bloggers.

My path has crossed with people whose paths would probably not have crossed mine in the real world: a fifty-year-old funny gal, a Hollywood screenwriter, a mystery author, a former actress-turned-businesswoman, children's authors, a funny teacher in NJ, fathers in the Midwest and near the Capitol, doctors on the West Coast, a Swiss miss, gifted writers who are half my age or more, parents who've had to live through terrible personal challenges and wear a cloak of grief.

I want these people in my world, I need these people in my world, I've got these people in my world.

And I am truly blessed...

___

** The title of this post hails back to my childhood when friends collected sports cards and other collectibles. The person would sort through the collection for friends, in order to do some trading, and a refrain of "Got it! Need it! Want it!" could be heard.