Category Archives: Confessional

The Arts Shed Light on the Holocaust

14 Thursday Nov 2013

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life 2

By FRANK TERRANELLA

In the last month, I have had three experiences with Holocaust-based stories (a movie, a book and a play) that have deeply affected me. In all three cases, it was serendipitous that I came upon these stories. I did not seek them out; they found me. The fact that I was presented with three different stories within a few weeks, all dealing on a very personal level with the Holocaust, is beyond coincidence for me. Whatever the psychic cause, it gave me, someone who was born after World War II, and is not Jewish, the chance to understand better one of the great tragedies of the 20th century.

I was on a cruise last month, and one evening, rather than attend the on-board entertainment in the ship’s theater, my wife and I just relaxed in our cabin and turned on the television. The ship had only a couple of English-language entertainment channels. But one of them was playing the 1997 film, “Life in Beautiful,” starring Roberto Benigni. It’s a touching story about a Jewish man who shields his son from the horrors of Nazi oppression, even when he and the child are sent to a concentration camp. I had not seen the film when it first came out more than a decade ago, and I was moved by its simple themes of love and survival in perilous times.

Later in the cruise, I was looking for a book to read, and I opened my Kindle app and found Jodi Picoult’s, “The Storyteller.” When I started reading it, I had no idea about its content. I bought it simply on the basis of the fact that I love Picoult’s books and have read them all. I soon found out that the book was about a young woman who has a grandmother who is a Holocaust survivor. The young woman is a baker, and one of her customers is an old man who used to teach German in the local high school. The man reveals to the young woman that he was a Nazi during World War II. It turns out that the man was an officer in the very camp where the young woman’s grandmother was a prisoner. The old man asks the young woman to kill him because he can no longer live with the guilt and wants to be killed by a Jew (even though the young woman is an atheist). The book explores the ethical dilemma the young woman faces. It does that by spending most of the book telling the grandmother’s story of life under Nazi domination. Picoult also tells the story of the old Nazi, and in doing so, makes us understand how good people can do terrible deeds. The book made the Holocaust more real and understandable to me than anything I have ever read.

Finally, just a week after we returned home from our cruise, we went to see a play called, “A Shayna Maidel,” performed by the Bergen County Players in Oradell, New Jersey. We have season tickets, and so again, I went to the play with no knowledge of what the subject matter was going to be. I knew it probably had a Jewish theme, but I had no idea what that might be.
It turned out that this play written by Barbara Lebow tells the story of a Jewish family in 1946 in New York. The family, living in Poland, was split up before the war with the father and younger daughter coming to America while the mother and older daughter stayed behind because the older daughter had scarlet fever at the time and could not travel. By the time arrangements could be made for the mother and older daughter to come to America, the Nazis had invaded Poland and they could not get out.

The play revolves around what happens when the older daughter finally comes to America in 1946 after having survived the Holocaust. I don’t want to give away any of the plot twists, but suffice it to say that this is a very emotional play that brought me to tears several times. I recommend seeking out, “A Shayna Maidel,” particularly if you are not Jewish, because it shows how Jewish families living in the United States were affected in the aftermath of the Nazi horror.

Father of the Groom, and All That Doesn’t Come With It

12 Tuesday Nov 2013

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Bob down aisle

BY BOB SMITH

At my son’s wedding this past Saturday, I learned that very little is expected of the father of the groom. At least briefly, the father of the bride is a star – walking his daughter down the aisle, and wistfully handing her over to her new husband-to-be. It’s a touching moment – closely watched by the gathered churchgoers, hankies in hand.

By then the groom is already waiting at the altar – hopefully, thanks to the best man, sober enough to avoid claims of duress or insanity. But the father of the groom is merely a front-row spectator wearing a tuxedo. Aside from discreetly dabbing away tears as the ceremony progresses, he doesn’t have to do anything. Bob and Maria at table

The best man handles the rings. The maid of honor, like a fastidious footman, rearranges the bride’s train every time she moves. Inspirational readings during the ceremony are recited by a sibling, friend or favorite uncle. And, of course, the main speaking parts are reserved for the happy couple and the priest. There’s usually a receiving line, either as the guests leave the church, or as they arrive at the reception hall, to give the parents of the bride (who traditionally pay for the reception) the opportunity to personally thank each guest for stepping up with a respectable cash gift.

But my son and new daughter-in-law eschewed the traditional wedding format, so there was no receiving line at all. After the ceremony, and a few formal pictures on the altar with the newlyweds, I simply wiped my cheeks and got onto the “party bus” that took us to the hotel where the reception would be held. My only role on the party bus was to drink champagne with my wife, my new in-laws, and the humongous (six men and 10 women) bridal party. That was easy. But it was also only 3:30 p.m., and the reception was at 7, so my next challenge was staying awake after four glasses of party-bus bubbly.

Maria happily chatted with relatives and other guests in the hotel lobby as I fought to keep my chin off my chest. After a number of close calls with napper’s whiplash, I gave in, and went up to our room to nap. Forty five minutes later, I was a new (if slightly groggy) man, ready for the rigors of the cocktail hour and reception.

The cocktail hour was a blur of steamed dumplings, marinated vegetables, skewered fried things, and cheese enough to choke a cardiologist. Nothing to do there but gulp wine, greet and eat. At the reception itself, the father of the bride has another hankie-moment when he dances with his newly-married daughter. Then the mother of the groom does a similar sentimental turn when she dances with her son, accompanied by wistful sighs and sniffles from the audience. Again, the father of the groom merely watches, ready with a tissue and a warm absorbent shoulder for his wife to lean on when the dance with son is done. The rest of the night you spend enjoying the food, the music, the dancing, and the company of family and friends. No heavy lifting; no public displays of emotion.

We stayed in the reception hall, hugging last guests goodbye, until they turned up all the lights. Waxy-smelling smoke-trails rose from the centerpiece candles as the busboys snuffed them out. The staff banged the round wooden tables onto their sides, snapped the metal legs flat against the bottoms, and rolled them away. Two pairs of women’s shoes, discarded during a dance frenzy, stood by the door awaiting their owners’ sheepish return.

Although our son has been out of our house for years, there’s something transformative about the formality, and apparent finality, of the marriage ceremony. I have every hope, and no doubt, that his marriage will last. But regardless of what happens, I feel as if a bridge has been crossed, and there’s no going back.

Maria and I walked quietly back to our room. We were happy. But our bellies were full, our feet hurt, and we were looking forward to getting some sleep. Here, with her, my role was comfortable and clear. The day was ending where the whole process had begun over thirty years ago: with the two of us walking hand in hand, hopeful for the future.

Tuxedo Tales

08 Friday Nov 2013

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BY BOB SMITH

way too fat bob

Way-too-fat Bob.

My oldest son is getting married tomorrow. I am expected to wear a tuxedo. He and his fiancée are meticulous planners, so they told me months ago the name of the rental store where they were getting tuxedos for the bridal party. But I didn’t bother taking the name, because I assured them I had my own tuxedo.

In fact, I have three. Over the course of my 30-year career as a lawyer, I had to attend, each year, at least one or two formal events. After a couple of years of renting tuxedos (at $100 or more per rental), I realized that, in the long run, buying a tuxedo would be far cheaper. A decent tuxedo, after all, costs only between $300 and $500. It would pay for itself in a couple of years.

But you only realize the cost savings if you stay the same size, and can wear that tuxedo multiple times. I almost didn’t.
When I bought my first tuxedo I weighed close to 230 pounds, which for me (at barely 5’7″ tall) was gigantic. Because the pants came with a 40-inch waist, the jacket was made for a much taller, generally bigger man. Except for all the accumulated fat around my chest and midsection, I wasn’t that man.

So the tailor shortened the jacket, but left all the extra fabric around the middle, so it wouldn’t bind uncomfortably on my unseemly girth when I buttoned it up. I think that tuxedo cost $300, and I wore it for a couple of years – I got my money’s worth.

fat bob

Fat Bob.

Then I decided to get healthy and lost 25 pounds. When the next formal dinner rolled around, the tuxedo in my closet was clearly too big. I was determined not to ever let myself get so fat that I would need that big tuxedo again, but I didn’t want the tailor to alter it, either. No – I wanted to keep the big tuxedo around to remind myself how bad things actually could be if I wasn’t careful. The second tuxedo, a size or two smaller than the first, again cost me $300 or $400. I wore that one for four or five years, maybe eight or nine times – an effective rental rate of about $40 per occasion. Not bad.

Time went by, and my attention to my health and weight slackened to the point where I weighed more than 220, and had to put on the jumbo tuxedo again. I was getting more mileage from the $300, but I was miserable. I decided to lose weight again.
This time, I went all the way – by the time I was through, I had lost nearly 50 pounds. But weighing in at 170, neither tuxedo would fit, and the difference in my size was too great for either one to be altered. I bought another.

The third tuxedo, like the others, cost $300 – $400. It’s a size 34 waist, and has a corresponding low 40’s size jacket. I wore that tuxedo to at least a half dozen events before my recent retirement from the law, so it too has paid for itself.

fit bob

Fit Bob.

When my son’s wedding was a few weeks away, I went to the closet and pulled out all three sizes of tuxedo: the fit-Bob, the fat-Bob, and the I-can’t-believe-I-was-ever-that-fat Bob. As expected, the largest fit like a suit made for a circus clown. Even the intermediate size swam on me, as if I were wearing my older brother’s hand-me-down. I might get away with wearing that to the high school prom, but it won’t do for my son’s wedding.

I’m happy to say that the jacket for the fit-Bob tuxedo is still the perfect size. But the slacks, on the other hand, were a tad snug around the waist. Apparently, fit Bob is slipping a bit. So I finally gave in and took it to the tailor to let the waist out a couple of inches, which will make the pants fit comfortably.

When the wedding is over I’ll park it in the closet with my other two penguin suits to await the next formal occasion. Now that I’m retired, I don’t expect that many. But fit, fat, or far too fat, I’ll be ready.

Like Two Peas in a Pod, We Rake Together

06 Wednesday Nov 2013

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Acorns 1

BY MARGO D. BELLER

It will be another good year for hawks, I think as my rake uncovers another cache of nuts beneath the leaves. For weeks, I’ve heard the rifle-like retort of falling nuts smacking the hoods and windows of cars in my neighbors’ driveways. It will be a bumper crop this year. The more nuts, the more squirrels and chipmunks that run around collecting them, which makes them less-wary targets for the raptors. The more nuts, the more to cache, and later to feed young squirrels and chipmunks, which creates yet more food for the raptors.

This is what I am thinking as I rake. As the years go on, I like this annual chore less and less. My mind wanders. I tell myself I am outside and exercising in a more useful way than riding a stationary bicycle. But my arms, legs and back ache. I do not like that. Most of my neighbors hire a service. For them, if you have a lawn, particularly a large one, you hire someone to maintain it. We try to do it ourselves. One mows, the other pulls weeds. One puts down seed and fertilizer, the other cuts back overgrown hedges, and puts in flowers. Both of us rake or use the little electric blower to move the fallen autumn leaves.

At this moment I have finished using the blower in the backyard to push the elm, oak and maple leaves into a large pile that I will rake into a blue tarp. My husband (MH) is using the big rake to bring the locust pods on the front lawn down to the curb. He will join me out back when he’s done.

As I rake, I think of the town official who thought locust trees would be a good choice to line our quiet suburban street, not knowing then that locust roots push up sidewalks and streets, and the pods of female trees create a thick mat on the lawn unless they are removed. Every year, I think I would like to punch that town official in the nose.

I hear a Carolina Wren sing, and that switches my train of thought back to birds. There are eagles, hawks and falcons flying south for the winter, perhaps several miles above me as I work. The more nut-fed squirrels they eat, the more young raptors there will be, too.

As the tarp fills, MH quietly joins me with his rake. At first we are in each other’s way. I chide him for putting more leaves under the tarp than on it. But from long experience with leaves, and each other, we start working together while trying to stay out of each other’s way. It has been like this in our marriage, too.

We fill the tarp until it is nearly full and then each grab two corners, and pull it to the curb to empty. Then we go back and repeat the process, again and again, until we are done, or can take no more. Whichever comes first.

The Year I Put My Khruschev On

30 Wednesday Oct 2013

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I still love masks. Happy Halloween.

BY BOB SMITH

My favorite Halloween costume, ever, was when I was eight or nine years old. I had somehow conned my mom into buying me a full-face mask of Nikita Khruschev, the famous Russian leader, who was a terrifying figure during the Cold War and Cuban Missile Crisis.

The mask was surprisingly lifelike, complete with a prominent gnarly wart on the left cheek and a fake black Russian winter hat curving over the top. I wore one of dad’s gray wool overcoats, which mom pinned up so it didn’t drag on the ground, and I wrapped a scarf around my neck to hide my t-shirt underneath. Black winter boots rounded out the ensemble.

Fully dressed, I was a perfect miniature version of Khruschev – sort of an early sixties “Mini-Me.”

The best part of the costume was that no one could tell who I was once I had it on, so I would stomp around saying threatening things like, “Death to America,” and “Capitalist pigs!” in a gruff Russian accent, while occasionally slamming a shoe onto a table. (Mom shut that part of the routine down pretty quickly – shoes, deemed inherently dirty, were not allowed to touch any table where we ate our food.)

I got big laughs at every house we stopped at – the unsuspecting housewife doling out candy to the crowd of kids would come around to me and giggle.

“Who do we have here – oh look, it’s Nikita Khruschev! Isn’t that cute!”

To which I would reply, in character, in my best rumbling Russian accent, “Trick or treat. Ve vill bury you!”

Nikita and I were both partial to Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Milky Ways, and Milk Duds. Anything homemade or healthful, such as apples or popcorn balls, were promptly discarded in the gutter. Stupid capitalist pigs.

It’s a Hit: Baseball, Barbecue, Old Friends

03 Thursday Oct 2013

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Fenway

Revisiting Fenway and old friends. Photo by Margo D. Beller.

BY MARGO D. BELLER

I went to college in Boston during the late 1970s. Thanks to the journalism school, and the various dormitories where I lived, I made a lot of good
friends I’ve managed to keep via phone, letter, and now e-mail over the past
three decades. I married one of them – MH.

Thanks to the proximity to Fenway Park, I became a Red Sox fan.
During my time in Boston, the Sox were in World Series contention twice,
but aside from the playoffs, and any series against the division rival New
York Yankees, it was always easy to show up at the ballpark on the day or
night of the game, go to the General Admission window. and buy a
bleacher ticket.

Although MH and I have periodically visited Boston and our friends
over the years, we had not been inside Fenway for 20 years. It
wasn’t for lack of trying. But Red Sox fans are fanatical, and except for one
recent bad year, Fenway and the Sox have enjoyed years of consecutive
sellouts. MH and I have had to keep up via radio, newspaper and the
occasional TV broadcast.

This year, I decided to try one of the online ticket services to combine a
visit with friends, and a visit to the ballpark. Perhaps the owner decided to
go to Martha’s Vineyard for the Labor Day weekend. I was able to get
seven seats together. The house was packed, the Red Sox won and my
friends and their spouses – all more fanatical about the Sox than when we
were in college, thanks to that 2004 World Series win – were very happy.

The next day we had a cookout at the house of one friend. Baseball came up, yes, but so did music, old friends in other parts of the country and the
economy. If the economy is improving, why are there no full-time jobs with
benefits, particularly for those of us who’ve been out there working for 20
years or more? Why were over 100 people cut from one friend’s
employer, their jobs sent to India? Why has another’s cut its contributions
to the 401(k)?

Why do we feel less secure as we get older after growing up hearing from
our first-generation American parents that they were working hard to make
it easier for their kids to get ahead?

None of us had answers, although we all had theories. But as depressing
as the discussion got at times, I was strangely comforted that these
friends have the same fears and concerns. It is a conversation we could
only have face to face.

That is what those who rely solely on Facebook and other services for
“friends” don’t seem to understand – real friends are people you eat with,
share fears with, see your favorite baseball team win with, and laugh with.
Face to face. My old friends have newer “friends” via Facebook, but they
know the difference.

It must be the reason they put up with me.

Vacuuming My Way into Clarity

02 Wednesday Oct 2013

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carpenter street

Mowing the lawn of my youth was as cathartic as vacuuming.

BY ANTHONY BUCCINO

It’s the same story every week: “Ant, the house is all dusted. You can vacuum when you’re ready.”

“Aw, I got to vacuum the whole house,” I mutter under my breath.

When I’m ready, I grab the vacuum from the upstairs closet, plug it in and click it on. While the noise drowns out the rest of the world, I focus on specks of dust and lint challenging me to a duel they will lose.

Before I know it, my head is cleared of everyday life. My mind is fogged by memories of Mom and her Electrolux that slid on metal blades across our old rug in the four-room cold water flat.

There was that time when the neighborhood version of “Benny Miller-from-Cucamonga” tried to sell Mom a new vacuum. “Would you let your eight-year-old son pick up a handful of dirt outside and eat it?”

“Of course NOT!”

“But, Mrs. Buccino,” he said, “the rug inside your house is much worse than the dirt outside.”

Hey, I was eight. I wouldn’t eat dirt in the yard. Anymore. What was this guy talking about?

Ma was unconvinced and sent him on his way. She wouldn’t even give him the name of a friend he could call on, the way a now-former friend had given her his name. We made do with that old Electrolux until after we moved to our big house, where there was now also a wall-to-wall carpet to vacuum.

That new house had an 8,000 square foot side lawn that needed to be mowed. Gone was that old rotary push mower. In my eagerness to use the new Lawn Boy Dad bought, that chore became mine.

After a gazillion pulls on the easy-start cord, the roaring motor drowned out the rest of the world. I focus on overlapping cuts, straight lines, the end of my imaginary row where I’ll turn around and head back in 200-foot paths for the next hour and a half.

Automatically, I round trees, maneuver past pits, side-cut hills, and watch for that silly little patch of blue grass growing below the black walnut tree. I kick aside the fallen green walnuts. I know where every root pops up, and where I might create a divot. I eye the neighbor’s hedges that need trimming, stop and empty the bag of clippings, leaving the mower to whine for my return. As my hands are shaken into numbness, my brain solves all the problems of my little world.

After Dad died, and I had a home of my own, Ma’s lawn was still under my stewardship. Weekly I’d haul the latest working mower and gas can back and forth between our lawns.

I’d tell my daughter, “Hey, you want to visit Grandma? We can take our lawn mower for a ride. It’ll be so much fun.”

The older I got, the larger Mom’s lawn seemed. By comparison, my home lawn was a postage stamp and hers was the novel, “Pride and Prejudice”. At least Mom was still up to doing her own vacuuming.

Meanwhile, back at my ranch, I was able to bring home a Labrador Retriever, as long as I promised to vacuum all the dog hair in its wake. No one could figure how our basement dog got her fur past the drop stairs into the second-floor attic. But there I was, vacuuming dog hair in the attic.

Two dogs later, and I’m still vacuuming dog hair everywhere. Heck, our latest Lab sees me plug in the vacuum, and heads to the sanctuary of his crate on the bare floor side of the basement.

I don’t know that my father ever touched our vacuum. Mom was a housewife. Dad went to work, Ma did her chores. Monday was wash day. Tuesday was ironing. Wednesday was scrubbing. Thursday was mending. Friday was mopping. Every day was cooking dinner.

When Mom vacuumed, the old Electrolux had a cloth bag held in by clamps. When the bag was full, Mom would empty the dirt and dust onto old newspapers spread out on the floor. Try doing that online. These days when the bag is full, I snap it out and replace it with a clean bag. Our local vacuum dealer recommends we have ours serviced about every 90 days. Huh? I don’t even change the bags that often.

Nowadays we split chores. I don’t mind vacuuming. Bachelors must vacuum their pads, no? Eventually, yes? In fact, I sometimes really get into vacuuming. I flip over furniture, zip under dining room chairs, slip under slipcovers and leave a path of no footprints. I crisscross the carpet giving it the look of center field at Yankee Stadium. All this time, I keep a business-like look on my face. You can’t let on that vacuuming is cathartic.

“Aw, I got to vacuum!” You may hear me moan, but I look forward to those moments when the noise fills the outside air and my brain solves all the problems of my little world.

Knocking at My New Front Door: My 59th Birthday; Retirement

30 Monday Sep 2013

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Bob door

BY BOB SMITH

When you’re born, they start at zero, and count your age in days, weeks and months until you’ve completed a year of life, and you turn one. I was 59 on September 29, which means I’ve completed my 59th year on the planet, and my 60th year begins, today, on September 30. I’m not “in my 60s” as the term is conventionally used, but it’s close enough. Holy crap – suddenly I’m old.

I’m also retiring after nearly 30 years of practicing law – more than 26 of those with the same firm. It’s unsettling to be leaving a profession and a work environment that I know so well, but it’s also exciting to be setting out into uncharted waters. I’m not exactly sure what I’ll do – acting, writing, and travel all come to mind. But the important thing is that I’ll be defining what I do, and when I do it. And it doesn’t matter if I earn money at it or not. My last day at work is today, Monday, September 30.

Now that we don’t need to live close to any work site (my wife retired from her job in Nutley in December), we’re having renovations done at our former vacation home in Monmouth County, and will move there permanently in a couple of weeks. We did an extensive facelift of the house, including new siding and ground-level stone, the addition of a porch on the third floor, and upgrading the siding, railings and trim around the porches on the first and second floors.

We’re also adding a brand-new mahogany front door, with a stained-glass insert in the center, and stained-glass panels on either side. It’s replacing a double door that had a white aluminum frame and full glass panels – basically, a sliding glass door with handles and hinges. The new door, by contrast, is a work of art.

As with most renovations, this project has hit a number of snags – missing/slow tradesmen, late inspectors, delayed shipment of materials, machinery, and/or fixtures, rerouting pipes and ductwork to accommodate conditions unknown until the walls were opened, etc. The usual.

As a result, the projected completion date of July 30 has now been pushed to October something-soon. My builder won’t commit to anything more concrete than after the first, but before Halloween. Although the front porch and the steps leading to it have been rebuilt, the paved path that’s supposed to run between the porch steps and the sidewalk is still a pile of dirt. Nonetheless, the builder tells me he’s ready to install the new front door. It’s to be delivered, today, Monday, September 30, and installed on Tuesday, October 1.

That’s also my first day of retirement. And the second day of my 60th year. They say that when one door – or in this case, a couple of them – closes, a new one opens. We’ll see.

We Partied Like It’s 1973

23 Monday Sep 2013

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It wouldn’t be us, without some Asbury. Photo by Mindy Kirchner Schwartz.

BY LOIS (ROTHFELD) DESOCIO and JULIE SEYLER

Good to know that middle age has not diminished the verve, and the spunk, that I see as still defining my high school graduating class. Forty years after getting our diplomas, our reunion this past weekend was like us – effusive, diversified, funky, and fun (with attention paid to booze and yummy food).

A one-night affair would not be enough for us. We want a spree. So the first hellos and hugs were exchanged at a night-before party at the Wonder Bar in Asbury. (A former stop on The Circuit – where many of us, and our first cars, drove in circles.)

We were more spruced-up the next day, but felt just at home with an afternoon-into-the-night fest on the grounds of our classmate’s on-the-Navesink River manse:P1180360

There were top-notch, elegant foodstuffs from fruit to nuts to chocolate:IMG_0166

And we ended the night true to our 18-year-old selves: scarfing down Windmill hot dogs:IMG_0171

Yes, we might be bending towards 60, but our feet didn’t fail us on the dance floor: IMG_0200

And we embraced our commonality. And our diversity: IMG_0160

A big-hearted thanks to everyone – the intrepid organizers, the magnanimous Manns, and the groovy, far-out, super-duper Spartans. (Who all “look exactly the same!”) Lois

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

Memories...

Memory Board.

And so it came to pass. After a year, perhaps even longer, of planning, organizing, and strategizing, the reunion committee made it happen. About 110 of the 400-plus graduating class of 1973 gathered at a petite chateau on the banks of the Navesink River on an iffy weather Saturday.

For about two weeks before, one classmate had taken on the duty of providing daily weather updates, the final forecast being there was definitely a chance that rain was going to come down on the festivities. It didn’t matter – we walked into a playlist of reel to reel hits from the 1970s, assiduously compiled by one guy who had asked each of us for a contribution of our favorite song. There were kisses, hugs, laughs and mutual choruses of “You look great!;” “What’s new?;” and (embarrassingly enough), “Who are you?”

We ate, drank and danced, but the absolute highlight was when we enmassed the dance floor to belt out American Pie screaming at the top of our lungs, “Drove the Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry.” The band segued into “We Are Family”, and there we were in choreographic unison, shouting, “I got all my sisters with me.” I couldn’t help but think that in some way we really were all still “family.”

I hadn’t seen most of these people in 20, 30, 40 years, and yet there we were back in high school. There is a level of comfort, familiarity and togetherness that is unique, and I think somewhat special, but perhaps not unusual. After all, we did spend almost every day together for four years, and for some of us even before that, starting out in elementary school and moving on to Dow Avenue where we were tormented into memorizing the words to “The Impossible Dream” for 8th grade graduation.

Then it was over. The band channeled Donna Summer, and played one last dance, and the goodbyes started. Wishes of health and happiness and, “Let’s get together,” and “See you soon.” Then more hugs and kisses. And off we tramped in the rain.

So hats off, and mega kudos to the man with the digs who so graciously opened his home and the reunion committee of the Class of ’73, who threw a party that made it so much fun to go home again! Here’s to seeing everybody in 2023. xoxox, Julie.

My “Bird’s Eye,” and the View, Diminishing with Age

19 Thursday Sep 2013

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Birding Blind. Photo by Margo D. Beller.

BY MARGO D. BELLER

Despite the best effort of advertisers to make those of us of a certain age think we can stay young forever, there are times when you know you aren’t.

Mine came after a Saturday eye exam.

I was a near­sighted child who became far­sighted as an adult. Sometimes, I am a little too far­sighted – worrying about things to come that I can’t control.

Like the other body parts, eyes age. The last time I saw the eye doctor, she decided to put drops in to dilate my pupils for a closer exam.

My eyes turned out to be fine, but coming into the sunshine, I was literally struck blind. My husband had to run to the car for my sunglasses. It was after this that we went birdwatching, as usual, on a sunny Saturday.

I can’t think of a more essential body part when birding than the eyes. I fear the day that I can’t see well when I want to do something I enjoy.

I have met older birders who sit in one place and wait for the birds to come to them because they can’t walk very well. There may be blind or deaf birders out there, but I’ve never seen one.

It is hard enough to find a small bird in a fully leafed­out tree with binoculars and two good eyes. It is a major challenge to find them when everything you see is surrounded by a corona of fuzziness.

I’ve come to depend on my ears and knowledge of bird shape and habit more than my eyes, but on this day I discovered not being able to focus on details such as color and streaking put me at a severe disadvantage. At one point, MH and I were in a bird blind, a structure designed to allow you to look out without scaring anything. We were looking down from a small height to see if anything was skulking around in the brush.

Bird blind, I thought. I’m a birder blind. Great.

Going from sunny meadow (where I had to use my sunglasses) to shady woods, I could barely see at all. When something big flew from a tree at our approach, I had to depend on MH for a description. Based on that, and the vague shape I saw, I could only guess we had spooked a roosting owl – likely a barred owl. Barred owls can be active during the day. What I saw was too big to be a screech owl and not as white as a barn owl. It might also have been a great horned owl. I’ll never know.

Meanwhile, MH had managed to turn his foot the wrong way and had to walk slowly. So he was limping. And I was nearly blind. Not exactly what the commercials portray of the golden years.

The fuzziness is gone now, and I can identify the familiar birds in my backyard just fine. I am having a harder time ignoring my far­sightedness.