Relative Truth

A postcard view of the neighborhood of my children's great grandparents in Tangier.

Living for more than thirty years with a Tangier-ene has taught me that all truth is relative. And the more relatives you have, the more truths there are. 

My favorite story involves the former city-state of Tangier itself.  The truth for our family is that the international zone of Tangier “fell” to the Moroccans in 1956.  In the Moroccan history books however, that date is celebrated as the time when Tangier was liberated from the colonizing Europeans. Which is true? Both are true, but how you tell the story is based on your relationship to the city.

And so it goes with the stories of our family histories.

We’ve just spent a month or so visiting with relatives we hold dear which inevitably leads to history questions and memories of past events. It doesn’t take long to realize that what I knew to be “true” of our connected past is not at all how a cousin or aunt viewed the event.

The relative we experienced as being chronically depressed is part of the childhood memories for others as being lively and engaged. The cousins we adore as being strong and spirited are experienced as domineering and overbearing by others.

So how should we prepare for the upcoming holiday and seasonal gatherings where we will be confronted en masse by a wide array of truths that challenge our view of our memories and selves? I’ve found that a well-known Minnesota phrase is my best default response when hearing something that’s the opposite of my experience. 

“Well now, that’s interesting,” just pops out as I try to slow down a tendency to defend or argue over my now-shattered beliefs. 

Yes, it’s the season for respectful listening with an open mind to learn how cousin Gertrude experienced your favorite Uncle Melvin, and how your brother experienced his life with your father. Listening well with an actively open mind can bring its own light, which is something we all seek in our northern hemisphere at this light-starved time of year.

Whether celebrating the victory of a band of rebels, the birth of a peaceful prophet, or the approach of a new calendar year, seeking the light of understanding from the relative truths of our shared experiences can lead to the greatest truth of all – that the rich diversity of how we see the world, our perspectives, and the sense of fullness that results make our shared journey through life together much more meaningful.

Gratitude

Bucket list trip to Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in 2010.

When I was really young in Ohio, we drove over the creeks and through the woods to my grandfather’s house for Thanksgiving with the extended Alleshouse clan gathered around the table of the farmhouse kitchen. The women in the kitchen fussed over the table while the men went out for walks with air rifles. Except for my brother, who both Mom and Dad were convinced would shoot a cousin rather than a groundhog.

Later, that ritual changed when hosting all of us was too much for Grandpa. Instead we gathered at Aunt Mary and Uncle Walter’s just outside of town with Mom’s side of the family over progressively healthier meals and conversations that were louder. Mom’s side of the family always enjoyed a good argument.

I don’t remember my mother hosting an actual Thanksgiving at our house since the dining room featured two upright pianos she used for lessons, which truly limited the space for chairs around the table. It was probably a good thing since the careful preparation and steps required for my Mom to present a finished turkey and all the sides would have caused loud chaos for days.

So when it came time to celebrate Thanksgiving in our Minneapolis home with our children, we had to create new rituals to replace those of my somewhat disjointed childhood. I’ve learned that I need to roast the turkey with the Better Homes stuffing in order to feel the holiday has been celebrated. If anyone else does it, the rest of the year isn’t quite right for me.

Since the kids were little, the sequence hasn’t changed much at all. I’m up first, futzing with the turkey and its stuffing. Then the kids get up – or drive in - grab a newspaper and pour over ads for toys, then clothes, now electronics and chatter at the counter while snacking on French’s fried onion rings, despite the fact we never have green bean casserole, unlike most of our friends.

We begin our annual discussion over whether to use marshmallows for the sweet potatoes, why brussel sprouts are so gassy, and then I forget to make the gravy until we get to the table and I realize it would have made the plate more cohesive, requiring a quick jog back to the stove to see if anything is retrievable.

The predictability is almost stunning to think about. And for that I am extremely grateful.

I’m grateful for my farming roots that taught me turkeys and potatoes require months of diligent hard work before they arrive in their roasted and marshmallow glory on our table.

I’m grateful for the diversity of my Alleshouse and Blue families that foresaw the vast diversity of my current family, where we respectfully engage in a wide range of religious practice and belief that, nevertheless, still gives thanks for our blessings to a supreme being.

And I’m deeply grateful for the fact that our children continue to choose to spend time with us for this day of thanks rather than run off to the many other options available to them. Bring on the turkey!

Recapturing Time

New York's 30 Rock Plaza - fleeting memory from 2010

This happens every year, so it shouldn’t be a surprise. But it is. Every year.

It starts as we roll up to the night of Halloween – that glorious fall adventure of collecting scads of candy on the doorsteps of friendly neighbors. And just as the chocolate high kicks in, the clocks change and we fall back by an hour.

We saw Interstellar last weekend, and (no spoiler intended…) found its time shifting sequences eerily familiar after hopping nine time zones plus daylight savings time all in one week. 

I still don’t fully understand why an hour of daylight at the beginning of the day is worth things going dark by four in the afternoon.  But it turns out that hour shift makes all the difference in what comes next. It whacks the time-space continuum for most of us, taking days to adjust to the time distortion.

Then right after the Fall Back weekend, we Americans immediately enter The Holiday Season when our consumer-based economy hits the gas pedal. Images of lavish food laden tables, toy-delighted children, glitzy glamorous champagne events, and luxury trinkets become the wallpaper of November and December inspiring various levels of manic decorating and cooking efforts by yours truly.

And somehow, in the midst of this over-the-top season of entertaining, giving and receiving, time speeds up until we arrive at the end of the year in a heap of exhaustion with barely the energy for a marathon of Bing Crosby. Certainly we have no memory of the last few months of the year – ever. It’s as if an entire lifetime of Novembers and Decembers have just evaporated.

Oh sure, I retain images of snow drifts from 20-some years of living in Minnesota, and turkey-laden tables at Grandpa’s farm, but recent memories? Mostly foggy images.

This year, I’m on a quest to recapture a bit of time. Take my time. Spend some time – all of it with close friends and family so that 2014 doesn’t slalom its way out and into 2015 without a pause for reflection. Or the many pauses that will be needed to assess where we are and where we’re going in this grand adventure called "life".

If there’s one upside to exceedingly early - and therefore long - nights, it’s the urging it provides to kick back with friends and a glass of wine for deep talks. And that’s my goal for this year’s end – many long, meaningful discussions with friends and family to capture touch points for this capstone year of writing the plot for my next chapter.

That’s my goal – how do you plan to spend the end of this year at your place? 

The Tyranny of Stuff

A selection of the keys that captured the stuff of a lifetime.

We’re back in Madrid, the land where locks promise hidden treasures and the keys have become the object of legends. For normal people, Madrid conjures images of flamenco, bullfights, evenings strolling the Grand Via and its cafes. For me, it’s all about the keys.

The keys of my dear departed mother-in-law’s apartment promised hidden mystery, secrets, and treasures of great value. What we have learned since May is the keys locked up stuff, lots and lots of stuff.

The apartment in Madrid is truly an homage to the mid-1960s with its furnishings and décor immovably fixed as it has been for the thirty years I’ve been visiting. Nothing moves. Nothing changes. It is now as it has always been.

But not for long. The time has come to get rid of the furnishings, the linens and china, the silver and porcelain, the ashtrays and games and hats and clothes of a lifetime. And the problem is no one needs any of the items that are here.

It makes sense if you think about it. Europe’s economy is in tough shape so few are acquiring the antiques of the ages, and it appears Spain is losing a number of its residents pushing the century mark all at the same time. So the auction houses are already filled with the furnishings of the era and there is a very small market in the States for these items.

The collected grandchildren have little interest in furnishings or antiques – well, unless it’s the crocodile bags and costume jewelry. And my brothers-in-law have some ambivalence about their memories of the stuff, so there’s little interest in schlepping it across the Atlantic.

But it’s oh so hard to get rid of outside of the family. We struggle knowing these things, this stuff, could end up with strangers, although it’s not clear why. Why is it that the things of a lifetime remain so connected to us?

Most of the tchotchkes hold memories and provide an opportunity for storytelling of days gone by. The silver coffee service brings back memories following meals at the table with Felisa serving dessert in the salon. The ashtrays and cards are a reminder of Uncle Harry with his omnipresent cigarette dropping ashes on the solitaire cards.

But they are just things, just stuff. So we’re here to visit the keys and to say goodbye to the stuff. And while we’re at it, we are planning to set a date to get rid of our own stores of stuff to ensure our children don’t face the same tyranny of emotions in the distant future. 

Nostalgia for A Style

My elegant mother-in-law Sol Koppel is on the right with friends at the Waldorf Astoria some time in the 1950s.

It’s interesting to be nostalgic for an era that wasn’t mine. Working to clear out my dear departed mother-in-law Sol’s house of the remains of her day makes me wonder what it must have been like to live like Sol in the 1940s and '50s

I met her in 1982, one of the more starkly frightening meets of my life.  Jacques and I had been dating seriously for close to a year and were talking about a future together. But I had not yet met his mother, who lived most of the year in Madrid, Spain. Meeting the mother is always a big deal, but this took on added stress as “a few of his aunts” would be joining us.

I remember knowing that we were gong to see her for lunch at one of her favorite restaurants in New York City. What I don’t remember is whether Jacques had told me ahead of time that he was gong to drop me off and leave me there alone.

Regardless, he walked me into the Upper West Side’s Éclair and there were his mother, his Aunt Greta, Aunt Vera, Aunt Helen, and Aunt Pearl – five very impressive matriarchs of the family, each uniquely cosmopolitan and speaking a variety of languages to each other. They were truly intimidating to this girl from Ohio.

Aunt Greta broke ranks first, turning to me to speak in English and to welcome me to the table. With that simple welcome expressed, Jacques left me quickly and abruptly to my lunch with the stylish ladies.

I could tell at that luncheon that Sol held a unique role with the aunts and sisters-in-law.  She sparked when she spoke with very expressive hands and facial features. Her laugh was infectious and she used it a lot at that time.

But ask the wrong question, or share a difficult memory and Sol would quickly shift from happy to sad or angry.  All of her emotions were right there on the surface, ready to be triggered by memories.  If one would mention an evening with a favorite, now departed, relative the tears would flow.

“Oh, yoi, oy, oy, que muñeco. I miss him so.  He was a doll,” she’d say, and the crying would pick up steam until one of the Aunts would mention a different shared event, and the laughter would return.

Of course, I was the one who caused the anger to flare that day.  My Italian was stronger than my Spanish at that time, so when I wanted to ask how many years she had lived in Madrid, I replaced the Spanish word for years – año – with the Italian – anno – which is a part of the human anatomy one should not ask of a future mother-in-law how many she had. 

Her eyes flashed and she looked at me with a mixture of horror and alarm, a signature look of hers, until one of the multilingual aunts broke into laughter at my misuse of the two languages.

But that was then. It now has been more than thirty years since that lunch with the ladies, and of that group, only two remain.  Sol left just this year at the age of 97 – that quick laugh and expressive personality leaving a few years before she did.

As we clean out her belongings, her things, her collections and treasures, we are uncovering so much more of this woman we loved.

She enjoyed her parties – the sheer number of ashtrays, games, decks of cards, linens, and glassware that occupy drawers and cupboards speak of multiple gatherings of family and friends.

The china, silver and serving pieces tell stories of the diners who were served at the long table in the salon.

The hats and clothes with beautiful accessories of bags, gloves, lighters, and lipsticks are signs of a woman who loved dressing up and going out on the town at a time when style trumped all.

I would love to snap my fingers and just for one night, go back to the 1950s with Sol. We would have our hair done together, dress in our best and then go to a classic nightclub featuring a big band of the time. We would sip our martinis, light up and pretend to smoke while laughing gaily at the excitement of being out where life was always exciting, lively, and happy.

An Ode to the Ladies Who Lunch

My father's photo of Mom in the middle surrounded by her girlfriends in Ohio.

Having spent most of the past three – actually four – decades as a woman who works outside of the home, I’ve always been curious about the Ladies Who Lunch. Who are they? What do they talk about? If they don’t have bosses and crazy workloads, and the insanity of the latest engagement activity at work to discuss, what are the topics of interest or concern?

From the 1960s and 70s, there are songs about women sneaking out for lunch with their friends as a cover for sampling the latest martini in chic surroundings. But alcohol-sodden afternoons have fallen out of favor for most of the country.

Lately, I’ve had the opportunity to observe lunching ladies – and men, for that matter – and overhear their mid-day discussions. It turns out that lunch can be a great convener for those who organize innovative community transformations. I’ve overheard robust conversations about the best way to get donors to show up at volunteer fundraisers for children’s sports. Or ideas for getting neighborhoods to use less water, walk more, or generally promote a healthy community.

And listening in on those discussions reminded me of my dear-departed mother and her weekly lunches out. Mom had a marvelous sense of fun. She believed strongly that what one did in life must be fun and enjoyable – and she pursued that belief with gusto.

If the activity or its result wasn’t ultimately fun, she didn’t believe she needed to do it. There was housekeeping, for example. No matter how hard she tried to show an interest, she realized early on that the redundant redundancies of cleaning, re-cleaning, and cleaning yet again were ultimately unsuccessful with two actively curious children trekking in and out of the house. So, when she recognized that she really didn’t like cleaning at all, she hired a cleaning lady, well before that was “something one did”.

“I’m just not very successful at keeping a house clean,” she’d say.  “And there are people who are better at it than I am. So I’ll do what I do well and leave the cleaning to the experts.”

In fact, the woman who came every week to clean our house also watched over my brother and me for the day, while my mom left the house to have her hair done and lunch with her friends.

I don’t honestly know what she discussed at her lunches out – hairstyles, new recipes, clothing trends? What I do know is that she was so relaxed and happy when she returned from her “day off.”  Her hair was beautiful, and her eyes sparkled, and I always had the impression that she was more able to focus on our little stories of the day when she hadn’t spent the whole of it with us. And that may be the best reason of all to lunch with the ladies – to open a window to another’s world while looking into the mirror of our own to recognize life really is sweet.

Transitions and Traditions

Full moon in LA - from Clare's new iPhone.

Last night, the kids and I celebrated the first night of the Jewish holiday of Sukkot at a trendy rooftop restaurant in LA’s Koreatown that features a wide array of mouthwatering vegetables. It wasn’t your traditionally familiar celebration of the holiday – but then little of our time in LA has been traditional or familiar – so this fit right in.

We missed having Jacques there, but he was experiencing the season of fall in the middle of the country. And I found myself missing the blue canvas of our old homemade pipe-structured sukkah. 

When we first began erecting our own sukkah, or canvas-sided “hut” covered by cornstalks and wood slats nearly 20 years ago now, it was a re-emerging home practice among the conservative Jewish community of Minneapolis. I always believed that observing the holiday became so appealing in the early to mid-1990s because many of us needed rituals and practices that slowed down the hectic pace of our pell-mell lives.

At the time, one of the more clever grandfathers of the Minneapolis day school community had come up with a sukkah “kit”; and his daughter, my friend Ellen Sue, and I showed that it was easy and fun to actually build your own with an 18 minute demonstration for other parents in the school. Voila - a home sukkah all ready to be decorated with hanging lights and children’s artwork.  Today, the sukkahs, or sukkot, in the yards throughout the Twin Cities are all sorts of elaborate and festive.

And what’s not to love? It’s an 8-day holiday that features meals outdoors under the full moon peeking through the leaves of the covering of the temporary structure. And one of the “requirements” is to invite guests to join you for those meals. 

The symbolism of erecting a temporary hut during harvest season that commemorates the 40 years our ancestors wandered in the desert makes this a particularly appropriate holiday for transitions of all sorts. And for Minnesotans, it’s one last chance to hold onto outdoor warmth prior to polar vortex season.

Last night in LA, as we dined under the moon overlooking Wilshire Boulevard, I remembered those gatherings of days past and was comforted to know that we still hold onto pieces and parts of the rituals that provide important markers in time. Our lives are different styles of pell-mell now, but as we move from chapter to chapter, and as the seasons turn one to the other, we still feel it important to pause and notice, and to be grateful for traditions that tie us to our community.