One of my earliest memories of my grandmom, Anna, was her Sunday
morning ritual of sitting upright and tense on the studio couch in her
bedroom watching "Meet the Press" moderated by Lawrence E.Spivack . For
my radical and highly political grandmother, television was an
interactive activity. She kept a running dialogue going, giving
positive shout-outs when she liked the politics of the guest and
hurling invective when she didn't. Her favorite epithet was "Rahk-shun-air", which I later figured out meant "Reactionary" in Yiddish.When she was particularly disgusted, she added a "Feh" or two. There is simply no English equivalent.
As a young child, I often cuddled up next to her and we watched TV
together. When I was in first grade (TV was still an exciting
innovation in 1953)the teacher asked us to tell our favorite show. At
the parent-teacher conference, Miss Bradley told my mom and dad, with
some concern, that while most of the kids had answered "Howdy-Doody", I had piped up with "John Cameron Swayze and the News"!
So it should come as no surprise that one of the things that my husband
David and I found out during our courtship,was that, especially during
election cycles, politicians appear in our dreams. I remember a whole
series involving George McGovern which was,as it transpired, the only
place that he did well.A few years ago I had a very vivid dream that
one of my best friends came to me all atwitter to confess that she had
embarked on a thrilling extra-marital affair. The amazing part was that
her paramour was none other than Michael Nutter. The more amazing part
was that this was even before he was running for mayor. In
reality,Michael Nutter is much too homely and nerdy to incite my friend
to break her marital vows ,and even in the dream I was surprised. Now,
just days before the Primary, I'm taking it as a sign that this was, in
some Freudian way prescient and that my man Michael will prevail. But
just in case, I will be working the polls!
And what a while ago might have seemed to be a dream, yesterday became a reality. My brother-in-law, Robert Greenwald
appeared before the Defense Subcommittee of the House Appropriations
Committee, testifying about the issue of war profiteering. Abe sent me a link
to a video clip of part of the hearing
[http://movies.crooksandliars.com/Greenwald-Kingston.mov] so I got to
see a member of my family talking truth to power. I also got to see my
brother-in-law wearing a suit and tie; thank God, his glasses were
perched on his pate or I might not have recognized him.
Last night
I had a dream that I was watching CNN with a bunch of people huddled in
a gas station in the middle of nowhere. There was some sort of natural
disaster going on and the TV was showing a brand-new road being washed
out and this somehow,in that weird and unclear way of dreams, caused
some deaths. Several people in the crowd were yelling back to the TV,
something about this road being a boondoggle for rich concrete
manufacturers. A couple of tall frat-boys said that, hey, the
government has to help rich people make money and if some people had to
die, so be it. At this point I strode to my car and heard a disembodied
voice saying loudly "The truth shall set them free". I was declaiming
to no one in particular "This is the beauty of our democracy; we can
hear the truth". Then the voice said to me,"What difference does it
make if we can broadcast the truth if no one cares?" At this moment the
large poodle shifted at my feet and I awoke.
I wish I could tell Grandmom about the dream. She would probably hiss her most sibilant epithet, "KAHPITALEESSSSSTS". I found out that John McCain will be Tim Russssssert's guest on "Meet the Press" this Sunday. I can just hear her now. "Feh! If he the best thing the 'Repooblikahners' have to offer then we're in good shape for '08" According to Anna Miller,at least, THINGS ARE LOOKING UP!
Showing posts with label TALU. Show all posts
Showing posts with label TALU. Show all posts
Friday, May 11, 2007
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Curly Girl
Until I turned thirteen and began to menstruate, my hair was poker
straight. When I was five years old, in the early 1950's, it was illegal for little girls to have thin, stringy hair, or at least this was what my mother had been led to believe. To rectify this situation before she was arrested by the fashion police, Mom decided to inflict a Toni home permanent on me. The end result made me look as if I had
stuck my wet finger into an electrical outlet. I refused to go to
kindergarten for three days and then only with the proviso that I be allowed
to wear my sundress with the matching hat that tied under my chin. The
perm eventually grew out and my hair got straight again until the onset
of adolescence.
So on the day that I officially became a woman and my hair went wavy,
curly hair was out and straight was back in. [I will not digress into a
philosophical discourse here about Life and Its
Eternal Unfairness; I really would like to do so, but I am painfully aware that
there are several more important issues with which to concern myself such
as the ongoing war in Iraq and getting Michael Nutter elected mayor of
Philadelphia.]
In the throes of a totally Freudian repetition compulsion, I continually threw myself at the mercy of a series of sadistic
hairdressers and submitted to their torturous procedures and put-downs. I would often
go to bed with my lacklustre locks wrapped around large empty orange
juice cans which would "straighten" out the curls; by mid-morning, my
head would be a frizzy mess and there would be a kink in my neck from
attempting to sleep on
large metal cylinders.Once one of the girls in my dorm actually
ironed my hair. It's a miracle I'm not totally bald.
On my wedding day I went to a psychopath at the monumentally snotty salon at Henri Bendel's and he declaimed to his colleagues, as if I were not actually present, "Does she expect me to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear?"
To reduce the possibility of re-triggering trauma, I will fast-forward from my 20's to the decade of my50's (fast coming to a close). I think it was my daughter Anna who
turned me on to the Curly Girl book and the salon called Devachan in SoHo (www.devachansalon.com) A whole philosophy had emerged, which encouraged embracing one's inner curly girl; along with the philosophy came a number of expensive products to nurture one's curls. There's NoPoo and LoPoo and AnGell and SetItFree. I was an instant convert. I began taking the Chinatown bus to New York to go to the mother church of curl cutting. I sounded like a true believer and proselytized anyone with curls who would listen.
Alas, I am simply a congenital atheist. It transpired that once my kids and their significant others moved out of New York, I abruptly stopped my quarterly treks to SoHo. I guess it was the lunch with the kids (and the Jack Russell) at Spring St. Natural after the haircut that really drew me in and not the Curly Girl mecca after all.[I once had a Unitarian friend who was married to a Jew. For a while, they took their kids to both houses of worship. She told me ruefully that her kids ultimately chose the Temple because the Oneg Shabbat had better cookies.]
Now that Anna and her gorgeous head of curls moved to Philly, we've been on a quest to find the next great curl stylist. We tried the guy on 19th St. who proclaims himself the curly king by means of a storefront-sized blowup of a newspaper article about his skill with the scissors. Our haircuts were fine but neither of us could bear his bombast. He simply couldn't or wouldn't shut up,and his prices rivalled New York's. Now I am a Philly chauvinist and all, but I still bristle at someone in CenterCity charging like Manhattan.
Recently I went to see Fiorella at Oggi. She was clearly appalled as she ran her fingers disdainfully through my overgrown frizzy hair. She immediately bombarded me with her strong stance on curls; it was total apostasy. "NEVER,NEVER,NEVER use conditioner. ALWAYS comb through your curls." I felt like a devout Catholic finding out that the Pope was suddenly advocating abortions for priests' wives!I tried to defend CurlyGirl but she dismissed my interlocutions with an imperious wave of her shears. I sat, abject and silent, admiring my new haircut, but wondering if I could stand to come back again. After all, I had gone to my favorite dentist for 30 years even though he was a rightwing fundamentalist Christian. On the other hand, he had never once tried to convert me AND he did his own periodontia.
Anna chose her latest stylist cause he was cheap. Since her hair would look good if it were cut by a riding mower, I can't really go by her recommendations. She mentioned in passing she didn't like her guy either. David,eavesdropping on our conversation,proclaimed that we never like any of our hairdressers. It seems unlikely that a man, follically-challenged or not, could even begin to appreciate the complexities of the relationship of a woman to her stylista. We didn't even try to explain.
In a month or so, when I'm looking shaggy again, I can always check out one of the million or so salons in Center City. I still have the audacity of hope that there is someone around here who can do wonders with my hair and do it quietly. In the meantime I will be working the primary on the 15th and after that I'll be impeaching the president. Excuse me while I spritz my curls with SetItFree; THINGS ARE LOOKING UP!
straight. When I was five years old, in the early 1950's, it was illegal for little girls to have thin, stringy hair, or at least this was what my mother had been led to believe. To rectify this situation before she was arrested by the fashion police, Mom decided to inflict a Toni home permanent on me. The end result made me look as if I had
stuck my wet finger into an electrical outlet. I refused to go to
kindergarten for three days and then only with the proviso that I be allowed
to wear my sundress with the matching hat that tied under my chin. The
perm eventually grew out and my hair got straight again until the onset
of adolescence.
So on the day that I officially became a woman and my hair went wavy,
curly hair was out and straight was back in. [I will not digress into a
philosophical discourse here about Life and Its
Eternal Unfairness; I really would like to do so, but I am painfully aware that
there are several more important issues with which to concern myself such
as the ongoing war in Iraq and getting Michael Nutter elected mayor of
Philadelphia.]
In the throes of a totally Freudian repetition compulsion, I continually threw myself at the mercy of a series of sadistic
hairdressers and submitted to their torturous procedures and put-downs. I would often
go to bed with my lacklustre locks wrapped around large empty orange
juice cans which would "straighten" out the curls; by mid-morning, my
head would be a frizzy mess and there would be a kink in my neck from
attempting to sleep on
large metal cylinders.Once one of the girls in my dorm actually
ironed my hair. It's a miracle I'm not totally bald.
On my wedding day I went to a psychopath at the monumentally snotty salon at Henri Bendel's and he declaimed to his colleagues, as if I were not actually present, "Does she expect me to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear?"
To reduce the possibility of re-triggering trauma, I will fast-forward from my 20's to the decade of my50's (fast coming to a close). I think it was my daughter Anna who
turned me on to the Curly Girl book and the salon called Devachan in SoHo (www.devachansalon.com) A whole philosophy had emerged, which encouraged embracing one's inner curly girl; along with the philosophy came a number of expensive products to nurture one's curls. There's NoPoo and LoPoo and AnGell and SetItFree. I was an instant convert. I began taking the Chinatown bus to New York to go to the mother church of curl cutting. I sounded like a true believer and proselytized anyone with curls who would listen.
Alas, I am simply a congenital atheist. It transpired that once my kids and their significant others moved out of New York, I abruptly stopped my quarterly treks to SoHo. I guess it was the lunch with the kids (and the Jack Russell) at Spring St. Natural after the haircut that really drew me in and not the Curly Girl mecca after all.[I once had a Unitarian friend who was married to a Jew. For a while, they took their kids to both houses of worship. She told me ruefully that her kids ultimately chose the Temple because the Oneg Shabbat had better cookies.]
Now that Anna and her gorgeous head of curls moved to Philly, we've been on a quest to find the next great curl stylist. We tried the guy on 19th St. who proclaims himself the curly king by means of a storefront-sized blowup of a newspaper article about his skill with the scissors. Our haircuts were fine but neither of us could bear his bombast. He simply couldn't or wouldn't shut up,and his prices rivalled New York's. Now I am a Philly chauvinist and all, but I still bristle at someone in CenterCity charging like Manhattan.
Recently I went to see Fiorella at Oggi. She was clearly appalled as she ran her fingers disdainfully through my overgrown frizzy hair. She immediately bombarded me with her strong stance on curls; it was total apostasy. "NEVER,NEVER,NEVER use conditioner. ALWAYS comb through your curls." I felt like a devout Catholic finding out that the Pope was suddenly advocating abortions for priests' wives!I tried to defend CurlyGirl but she dismissed my interlocutions with an imperious wave of her shears. I sat, abject and silent, admiring my new haircut, but wondering if I could stand to come back again. After all, I had gone to my favorite dentist for 30 years even though he was a rightwing fundamentalist Christian. On the other hand, he had never once tried to convert me AND he did his own periodontia.
Anna chose her latest stylist cause he was cheap. Since her hair would look good if it were cut by a riding mower, I can't really go by her recommendations. She mentioned in passing she didn't like her guy either. David,eavesdropping on our conversation,proclaimed that we never like any of our hairdressers. It seems unlikely that a man, follically-challenged or not, could even begin to appreciate the complexities of the relationship of a woman to her stylista. We didn't even try to explain.
In a month or so, when I'm looking shaggy again, I can always check out one of the million or so salons in Center City. I still have the audacity of hope that there is someone around here who can do wonders with my hair and do it quietly. In the meantime I will be working the primary on the 15th and after that I'll be impeaching the president. Excuse me while I spritz my curls with SetItFree; THINGS ARE LOOKING UP!
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Dogged Pursuit
My son Abe, when asked at age 7 what constitutes a happy family, replied without hesitation, "Having a dog." (search "Chenwald" on YouTube) He averred, naturally, that an unhappy family was one without their own canine. I had been the holdout when the kids were little, imagining that inviting a dog to share our home would create yet one more onerous responsibility for me and I was already having a bit of a problem balancing motherhood and vocation. It wasn't that I disliked the species; it was just that I had no real experience with dog ownership except for the disastrous brief interlude in my early twenties when David and I were called upon to foster his family collie/shepherd mix named Bertrand Russell. I developed a pretty bad allergy which may or may not have been psychosomatic and that tabled the dog issue for at least a decade.
So one night early in the '80's we were at a party and while under the influence, I made a brash announcement in reaction to one of David's many pleas that we get a dog already. I specified that if there were a full-blooded basset hound at the SPCA the next day then that would be our dog; otherwise, I didn't want to be "hounded" about this issue anymore! I had been enchanted by the breed ever since I was introduced to Cleo on the sitcom "The People's Choice". I was pretty little then, and significantly, this talented canine had a voice narrating her every adorable thought, and anyway you can't smell eau de Basset through a television screen.
Lady Dahlia Prenderby, as our first basset came to be known, was adopted into our little family that very next day and the history of the Forman-Greenwald bassetmania was duly chronicled ;my first cyber piece can be found if you Google "Basset Notes by Wendy Forman". (Not unlike the odor of hound in a house, it seems that nothing ever disappears from internet.)
We were dogless (and unhappy) for a while, but when we moved into our fancy condo in Center City we knew it was time to adopt a canine... anything but a basset!
Magically we acquired Nelly Greenwald P.H.D.(Poodle Helper Dog); she was pre-trained, doesn't shed, doesn't smell, and can open the door and let us in if we get locked out! She did have a bad experience with her first family which has left her with a distrust of men of a certain stature and hairline, but other than that she's just about perfect.
It was just a matter of time, then, before the newly-married Zack and Anna felt the need to become a truly happy family themselves, so about a month ago we started a series of visits to area animal shelters to find their new best friend. You may wonder how I got to be part of this mission; no, I am not the most interfering mother-in-law in the world. I was brought along to stand in for Anna whose kind social worker heart would cause her to weep and then probably take the very first critter who looked at her from inside a cage, no matter how unsuitable for their living situation. After weeks of shelter visits and hours on Petfinders.com, the third time at the SPCA in North Philly was the charm. We brought along our niece Maya Greenwald, who seems to have a gift with animals. Anna sat patiently in the waiting area, falling in love with every dog who walked by. The mutt formerly known as "Chucky", listed spuriously as a collie/terrier mix, was still in his cell since our last visit, looking out at Zack with a slightly goofy smile, begging for his "forever family", as they say on the shelter websites. The volunteer (are all the shelter workers the nicest people in the universe?) clipped a collar and leash on "Chucky" and we all strode out, picked up Anna, and were shown into the "family room". We sat on a some furry couches to see if the dog would bond with his potential new parents. He seemed sweet enough, but I could see Zack and Anna struggling a bit with such a big decision. They were definitely leaning towards adoption, but we really didn't know too much about this guy. As soon as we exited from the "family room" (we were actually kicked out because another family needed to use it ), a tall volunteer was passing by, noticed "Chucky", and said enthusiastically," You're getting a great dog there. I've been training him and he's a real winner". We all fell on him ("Call me B.J.") and peppered him with questions about the dog and were so relieved to hear all kinds of good things. Zack was already appearing paternal and I was kvelling, imagining introducing this adorable and gifted mutt as my granddog. Meanwhile, it transpired that B.J., while currently an SPCA volunteer, had been in the music business back in the day. He pulled out his faded news clippings and told us all about the famous people he'd worked with. He then showed us a fancy framed photo of his late dog and his current dog, both SPCA specials and gave us a card with his phone number to call with any questions about the new addition to the family. We kinda wanted to adopt B.J. along with "Chucky", but he disappeared as soon as the final papers were signed.
On the drive home, "Chucky" became "Leo" for a while and a few other names as well. At the Petsmart on Aramingo Ave. we ran into the dad with two little boys who had adopted the Scottie pup right before we liberated "Chucky". We all gushed over each other's recycled dogs and then bought out the store with necessities and toys for my new granddog. That night, while Anna and Zack were home alone with their new addition, they decided to name him Howard Heller. No hyphens, nothing fancy.
It's been several weeks now and Howard is so much part of the Center City scene that it's hard to remember life before his being here. The cat hates him, Nelly tolerates him, but he loves absolutely everybody. We've spent hours speculating on his heritage. Jakita (Jack Russell/Akita) was discarded as barely possible; Samoyed/Something gained popularity for a while. Someone said Dingo or Husky or Shiba Inu. Now he's just plain Howard. He's wearing the "Obama in '08" doggie T-shirt I gave him. I've sent out adoption e-nouncements to all my friends. So, as my son once said, a happy family is indeed a family with a dog; therefore, empty- nesters pushing 60 with a superb poodle and two granddogs must be downright ecstatic. Shoutouts to Julius Chenwald and Howard Heller; continuing kudos to Nelly Greenwald,P.H.D. and with sincere gratitude to the folks up at the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, Things Are Looking Up!
So one night early in the '80's we were at a party and while under the influence, I made a brash announcement in reaction to one of David's many pleas that we get a dog already. I specified that if there were a full-blooded basset hound at the SPCA the next day then that would be our dog; otherwise, I didn't want to be "hounded" about this issue anymore! I had been enchanted by the breed ever since I was introduced to Cleo on the sitcom "The People's Choice". I was pretty little then, and significantly, this talented canine had a voice narrating her every adorable thought, and anyway you can't smell eau de Basset through a television screen.
Lady Dahlia Prenderby, as our first basset came to be known, was adopted into our little family that very next day and the history of the Forman-Greenwald bassetmania was duly chronicled ;my first cyber piece can be found if you Google "Basset Notes by Wendy Forman". (Not unlike the odor of hound in a house, it seems that nothing ever disappears from internet.)
We were dogless (and unhappy) for a while, but when we moved into our fancy condo in Center City we knew it was time to adopt a canine... anything but a basset!
Magically we acquired Nelly Greenwald P.H.D.(Poodle Helper Dog); she was pre-trained, doesn't shed, doesn't smell, and can open the door and let us in if we get locked out! She did have a bad experience with her first family which has left her with a distrust of men of a certain stature and hairline, but other than that she's just about perfect.
It was just a matter of time, then, before the newly-married Zack and Anna felt the need to become a truly happy family themselves, so about a month ago we started a series of visits to area animal shelters to find their new best friend. You may wonder how I got to be part of this mission; no, I am not the most interfering mother-in-law in the world. I was brought along to stand in for Anna whose kind social worker heart would cause her to weep and then probably take the very first critter who looked at her from inside a cage, no matter how unsuitable for their living situation. After weeks of shelter visits and hours on Petfinders.com, the third time at the SPCA in North Philly was the charm. We brought along our niece Maya Greenwald, who seems to have a gift with animals. Anna sat patiently in the waiting area, falling in love with every dog who walked by. The mutt formerly known as "Chucky", listed spuriously as a collie/terrier mix, was still in his cell since our last visit, looking out at Zack with a slightly goofy smile, begging for his "forever family", as they say on the shelter websites. The volunteer (are all the shelter workers the nicest people in the universe?) clipped a collar and leash on "Chucky" and we all strode out, picked up Anna, and were shown into the "family room". We sat on a some furry couches to see if the dog would bond with his potential new parents. He seemed sweet enough, but I could see Zack and Anna struggling a bit with such a big decision. They were definitely leaning towards adoption, but we really didn't know too much about this guy. As soon as we exited from the "family room" (we were actually kicked out because another family needed to use it ), a tall volunteer was passing by, noticed "Chucky", and said enthusiastically," You're getting a great dog there. I've been training him and he's a real winner". We all fell on him ("Call me B.J.") and peppered him with questions about the dog and were so relieved to hear all kinds of good things. Zack was already appearing paternal and I was kvelling, imagining introducing this adorable and gifted mutt as my granddog. Meanwhile, it transpired that B.J., while currently an SPCA volunteer, had been in the music business back in the day. He pulled out his faded news clippings and told us all about the famous people he'd worked with. He then showed us a fancy framed photo of his late dog and his current dog, both SPCA specials and gave us a card with his phone number to call with any questions about the new addition to the family. We kinda wanted to adopt B.J. along with "Chucky", but he disappeared as soon as the final papers were signed.
On the drive home, "Chucky" became "Leo" for a while and a few other names as well. At the Petsmart on Aramingo Ave. we ran into the dad with two little boys who had adopted the Scottie pup right before we liberated "Chucky". We all gushed over each other's recycled dogs and then bought out the store with necessities and toys for my new granddog. That night, while Anna and Zack were home alone with their new addition, they decided to name him Howard Heller. No hyphens, nothing fancy.
It's been several weeks now and Howard is so much part of the Center City scene that it's hard to remember life before his being here. The cat hates him, Nelly tolerates him, but he loves absolutely everybody. We've spent hours speculating on his heritage. Jakita (Jack Russell/Akita) was discarded as barely possible; Samoyed/Something gained popularity for a while. Someone said Dingo or Husky or Shiba Inu. Now he's just plain Howard. He's wearing the "Obama in '08" doggie T-shirt I gave him. I've sent out adoption e-nouncements to all my friends. So, as my son once said, a happy family is indeed a family with a dog; therefore, empty- nesters pushing 60 with a superb poodle and two granddogs must be downright ecstatic. Shoutouts to Julius Chenwald and Howard Heller; continuing kudos to Nelly Greenwald,P.H.D. and with sincere gratitude to the folks up at the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, Things Are Looking Up!
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Things Are Still Looking Up
Just what the world (wide web needs).... another blog! Well, fans, I'm planning to re-start the moribund THINGS ARE LOOKING UP which has been languishing, in hard copy only, in a supersized three-ring binder on our bookshelf next to at least thirty photo albums which have not seen daylight for quite some time. Since binders, photo albums, and hard copy too are so 20th century, I've decided to go cyber with my memoirs and memorabilia in the hopes that even if I have nothing new or creative to say, at least it won't be taking up any space in our pared-down condo.
America, perhaps you are wondering why I didn't choose the title THINGS ARE LOOKING UP for my blog. Amazingly, this title was already taken! So was the name "Schvig" for one of my many yahoo mailboxes and when I emailed the person who had purloined my special appellation by way of my grandmother, this cyberthief didn't even bother to respond. "Schvig" is Yiddish for "mother-in-law" and my grandmother Anna Miller was known by this nickname for most of her adult life. I guess that's what she got for moving in with her son-in-law and daughter from even before they were married and staying until her death one month before the birth of Anna Nettie 27 years ago. All of this reveals, I suppose, that I hold a rather parochial view of the Internet..somewhat narcissistic, no doubt. I figure that if I have a name or a title that holds special meaning for me then it should ipso facto be available and I am constantly surprised when this turns out not to be the case. I am also surprised and not just a little delighted that I was able just now to figure out how to turn ipso facto into italics. I am also surprised and delighted whenever I can retrieve messages off of my cellphone, but I digress..
Speaking of schvigs, I am one myself now- twice over! This would be the perfect place to insert the wedding photos of Abe and Anna and their gorgeous and delightful spouses only of course I have no idea how to do such a cyber thing. During the brief period when Abe and I co-blogged, he was responsible for everything to do with that sort of photo adding , presumably because he knows Html. Since I don't even know what Html means, it seems unlikely that I will be able to pull off such a stunt, but I might just try. Or I could ask my newly-minted son-in-law Zack to teach me how to perform such a feat of cyber legerdemain; however, that might turn him sour on his new Schvig and we wouldn't want that to happen.
So for now there will be no decorative additions...
The current piece I'm working on involves my mother, alternately known as Bubs, Bubby,The Bubster, Dorrie-Doodle (an unsanctioned appellation which she detests) or the Momster, by me. The aged relative is now 92 and one half years old and is just a laugh a minute. I've been interviewing her since she's requested that her biography be done. Thus far I have only one very small page of notes retrieved after a somewhat circuitous discussion starting with the leading question "What is your earliest memory?" I got some interesting data about my great-grandmother, Esther Rasha Cohen, and my mother's relationship with her. (sneak preview...it was very close. Not so close with Max, my great-grandfather) Stay tuned.....
Oh, and please let me know if you want to unsubscribe. It seems like every Chaim Yonkel these days is writing a blog and you don't need any more spam in your emailboxes. But if you are interested, then I am hoping that you will post feedback. That will motivate me to actually write these pieces that are floating around half-finished in my file cabinet or in my feverish brain. Thanks in advance for being my muses....and remember: THINGS ARE LOOKING UP!
America, perhaps you are wondering why I didn't choose the title THINGS ARE LOOKING UP for my blog. Amazingly, this title was already taken! So was the name "Schvig" for one of my many yahoo mailboxes and when I emailed the person who had purloined my special appellation by way of my grandmother, this cyberthief didn't even bother to respond. "Schvig" is Yiddish for "mother-in-law" and my grandmother Anna Miller was known by this nickname for most of her adult life. I guess that's what she got for moving in with her son-in-law and daughter from even before they were married and staying until her death one month before the birth of Anna Nettie 27 years ago. All of this reveals, I suppose, that I hold a rather parochial view of the Internet..somewhat narcissistic, no doubt. I figure that if I have a name or a title that holds special meaning for me then it should ipso facto be available and I am constantly surprised when this turns out not to be the case. I am also surprised and not just a little delighted that I was able just now to figure out how to turn ipso facto into italics. I am also surprised and delighted whenever I can retrieve messages off of my cellphone, but I digress..
Speaking of schvigs, I am one myself now- twice over! This would be the perfect place to insert the wedding photos of Abe and Anna and their gorgeous and delightful spouses only of course I have no idea how to do such a cyber thing. During the brief period when Abe and I co-blogged, he was responsible for everything to do with that sort of photo adding , presumably because he knows Html. Since I don't even know what Html means, it seems unlikely that I will be able to pull off such a stunt, but I might just try. Or I could ask my newly-minted son-in-law Zack to teach me how to perform such a feat of cyber legerdemain; however, that might turn him sour on his new Schvig and we wouldn't want that to happen.
So for now there will be no decorative additions...
The current piece I'm working on involves my mother, alternately known as Bubs, Bubby,The Bubster, Dorrie-Doodle (an unsanctioned appellation which she detests) or the Momster, by me. The aged relative is now 92 and one half years old and is just a laugh a minute. I've been interviewing her since she's requested that her biography be done. Thus far I have only one very small page of notes retrieved after a somewhat circuitous discussion starting with the leading question "What is your earliest memory?" I got some interesting data about my great-grandmother, Esther Rasha Cohen, and my mother's relationship with her. (sneak preview...it was very close. Not so close with Max, my great-grandfather) Stay tuned.....
Oh, and please let me know if you want to unsubscribe. It seems like every Chaim Yonkel these days is writing a blog and you don't need any more spam in your emailboxes. But if you are interested, then I am hoping that you will post feedback. That will motivate me to actually write these pieces that are floating around half-finished in my file cabinet or in my feverish brain. Thanks in advance for being my muses....and remember: THINGS ARE LOOKING UP!
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