Molly's Dollies

A few years out of college, some of our freshman friends - Annie, me, Lauren, Laura, and Carol - attending each other's celebrations and weddings.

I remember being so very nervous as we walked into the dormitory with the first of several loads of suitcases and bags. My parents were with me so I felt it important to appear confident. I wasn’t really.

This was it. I was to meet the girl who would be my freshman hall roommate for the first time and, as I had heard from others who were older and wiser, this would determine the success of my entire college career.

We had written letters to each other over the summer, once our names were shared by Wake Forest. This was so very long ago that there was no Internet, that we knew of anyway, and cellphones were still science fiction. And somehow, using only the tools of the time we had arranged for one telephone call to check on room furnishings.

Her voice had a strong Southern accent that was both foreign and comforting to my Ohio-bred ears, and we talked about the important things of dorm life, like who would bring the stereo and whether we would buy a hot pot, even though they were discouraged on campus.

So here we were, ready to meet face-to-face for the first time, and instead my R.A., Molly Lambright greeted us at the top of the Bostwick Dormitory stairs and waylaid my mom and me.

“Well hello,” she said as she reached for a bag with a smile. “Welcome to Bostwick 2B. Let me help you find your room.”

And with that I relaxed as the diminutive blond bundle of energy smiled and guided us forward.

It turned out that my Freshman roommate did not determine my path through college. Others on my hall did.

In the days before I recognized such things, my roommate was a solid introvert who thought lounging in the room playing songs on the guitar was the way to get through school. As a raging extrovert, I engaged in the type of activities that made her want to poke her eyes out. So my mates through college and now life were others from the 2B – and 2A - hall.

Forty years later I know now how important Bostwick 2B and Molly were to supporting our launch into young adulthood. She was the cheerleader to those who needed the boost. She listened with no judgment to those who questioned their actions from the night before. And she gave us an identity as Molly’s Dollies that we still carry into our not-so-young next chapters…

Thanks, Molly, for the support then – and for staying connected to us now.

The Sacrament of Putter

Puttering at sunset in Poipu Beach, by Avi Nahum.

I believe puttering is the human way to work through or manage the complexities of life. It may appear on the surface that puttering is just a mindless movement from one task to the next  with little in the way of planned outcome from the effort. But ahhh, that’s just on the surface. Even my brilliant scientist friends tell me that their greatest Aha! Moments occur when they’re thinking about something else.

For me, if there’s no puttering time in a week, everything falls apart. My ability to center on what’s truly important can’t be achieved without a certain amount of seemingly mindless wandering.

Maybe last week’s example will help explain. It started with a load of laundry – those annoying fragile items that can only withstand the “hand wash” cycle on the machine. As I carefully turned shirts inside out, and clasped the hooks on the bras, I noticed a bauble that needed to be re-stitched to its fabric, and so I pulled it out of the load for extra attention. With the washing machine starting its work, I went to find one of those little needle and thread packets from nice hotels that I stow away over the years precisely so I can stitch on baubles.

And there, in the drawer with the odds and ends, I noticed that the nail polish I bought because it was just the perfect California color has leaked a bit making smudge marks that are sticky on the drawer bottom.

“Rats!” I thought. “I should scrape that out while I see it.”

So it was off to find That Knife, the one that always scrapes up just right, and when the polish was gone leaving only a bit of color behind, I grabbed the needle and thread packet, repaired the bauble and just in time, I threw the shirt back in to the last rinse cycle of the laundry.

To be safe, I added nail polish to the always-present shopping list, and as I looked at the items on the list I noticed that by just buying some butternut squash, chicken breasts, and an onion, I could make that great Caribbean Chicken Stew everyone likes. And wouldn’t it be fun to see some old friends again? And if I made the stew, I could invite some friends over and make it a dinner party.

And there you have it – creating a much-needed evening of friendly community as the result of a laundry repair task. 

The writer Anne Lamott, a wise literate soul and observer of humans, elevated the act of puttering by calling it the sacrament of putter in one of her essays.  She said she puts the coffee on in the morning and engages in the sacrament of putter while it brews. 

I think she's right. Taking care of the little things - letting the mind wander with your body as you complete small tasks, put things aright, and create order in your space - is a sacred pursuit that can free the soul for more elevated pursuits. Like finding the cure for Alzheimer's.

Learning Joy from Survivors

Liberation of Buchenwald, 1945, by Margaret Bourke-White.

It has been twenty years since I first got the call asking if I would try out to be an interviewer for Steven Spielberg’s Survivors of the Shoah project. 

I wasn’t sure I could do it. I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to listen to stories of human beings who witnessed and then survived pure human evil. Would I be able to hear survivors tell of torture and death without crying? Would I then be able to ask the follow-up questions to elicit memories long repressed that could contribute to the testimony of that era that even then was fading into history?

The only way to know for certain was to try. So I joined a group of Minnesotans that traveled to Chicago where Foundation leaders observed us as part of their selection process. We interviewed each other, then met with volunteers who had experienced death camps and ghettos. The task was to ask questions, listen, and then ask the next question while being observed.

The first to be dismissed were those experts on the Holocaust who argued with the memories of survivors.

“Oh no, that couldn’t have happened as you described it,” said one expert. “I know because I have studied that history.”

The testimonies, the memories, the remembered experiences of those who actually lived through human evil were never to be discounted or “corrected”. Memories, as imperfect as they can be, are just that. And with 50,000-some collected, there’s strong credibility built from the repeated memories of experience that garners the truth.

It turned out that my background as a TV journalist had taught me what I needed to know to serve as an interviewer. It gave me the curiosity license to ask questions, follow up to get clarity, and ultimately support nearly 30 testimonies overall from survivors and a few liberators.

I learned about the strength of the human spirit to withstand deeply damaging horror and persist to live with joy in spite of that, or even because of it. Each of those I met had lived a life of meaning and purpose, excelling through education, business pursuits, by building families and civic institutions as if to say, “See! We still matter after all.”

As one survivor said to me, “They took my mother, they took my father and my little brother, but I’m still here. And since I’m here, I’m going to live life with purpose and on purpose.”

This week’s 70th anniversary of the liberation of the death camp at Auschwitz coming as it does amidst international news of continued events of pure human evil is a reminder that we need to remember what humans are capable of being to avoid repeating those same evils because, indeed, each life matters. 

Note: Today testimonies from survivors can be found at the University of Southern California’s Shoah Foundation.  https://sfi.usc.edu/

Understanding Different

View from above of this winter's protestors seeking justice at the Mall of America - photo by Avi Nahum.

We saw the film Selma on Sunday, just as the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday filled up all other screens with images from the mid-1960s struggle for basic human rights and dignity. Coming on the heels of the protests in Ferguson and New York City this past year, it was a powerful reminder that the world we inhabit needs more work. 

I was in grade school when the events in Selma took place, and at that time in history, Alabama seemed so much further away than it does today. I don’t remember there being dinner table conversation about the protests, but then my mom believed the dinner table was a place where a discussion of politics, sex or religion was simply impolite. So that wasn’t too surprising.

What is surprising is that I can’t remember any action, any activities, taking place in my hometown that supported the drive to recognize the rights of all citizens to participate in this grand experiment called democracy. The idea that there were people in another state who were denied the right to vote or fully participate in American life because of skin tone should have riled up major demonstrations in my Ohio hometown. But I don’t remember anything like that.

Instead, my grade school memories all took place within the cluster of people who were just like us. Two parented families with 2.5 children living in nice, not extravagant, homes with music education taking up a big part of our time outside of school. Our friends were nearly all white – well, there was one black violin player who everyone agreed was talented, although different. And the one time I came home from a day camp talking about the Marcus kids, I was told that yes, they were nice, but again, different.

And that was the code word. “Those people” were different than we were. And that meant it was OK to be polite, to be kind – but we simply didn’t mix.

I never questioned my parents on that. I never pushed back nor argued about the meaning of “mixing” or why “different” was taken as somehow not as good.

As is true of many who were brought up in the 1960s and 70s, I’ve forged my own path that includes mixing with different my whole life. I may not have verbally pushed back, but I discarded the biases of my past. Now I realize that for all of my desire to embrace “different”, I truly haven’t done enough to understand how different the experience of life can be for most of the world.

We still find ourselves clustering with those who are like us. Most of our friends are college educated with kids and are on a mad dash search for meaning in life.  We may not be in the highest economic class, but if you have the luxury of searching for meaning in life, that means you have the basic wherewithal to pay your heat and electricity bills.

But more than half of this globe’s residents don’t have that luxury of seeking “meaning” when food and shelter are at the top of their to-do list. And an additional thirty to forty percent of the world struggles to figure out how to pay for things like education, health care, and transportation.

I realize that my parents’ quiet assertion that others are different and we don’t mix was a comfortable way of saying that their issues were not our issues and we didn’t have to be engaged in “their” problems. And that’s not right or true.

Starting Sideways

The spiraling ceilings of the Ayasofya in Istanbul model the sense of akilter from the start of this year.

My mom called it being akilter or she would say, “Things are all akimbo”, but she meant akilter or off balance or out of alignment. She was funny in that way, using words that were almost right, but sometimes not quite.

That’s how I feel about the start of this year of 2015. Things are off balance or not quite aligned. And I’m trying to figure out how best to get back on track.

It looked like it would start well. We had a series of friends visiting us in California with good weather albeit a bit cold. But what’s a little cold to a bunch of former and current Minnesotans? There were good meals planned, interesting albeit odd films to watch -seriously, The Interview was only good as a protest action – and we toured some new wineries near Santa Barbara.

And then the New Year began. And everything sped up. Even the Rose Parade seemed to race so quickly along its path on Colorado Boulevard that I missed waving to actor Jack Black on the float honoring his and all music teachers.

We did have a great time celebrating becoming parents 29 years ago, better known to my first born as her birthday. We had a superb, albeit too generous, meal at a top spot in LA and loved watching the chefs at work. And that was great – but…

The week following that – the one week in these past few months with no post – knocked me sideways.

It began with the news that a young former colleague had lost her battle with cucking fancer, er, cancer. Jenna Langer Vancura lived a heroic life outwitting cancer for nearly half of her too-few years.  Several months ago, she made the decision to stop with the treatments that promised little other than time away from her dear family and friends. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that her body then said, “Enough.” But it was.

The news made my heart hurt in the way that’s only possible when the unfairness of life slaps you in the chest. But Jenna’s joie de vivre is still present, reminding me to live with a smile and attitude.

About the time I had come to terms with the news of Jenna’s death, I was transfixed with images pouring out of Paris. What the…well, I don’t need to comment on the insanity of that wasteful attack. How violent murder honors anyone’s prophet is outside the realm of my understanding.

I am so imbued by our core values in this country that I will fight for the right of people to argue a position that is the opposite of mine. I will fight for the right of people to worship with prayers, chants, or dance, in mosques, synagogues, churches, or temples. But none of that fighting for the core values of free speech or practice of religion will ever involve the use of weapons beyond words, organizing, or voting.

I wanted to start 2015 by making plans, executing strategies, and measuring progress. Instead I start the year sick at heart at the loss of a single life and transfixed in horror at the murder of so many more by madmen. It’s not how I thought things would begin – and yet here we are – beginning a year sideways, akilter, or as Mom would have said, akimbo.

Reflecting Forward

Clare, friend Barbie, Ben and Jacques join me under the glittery tree at the Ritz Carlton @ LALive.

We finished 2014 by racing to the end of the year much as it began – filled with travel and friends, family and films. All good things, of course, but as a New Year dawns, it occurs to me that, for the first time in nearly 30 years, we have failed to send out our annual reflective/projective letter and family photo.  And I’m going to be OK with that.

We all know that annual family letters are tricky. There are those that tend to magnify the accomplishments of children and spouses. My kids complain that I under-report – not enough bragging.

Some relay a monthly listicle of highlights that are moderately interesting. By the end of any year, I’ve ripped out our monthly calendars and could only rebuild my memory by checking our credit card statements – something I swore off in the 1990s.

But there are very few letters that hold the cherished place of “much anticipated” – the kind that are ripped open for their humorous take on the passage of time or the ability to truly provide a lively portrait of distant, yet dear friends.

Therefore, much as our ancient ancestors did by taking a sabbatical or rest from work in order to regenerate, learn new skills, or allow the land to rest – this will be our sabbatical year from an annual letter.

It’s not that there isn’t exciting news to share. Ben is working his dream – in the writer’s room for the second season of the TNT show “Murder In the First; and Clare is polishing her foodie wings in the main office of Nancy Silverton’s Mozza empire in LA (yes, she can help you get a table if you’re ever in the area). And – yes, I finished the book I set out to write, and am outlining the next. Publication is a whole different story…

But I digress. Rather than a reflective annual letter, mailed by our US Postal Service complete with stamps and envelopes, I’ll blog into 2015 by projecting forward.

Here’s what I see for the New Year – we miss our friends and sense of home in Minneapolis, so we are planning a more active presence in the Twin Cities next year. We love the close geography of being near our kids – so we are planning to retain our presence in Los Angeles as well. Both Jacques and I enjoy the work we do, and will continue to pursue making a meaningful impact wherever we are.

We’ve become very aware that this adventure of life – this one-way ticket of a journey – is something to be shared with those we love. So we’ll hold on to those who are dear and work hard to stay connected to the places and things that matter. And you? What do you see for 2015?

Hallmarks of Meaning

Lighting up the meaning of our possessions.

We’re in the midst of the eight days of the year where lighting a progressively increasing number of candles requires a pause in the normal routine of these long nights. And for our family, preparing for this ritual involves cleaning up the remnants of candle wax left on our menorahs from the year before.

I don’t mean to leave one year’s wax in place for clean up a year later. I always intend to return our lovely collection to their places of display perfectly polished and cleaned. And I never do.

So I was standing at our sink earlier this week, ensuring the water was hot enough to soften up the hardened colors as I thought through the year since that wax had landed in place. It has been a year filled with change and renewal. Of saying goodbyes and embracing hellos. And that’s when I noticed the hallmark on the silver piece I was cleaning.

I’ve had an unexpected education in hallmarks this year, as we have worked our way through the collected possessions of a lifetime in my dear departed mother-in-law’s home. I had always known that those little dimples at the base of silver and other metal pieces meant something about the purity of the metals they marked.

What I didn’t know was that there are also maker’s marks along with those purity assurances that tell a story of the creator including country of origin, intent of the piece – export or not - and those have become an intriguing part of understanding the life journey of my in-laws. 

We’ve found marks that originate in Hungary, Austria, France, Italy, Spain, and even Vichy. They tell us something about the family or friends who may have purchased or given the pieces to Sziga and Sol. The truth is that none of us – not one of the children or spouses of my in-laws – know the actual story behind any of these pieces. We don’t know what travels or visits led to their being purchased, so we’re left with the hallmarks and maker’s marks to piece it together.

We may have our own memories of certain items – when they were used for dinners or gatherings that we attended - but by not knowing the genesis story for any of them it has been very hard for us to know what should have meaning from the last generation to the next. It has led to an emotionally difficult series of decisions.

During this holiday of rededication, we’re committed to ensuring our next generation knows the stories of those things in our collection of belongings that have family meaning. This week, when the kids join us for latkes and challah, we’ll share with them the story of the menorah we will be lighting. It was the first of our married life, given to us by Uncle Andre and Aunt Vera who wanted us to have a beautiful piece to mark the seasons of our marriage. And it has.

And we will also dedicate ourselves to cleaning up our stuff so that future years aren’t left to remove old wax.