Paper Dolls!

 Back in November I got together with my childhood buddies, Annette and Allison. The three of us met as “first families” in Co-op City in the Bronx back in the early ‘70s. For 6 years we played together, walked to school together and had sleepovers. All the things that kids do (or at least did back then). Co-op City in its early years was a magical place for a little kid. 

We lived in the townhouses in section 2, Cooper Place. For those of you with no idea of what I am talking about, let me pause and give an overview.

Co-op City is one of many housing projects spread throughout New York City. Composed of 5 sections, there are townhouses with three bedroom duplexes and one bedroom garden apartments allowing for mixed generational living. The garden apartments held older couples while the duplexes housed families. There were also single core towers, double core chevron shaped buildings and triple core buildings similar to the building that I currently live in.

Much like my current home in the Penn South Co-op, there is a lot of green space and tons of places for kids to play. Our earliest playspace was the courtyard that separated our banks of townhouses. To get to the courtyard all we had to do was leave our townhouse. That’s it. No cars allowed. The Cooper Place courtyard is where I learned to play hopscotch, jump rope and ride a bike. We walked on stilts, used pogo sticks and, in the winter, had snowball fights. We could walk to school without ever crossing a street.

My friends and I started kindergarten in the community center and were the first, first graders in the spanking new educational complex.

We endured the experiment that was the open classroom and one of us even graduated from the high school, making her a member of the first set of graduates to go all the way through that set of schools. 

Over the years we drifted apart. I was the first to move as my family broke apart and was later reassembled in a different, healthier form. Next, one  went another off to the suburbs. The last of us remained, left as an adult and then returned to her childhood home as her parents aged in place.

During our breakfast outing back in November, we shared our memories of a childhood viewed through three different lenses. It was fascinating to see what the others remembered and what I forgot. 

Fast forward a few weeks and you find me trying to figure out what a retirement wardrobe should look like. I’m watching youtubes videos on capsule wardrobes and listening to podcasts on “finding your style.” Then I wander over to the Seamwork website and discover their “Design Your Wardrobe” course. No, I haven’t taken it but I have scrolled through the course materials. And what did I find? Paper dolls! O.k., not really but sort of. There are line drawings of different adult silhouettes and you can match up line drawings of the sewing patterns to go with your silhouette. Look like paper dolls to me!, 

(not the Seamwork silhouettes)

That immediately sent me down memory lane, playing with and making our own paper dolls and paper doll clothing. Happy memories of a time when our responsibilities were mostly limited to doing homework and practicing our instruments. When free time was spent playing in the courtyard or riding our bikes or playing board games. A simpler time that we can never return to but that will always put a small smile on our faces when we think of it.

Here’s to simple times and the memories they bring.

Who wants to play paper dolls with me?!

Shana Tova -- Happy New Year

I lost my tickets.

Every year our high holy day tickets arrive a month or so in advance of the holiday. I am always very careful to put them somewhere safe.

Well, not always. At least not this year.

Long story short -- I sent an email to the appropriate person and there will be replacements waiting at the door tomorrow night.

***

Now for the long story that is going through my head and keeping me awake. Let's call it ...

Remembrances of High Holy Days before and after ... or ... Missing Mom

Mom (my mother-in-law in this story) has been gone for four full years now. This will be the fifth set of High Holy days since her demise.

I still miss her.

When Mike and I started living together, we also started worshiping together. (Or at least going to services together.)

While I was not a member of our synagogue until after our marriage, I always managed to get in to High Holy day services with Mike and Mom on their extra tickets. Since my brother-in-law was still in school and Mike was in graduate school, Mom qualified for "student" tickets for them. I went on my brother-in-law's ticket. (They don't check names and he was out of town.)

We'd always get there early because Mom liked to be able to "see." She had to be able to view the action on the bemah to be happy. We'd joke about it and tease her about having to stand on line for 45 minutes in order to get the good seats in the sanctuary. After a period of years, we wore her down and convinced her that the balcony was just fine and, that if she got an aisle seat, she could see just fine.

It was a compromise that worked well for several years -- except for the year that we discovered the second row of the balcony. This row, for some strange reason, has at least 2 inches less leg room then the other rows. I have long legs. Very long legs. In the other aisles my knees rubbed up against the back of the seats in front of me. In the second aisle ... let's just say that I made Mom switch seats with me during one of the standing bits so that I could put my feet into the aisle. I had bruises on my knees for a few days after.

---

Once the kids were born, Mike and I worshiped in shifts. He'd go with Mom on Rosh Hashanah evening and I'd go in the morning. The other person stayed at Mom's apartment with the kid(s). For Yom Kippor, we reversed it because he "should say Yiskor* for his father." (In quotes because that was how Mom felt and not what Mike felt.)

Then the kids got older and could come with us and go to the children's programs that ran in the classrooms upstairs in the synagogue.

That's when Mike stopped going to High Holy day services. He's an adult and can make up his own mind. He'd kept going for all of those years to keep his Mom company. Now that the child care issues were over, he allowed me to take that role. Since I wanted to go anyway, it worked. By then, Mom had mostly come to terms with Mike's feelinga about the whole organized religion thing and. as long as she had me, she was essentially o.k. with it.

---

So Mom and I went and after one or two times together, we discovered that if we arrived just as the line was letting into the synagogue, then we could usually find seats in one of the tiny pews at the back of the sanctuary -- the two seaters.

And we were happy.

We'll forget the year that I bit off the head of the temple administrator after I could not find the kids in the rooms that I left them in ...

Then Mom left us.

My vague recollections of that first set of holidays, coming after a summer of packing up her apartment, include Mike joining me, at least for Yom Kippor morning. Because he should say Yiskor for his mother.

That was the only year I asked him to join me though he still asks, every year, if I want him to go wth me.

The next year, I went, essentially, alone. The kids were in their parallel program having a good time. And I had no one to shmooze with before services or to nod with in agreement (or disagreement) during the sermon. Or to compare notes with afterwards.

I joined friends in the auditorium that year for Yom Kippor and discovered great sightlines. When I wondered to Mike, why Mom had never tried it, he said that she hated the chatty atmosphere that went with those wonderful sightlines.

After another set of services there, I understood why. It didn't help that my friends are of the late arriving sort, so I still had no one to shmooze with before services began.

Then, two years ago I was invited to usher ... and the rest is history. I LOVE ushering. The hustle and bustle and movement. While I do not get the quiet, contemplative time that I associate with worship -- hey, I wasn't really getting it anyway. And that's what late nights are for -- like tonight when everyone is asleep and I can think deep thoughts. And share them with you.

---

I had no intentions of going to evening services tomorrow. I figured we'd have a nice family dinner together and the kids and I would go in the morning -- we are ushering. But then I lost the tickets and now I feel that I have to go, just to justify the late email asking for help (I probably could have talked my way in on Saturday since we are on the ushering list).

In a strange way I am glad my hand was forced. I'm kind of looking forward to this now ... Squidette may or may not join me. Little Squid is taking a pass. I'm going to volunteer my services as an expert usher (they thought about upgrading my carnation color last year!) but, if I am not needed, I will ...

Shmooze before the services with my daughter.

Nod sagely with her during the sermon (or laugh discretely).

And truly understand why Mom wanted someone with her. And why Mike went for all those years -- and then always offered to go with me afterwards.

It's about more than the religion. It's about a shared experience and being with those you love during something that is important to you.

***

Shana Tova -- May this year be a good and sweet one and may you be inscribed in the book of life for another year.


*Yiskor: memorial service for the departed

Remembering ...

Today I used the phrase "I've bullied older women then you!" And meant it. Which sent me down a long reminiscing path.

It always amazes me how I am "the boss" to people older then me. That I'm in a position to say to someone "I'm ordering you to go home and get well." (Or something even stronger but along those lines.)

I've pushed women twice my age (figuratively) out the door and into a doctor's office. Or worse. How did I get this authority? And why do they listen to me? I'm young enough to be their child ... or grandchild in a couple of cases.

But boy I'm glad they do.

Last week we lost our dear Ginzie. She worked at Manhattan Center from it's founding until about 2 years ago when she fell ill and could not return. At the time of her retirement, she was the most senior paraprofessional in New York City. She loved the kids she worked with and they loved her in return. Same with the staff.

I learned so much from Ginzie.

I learned ... to always say good morning. And mean it.

I learned ... to always ask nicely. And say Thank you. (o.k., I knew this one, she just reinforced it.)

I learned ... that to be a good person is the highest goal one can achieve. To do for others is a good thing (yup, already knew this one but you can never learn it too often). To celebrate with your friends. To share their sadness as well as their joy. To suck it up and know when to say you are sorry. And mean it.

None of these lessons were taught with words, just with actions.

I never got used to being asked if she could take half and hour to go to mass on a holy day of obligation. But I started making sure that someone walked her to the church and back.

I never got used to her not being there any more ... and I never will.

Piecework

When I was a kid, my dad would pay us to put together the mailings for his company.

One of my earliest memories is sitting on the floor of the den, in my night gown, sealing envelopes with a sponge-topped water bottle. I think I was five.

Daddy would pay us a penny a motion. So, folding the press releases counted as two motions (one for each fold), sealing the envelope was a motion, stuffing the paper into the envelope was a motion and stamping it was a motion. Five cents a piece if one person did it all. The jobs were always shared with my older sister so neither of us ever got all five cents for a piece. We did get lots of IOUs for tiny amounts of money that we periodically swapped back to Daddy for real money.

Later, as teens, we would work for an actual hourly wage, but the work was essentially the same -- fold, stuff, seal, stamp. Honestly, and I'll check with them, I do not think that my youngest siblings ever got paid for piece work. By the time they came along we older siblings had already transitioned from piece workers to hourly employees so I suspect that they were probably always paid by the hour.

During my junior high school years my dad had an account with a company that put out monthly updates of, I think, metals prices. The first mailing was a binder with lots of card-stock pages. After that, we sent out the monthly updates in specially sized envelopes. This was in the late 70s, early 80s when small notebooks were "the thing" with my school age set but these binders were slightly smaller then those and only fit the special cards printed for them. Each month there would be extra cards and for years we used those cards as scrap paper. I think Daddy still had a stock of them when I graduated college.

As a high school student I transitioned from assembling the mailings to typing the labels for them. I still remember typing labels addressed to the "Container Port of Wilmington Delaware." For the life of me, I cannot tell you why we sent mailings to various Container ports but I'm sure my Dad could.

I was reminiscing about this very topic to my secretary this morning and lo and behold what should need to be done this afternoon? Labeling envelopes. Piecework! I could have let others do the work but after reveling in the memories, I just had to jump right in.

Presents and Memories

When I came home today I found this package sitting on the table. Inside was the sweetest note from Susan and this fiber. The green says that it is Bamboo Silk and the Blue doesn't say but feels like silk.
Soft, fibery love. Thank you so much, Susan!

There was a request for the story of the Lobster earrings. So, being ever the obedient blogger, here goes. Way back when, oh, about 21 years ago this May, I started hanging out with this really great guy that I knew from high school. We had reconnected a few months earlier and were well on the way to becoming best friends. During that first summer we frequented cartoon night at the Thalia (now a part of Symphony Space), attended Concerts in the Park and drank wine under the stars. On July 4 we watched the fireworks while sitting together on the Brooklyn Bridge. At the end of the evening, he kissed me lightly on the lips.

Sometime during that summer, while we were hanging with a great group of friends after waiting hours to get our tickets to Shakespeare in the Park, we wandered over to a store on the West Side and he bought me my very first present.
Lobster Earrings. Then...


And now. Yes, the same earrings, 21 years later. Want a better look at that perm I was sporting?
Remember that mini skirt I mentioned a few posts ago? Doesn't look nearly as short as I thought it was. (I had another picture of it but this one shows the aqua better.)

(A nicer "now" picture.)

Super Grover!

Mike bought me a present!(Click to make bigger if you want to see my new bandage and swollen face. Keep this size to preserve your illusions.)

Super Grover!

(5-Boro Knitters, look for Grover on my sleeve caps on Sunday.)

And the original. Purchased for me in 1987 by my sweet husband-to-be. When he helped me bring my stuff to college that August, he also helped me to tie a red scarf around Grover's neck and rigged him so that he "flew" across my dorm room on fishing line. Unfortunately I do not think that any pictures exist of that time. One of these days I might grant you a peek of my permed hair during those halcyon days. Ah the summers of '86 and '87. What stories they hold ...

The Art Helen Woodhull in the Lives of the Squid Family

Back when my mother-in-law and father-in-law were starting out, my father-in-law's first job hooked him up with some wonderful men and their wives, some of who are still in our lives today.

One of the couples included Helen Woodhull, a gifted artist whose medium, when I met her, was gold. Eighteen carat gold. Lovely, unusual pieces came from her hands and I am honored to wear two of them daily.

Mom (my mother-in-law for the purposes of the rest of this story) kept up the relationship with Helen and the others after my father-in-law died. Before we got engaged, Mike introduced me to Helen and I discovered what a wonderful person she was. Kind to people, animals, even to dust. (O.k., maybe not to dust.) Helen "adopted" strays -- both feline and human. After she passed away, we attended a memorial where we met some of her other strays. People who had stumbled across her and become an integral part of her life. Some, like us, periodically helped out with the business. Mike set up her first inventory system and over the years we both worked, sporadically, on her website. He did the coding, I did some critiquing and copy editing. All the work was done out of friendship and never for money. Instead, when we wanted to purchase a piece, either for me or for Mom, Helen gave us the "family" rate. The relationship continued and moved on to the next generation with Helen practically adopting my children as her own grandniece and nephew.

A couple of times a year we would go over to her place or she would come up to ours and we would share tea, hot chocolate and stories. Helen would show us her treasures -- antiques and beautiful things that she had acquired over the years -- and we would show our beautiful children and share our adventures. When Helen passed away, a mere six months before Mom did, we were some of the first to know. Mike had to get in to the website to put up the statement that you now see on the front page. Thinking about it now, more than two years after the fact, still brings tears to my eyes.

All of my "Helen" pieces have a story and all of the stories bring a tear to the eye. My first two pieces, however, are totally and completely woven into my life as a married woman.

On my right hand is my first Helen piece, my engagement ring for which Mike paid the "family rate." The second piece, a wedding gift from Helen, is my wedding band which is a bit unusual for all that it looks, at first glance, like a plain gold band. It has a narrow height that when paired with my engagement ring, looks just right. I do not usually wear the two together since I twice busted the solder point in the engagement ring. My boss, who has an eye for unusual jewelery, recently noticed my band and commented on it -- she is the only one to ever do so, that's how subtle it is. Mike also wears a Helen wedding band and it too, was her gift to him.

The few other pieces that I call my own were gifted to me by Mike or Helen at varying times over the years. Then there are the pieces that belonged to Mom. Some of them were given to her by her children and others were purchased by her, for herself. One or two may have been gifted by my father-in-law but my husband does not remember how they came in to her hands.

Well before her death, mom stated, unequivocally, that all of her jewelry was to go to my sister-in-law. Mom was a traditionalist that way. At some point, however, we were able to persuade her that my sister-in-law did not like Helen's pieces and they should therefore go to me and my brother-in-law's wife. With my sister-in-law's blessing, that is what happened, except that I wound up with all of the Helen pieces as my brother-in-law's wife insisted on it. Now I hold them dear and in keeping for Squidette and whomever Little Squid should eventually hook up with.

In the meantime, Mom's pieces form the basis of my Dragon Lady ensemble. When I know that I have to be Strong, I switch my engagement ring to my left hand, put on Mom's "Daisy" ring and Stag earrings, add my own Lion and Lamb necklace (to remind me to be kind) and usually my own bracelet. (Mom's bracelet is a little dressy to be Dragon-esque.) I think of these pieces as my armor against the idiots of the world who cow down to the well assembled. I think Helen would be amused that I use the pieces, some based on ancient armor, to gird my loins against those that might hurt those I love.

Memory Lane

(I'm killing time until I leave for my face repair so I figured I'd share another teen-aged memory with you.)

Yesterday I spotted a student wearing a vivid combination of a bright yellow top and a flirty turquoise mini skirt. The skirt reminded me of the very first piece of clothing I ever bought with my own money.

When I was a kid, and through my early college years, my father had an office in the Chanin Building in Manhattan. (Go ahead, click on the link, there are some wonderful Art Deco friezes (?) on this building that have to been seen, not described.) This building has, as many in the area do, a direct connection to the Grand Central subway lines. Whenever we went to the office via subway, we would wend our way through the maze of passages that is the huge station and find the exit that led to a tunnel in the basement of the Chanin Building. These building tunnels are populated with retail stores and the store right by the stairs leading to the Chanin's lobby, was a women's boutique.

During my senior year in high school, I was working once a week or so for my dad and I would pass this store frequently. This was the mid-eighties and mini skirts were back, as were bright colors. In the window of this store hung an array of poofy, bright colored mini skirts (think cheerleader and you'll be close). I HAD to have one and it HAD to be turquoise. I don't know why, but this skirt was meant to be mine!

I saved my allowance raided my piggy bank and after weeks of hemming and hawing, finally bought my very first piece of clothing. I paired it with a bright pink top and proudly wore it to school -- where I learned that riding the subway in a mini skirt is an uncomfortable mental experience. But I was everything I thought I'd be in that skirt, flirty and fun and much more "out there" then usual.

That skirt stayed in my closet, a symbol of my entre' into adulthood, for many, many years. I wore it infrequently, and never again on the subway. It always brought out my fun side and I wish I'd had the self confidence to wear it more often.

My father, by the way, said "I would have paid for that. We pay for your clothing." Gee, if that was still true ... (Just kidding, Daddy.) That statement has worked it's way into my own style of parenting where I pay for all the necessities. But the question of when to let them pay for something themselves is a tricky one. They should not have to buy food or clothes but wanting to is a step into adulthood and who am I to stop the passage of time. The compromise -- we pay for the basics but if they want a snack on their way home from school or want to buy lunch instead of taking what their father made for them, then they can use their allowance.

(Only 1.5 hours to go ...)

Daddy and the Times

Overheard in a diner on a Sunday morning. "The magazine section is missing."

My thought: "Didn't your father teach you how to count your sections before buying the Sunday Times?"

When I was a kid, my dad would go out, late, every Saturday night to pick up the early edition of the Sunday New York Times. As teenagers, my siblings or I would sometimes go along for the ride. That is where we learned the important lesson of how to check the sections.

The Sunday New York Times has a huge number of sections and the true connoisseur, at the very least, glances at them all. Therefore you must make certain that you get all of the sections at the point of purchase. That, and why pay for missing sections, even if you don't read them?

So, we learned to count the sections, in our heads. The ritual requires being able to keep track of the section numbers as they appear even though they are out of sequence in the pack.

You start, by looking at the top section (not always the main, or "1") and quickly flipping through them all, keeping a verbal or mental count. "3, 4, 8, 10," then "1, 3, 4, magazine (6), 8, 9, 10, 11" then "1, 2, 3, 4, damn where's the travel section?, magazine, book review, 8, 9, 10, 11, oh, there it is! Done. (During the holiday season there are more sections and specials are periodically added as needed.)

Then we went home, the child in question made tea for daddy and we settled in for the night as daddy started in on the puzzle.

Sadly, we no longer perform the ritual as we get the paper delivered. And so another skill is lost to the next generation.

Who would think that a simple overheard comment could turn in to a trip down memory lane?