WHO'S GOING TO RETIRE? NOT ME!

When my production of IN GOD’S HANDS closed after a six-night run, I drove home with my husband, content that the show had been a success. After a month of rehearsals, the play, for which I had written and played the music, opened on my 71st birthday, a tribute to the fact that Jimmy Stewart is not the only one who lived a wonderful life! I had to laugh when my housekeeper said to me, “You are the busiest retired person I know!” Of course, I corrected her saying, “I am retirement age, but I am not retired. I have too many things I want to do.” Just two days later while sitting in the Tuesday sales meeting at the real estate office where I am a fledgling sales associate, Phyllis, the office manager, a spunky 75 year old who had just returned from a trip to Florida to visit her brother, poked her head in the doorway and announced, “Don’t ever retire! I spent the past weekend with retirees in Florida who spend their days sitting around, albeit in a beautiful location, waiting until it is time for the Early Bird dinner. They had nothing interesting to talk about and were like the ‘walking dead.’” Though many in the room were far from retirement age, those of us who had already “been there and done that” nodded our heads in agreement, including our broker who heads up this busy office while collecting her Social Security checks. The summer before my 70th birthday, I decided to take Joyce up on her offer to help me get started in real estate if I would get my license, signing up for real estate classes as soon as my piano studio was closed for the summer. What a challenge it was to be back in the classroom after so many years, but it was exciting to pile up those A’s and then ace the two and a half hour state test in 30 minutes. But being a realtor out in the field does have its challenges. “Oh, my God. This place is a dump,” I wanted to exclaim as my clients and I walked in the front door of a home for sale in a prestigious neighborhood. “Who could live with such a screwed up floor plan? And those small bedrooms! You can hardly fit a dresser in them!” the yenta inside me wanted to scream out. But, instead, I remembered the non-critical dialogue I’d heard on HGTV. “What do you think of this place?” I asked cheerily. I was hoping they didn’t notice the words I had written on the MLS page about this property. But within moments, they looked at me and smiled, reading the words I’d written as they asked for the MLS print out. “It definitely is El Dumpo!” At least I have come further down the road than my mother who often concluded her damaging comments about my weight by adding, “But if there’s one thing I have learned in life, it’s to keep my mouth shut.”

IS THIS JEWISH MUSIC I HEAR?

I had a Kodak moment recently (or do we now call it an iPhone moment?). I was sitting at the piano in my synagogue playing the Shabbat music as the members of the congregation joined in song. I watched their faces as they sang the familiar tunes that many of them have been singing since they were children. They were anything but timid as they sang out confidently while their bodies swayed to the rhythm of the music. Though there were many unfamiliar faces, in a very real sense, they were all familiar. They were my San Antonio Jewish family. I felt like a proud grandmother who was kvelling as she watched her family singing together with abandon. I thought of my dad who made sure I learned how to play the piano even when it wasn’t easy to pay the teacher for my weekly lessons. I remembered his words to me as we drove to my first lesson. “You are going to take lessons from the time you are eight until you are sixteen, so don’t bring it up again.” It was the ‘50’s, and there was no further discussion. I can’t say that I was passionate about learning to play, but as the years rolled on, most of my friends had dropped out, and I became the lone musician at parties who could sit down at the piano and actually play songs that people could sing. My teacher was a Juiliard graduate but he was also the musical director for the Ernie Kovacs Show, so I learned how to play and arrange pop music in addition to the traditional classical repertoire. What really sealed the deal for me was when the head of a local ballet studio offered me a job to play the piano at her studio at $3 an hour. This was at a time when I earned $.50 an hour for babysitting! The summer before leaving for college, I worked at an NBC affiliate radio station as a receptionist, and because the property was quite far from my home, I brought my lunch to work. After I ate, I often I would head for the sound studio that housed a beautiful grand piano and would play until lunch break was over. One day, the lead musician in the Dave Edwards Trio, stood at the door as I was playing a jazz tune that my teacher was helping me arrange. On the spot he offered me a job to play on the radio with his trio five nights a week from midnight until 3 am. Who could believe it? At 17 I was going to be a professional musician on the radio! When I rushed home to tell my dad of this great honor, he gently reminded me that I needed to stay on course and begin college as I’d planned. He assured me I would have many opportunities in my life to play professionally, but the one thing he insisted on was my getting a college degree. I would be the first in my family to graduate from college. Though that moment happened over fifty years ago, I still remember it clearly. And, of course, he was right. Thanks to my dad’s insistence that I become a pianist, I have played the piano at various venues over the years. Interestingly, I have played mostly at houses of worship. Whether it was for the High Holy Days or as the main musician for one of my musicals that were performed at our local Reform temple, I have played everything from my own original music to the traditional liturgy as well as jazz standards with various musicians. The ironic thing is that neither of my parents belonged to a synagogue or was involved at all in the Jewish community. Though I knew I was Jewish, I learned nothing about Judaism or the life cycle events as I grew up. We celebrated no holidays other than Christmas as my dad owned a men’s wear store, and our livelihood revolved around the business generated by Christmas shoppers. To stimulate my desire to be a more creative musician, my dad would take me to Manhattan several times a year to listen to top jazz musicians. I am sure he had no idea that one day I would be using the skills I learned to write songs for Jewish –themed musicals. But I know my dad would be thrilled to be in the congregation if I was playing the piano on a Shabbat evening. I can picture him smiling at me and whispering, “Is this Jewish music I hear? It sounds fabulous.”

IN SEARCH OF FAMILY

As we all know, in the Jewish world, family counts for everything. We gush over our children, dote on our grandchildren and love to spend as much time as possible with siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins. But sometimes, things go askew and we lose touch with treasured members of our extended family for many years. Such was the case with my cousin Vic. A first cousin to my beloved dad, Vic spent much time at our home in New Jersey while I was growing up as he had a difficult home life with a mother who was in and out of mental hospitals. As a young man, his father told him never to marry or he might pass on those flawed genes, and for many years after his dad died, Vic was the main caregiver for his mother since his brother Harry moved away and left him with this burden. When I left for college at 17, married the erstwhile rabbi and moved away, spending time with my cousin Vic became a thing of the past. But I never forgot how he always took the time to squire me and my girlfriends around to Di Lorenzo’s Pizza and other local hangouts even though he was ten years older than we were. I last saw him at my father’s funeral when I was 25 and he was 35. That was over 50 years ago. Recently I decided to google him and up popped his website – with his photo and a description of the large law office he headed up. Within moments, I called the number on the screen, and though the secretary answered, “Mr. Walcoff’s office,” she told me that he was living in a Jewish assisted living facility after awaking from a two -month coma last January, We began an email exchange that resulted in my going to see him in our home town of Trenton, New Jersey, last week. As the administrator took me to Vic’s apartment, I marveled at how fond everyone seemed of his elderly gentleman who struggled to get to his feet as I approached him. Bent over from the ten-month ordeal that was not yet over, he leaned on the walker that was next to his chair to come closer to me. When I looked into his blue Walcoff eyes (my dad’s eyes were that same Paul Newman blue), I recognized the delightful cousin who had been a wonderful part of my growing up years. We spent the afternoon together chatting and sharing as he guided me around the city to see my elementary and high schools, the three different homes we lived in and the cemetery where my dad and nana were buried, side-by-side. I couldn’t believe that he remembered the exact location of their headstones as he, too, hadn’t been there in fifty years. He took me for dinner at the Jewish country club where he was welcomed with great respect and attention as we parked at the front door. As I showed him, one by one, the pictures of my daughters, their husbands and my grandchildren, he quietly smiled while asking questions about each of them. He told me how he had been president of the Jewish Federation and his synagogue, Adath Israel, head of the local office of the United Way and a past president of the Jewish Community Center all while building an award winning legal office. As I listened to his telling me of his life’s achievements, I saw a man who was confident without being arrogant and successful without being boastful. When I asked him about my dad, he said what he loved best about him was that he was a non-conformist and a talented, creative man who was good at everything. He knew that my parents had a solid marriage even though my dad struggled with earning a living. Their home was always open, and he met the most interesting people there whenever he stopped by. He always felt at home there. I remembered that he helped my mom with financial matters after my dad died. He was family, and that meant he would help whenever he could. Hugging him goodbye later that night, I was grateful I had made the effort to see him this one last time. His life was a testament to those Walcoff genes that had traveled from a remote village in Russia over a hundred years ago so that future generations could enjoy the privilege of living in America. As I drove out of the parking lot late that evening, I knew that I had spent time with the last person alive who remembered my mom and dad and the home we shared together. In my mind, I hear my Hazzan’s words as I nervously begin to play the piano for Shabbat services. “It’s all good

IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO HAVE A JEWISH CHILDHOOD

Cleaning out drawers and closets reveals amazing things. I found a shabby brown envelope stuffed with all my ideas for my first book (the one I’ve never written) called “It’s Never Too Late to Have a Jewish Childhood.” Though I first began gathering these tidbits about the positive aspects of growing up in a Jewish home to provide insight for my Christian friends, I see they may be more relevant today to a totally different audience. After reading that Chinese parents search bookshelves for information about Jewish home life, I realize I may have stumbled onto a treasure trove of usable information. As China rises on the world horizon as an economic super power, Chinese parents have become aware of the disproportionate success of Jews in medicine, science, communications, politics, law, business, writing and education. Chinese families are anxious to uncover the secrets of raising Jewish children in the hopes of creating the same results in their own offspring. Here are some chapter titles for my proposed twenty two chapter volume. Though I put a humorous spin on them, I think you’ll recognize some of the characteristics of a Jewish perspective on family life. 1. The Making of a Jewish Princess 2. Hooray! You’re Thirteen and We’re Going to Celebrate 3. B’Sharyt: It’s Meant to Be 4. Mitzvahs: The Mainstay of our Faith 5. The Sabbath: A Taste of the Holy Life 6. Scholarship: The S Word 7. Family Ties 8. Options: Avoiding That Boxed in Feeing 9. Meal-Time: The Forgotten Forum 10. Be a Father, Not a Friend Growing up in the ‘50’s in New Jersey, I can mainly offer the perspective that my generation experienced as we grew up with parents who were usually the first in their family to be born in the United States. It was a time when Jews first moved much more easily into the mainstream of American life, enjoying the perks that came from increased mobility and acceptance into society. Education was at the top of the list as was family support. It was a time when optimism ruled, and the “go for it” spirit prevailed. My home life centered around my father - an intelligent, fun-loving man who was decidedly the main figure in our family. If I asked why we were having tongue for dinner “again,” my mother’s answer was always the same. “Your father loves tongue. That’s why we eat it.” We had a traditional family hierarchy that was common at that time. My father was at the top of the decision-making process. Our life revolved around his menswear store, his likes and dislikes, the people that he enjoyed spending time with and his various and ever-changing projects. But this set-up was not a matter of control. It was an acknowledgement that someone had to make the final decisions, and in our family it was my dad. Though my father was the kingpin, the three women in the family had no problem speaking up when something disturbed them or they wanted a change in some aspect of our life together. He always listened to our often-diverse opinions, but once he made a decision, we all abided by it. And he was an honorable man. I watched him lose his business when a heart attack had him sidelined for over a year and spending the next five years paying back what he owed every vendor. “It’s not their fault I got sick,” he announced one day. Bankruptcy was not an option for this man with a strong ethical character. What seemed to be a constant in the homes of all my Jewish friends was the impressive amount of time that we spent together – eating, talking, vacationing. (Did I mention eating?) The dinner table, a contemporary beauty built by my father, was the gathering place for family and friends. We always ate dinner together and lingered after the meal to chat about current events, school happenings or general talk on every conceivable subject. Today’s Jewish families seemed to be more child-centered than adult centered, but the sense of family ties is as strong as ever. Just go to any Jewish life-cycle event and you will see the extended family present in full force for the simcha. What can Chinese parents learn from the way we Jews raise our children? Hopefully, we specialize in creating a loving, supportive atmosphere where each child has a strong sense of self and the confidence to pursue his or her dreams. Finally, after all these decades of enjoying Chinese food, we have something to give back to our Chinese neighbors. (Should I have included a recipe for brisket and latkes in my book? It couldn’t hurt.)