A ROSE IN BLOOM

Rose came into our family life one summer at our beach house. We lived in a large, three-story house on the Atlantic Ocean. There were lots of us – my parents, my sister and brother-in-law and their daughter and my family – my husband and our two children. Although we weren’t all there at the same time, we wanted to be there – the house drew all of us like a magnet. From the perspective of time, I can say we lived together in relative, yes relative, harmony.

Although we all did our share of the work involved in running the house, most of us went into the city to work almost every day – so we needed some additional help.

So, along came Rose! A tall, soft-spoken African-American woman from South Carolina. She was 28 years old at the time.

The children hid under the porch the afternoon we met Rose for the first time; they didn’t want a stranger to join our family life, especially since she was going to "sleep in" – as the phrase went at that time. They managed to avoid her at first but were secuced by her fabulous cooking and heer willingness to satisfy any requests they made for their special favorites. They were also enchanted by her voice – she sang as she worked. Her repertoire was very extensive. Fragments of "In the cool, cool of the evening ..." and "Tenderly" ... " drift through my mind."

One of Rose’s unexpected areas of expertise was as a sex educator. Often, I would come home from work, expecting dinner was almost ready and I would find the children sitting with Rose around the kitchen table, evidently entranced with what they were hearing. Rose knew! Never mind that my husband was a gynecologist and I knew a thing or two, too, and we considered ourselves askable parents, Rose was the sex educator par excellence! She had a boyfriend they learned a lot about and even her sister’s sex life was material for discussion. I sometimes shudder to think what all this information added to their sex lives! But Rose’s talks remained pretty secret.

Rose was a passionate baseball fan, as we all were – Brooklyn Dodger fans. We felt as if we were part of their team because their business manager lived across the street from us. All the famous players of that time came to swim and relax on the beach – Jackie Robinson, who will always be remembered because he broke the racial barrier and because he was the first black player in the major leagues – Roy Campanella, Carl Erskine, Gill Hodges – Sometimes these legends in their own era even tossed some balls with the children on the block. Rose was right out there on the street with them. Often, she reported she couldn’t sleep at night because of her excitement at being so close to her beloved Dodges.

When Marc (the oldest child) was about 10, he and Rose made a $1 bet, witnessed and filed in the family safe. Marc bet he would be a major league baseball player. Rose bet he would be a doctor. Rose won the bet and collected the bet, figuring in interest and inflation. We had a party and invited Rose to celebrate Marc’s graduation from medical school. Rose wanted to cook a celebration dinner for us, but we insisted that she be a guest and we do the cooking.

We didn’t see Rose much after that party. There was the occasional visit and telephone call. Then, one day I made a call and I learned her telephone had been disconnected. I felt a sense of loss, almost as if I had heard that she died. Maybe she had.

But when Rose’s name is mentioned in our family, there are smiles, sighs, and a strong sense of nostalgia for the Rose that bloomed in our lives those many years ago. The bloom on the Rose has never faded.

AIN’T IT A SHAME!

Shame on you, you should be ashamed of yourself! I am ashamed of you! These are familiar phrases most of us have heard sometime in our childhood. Shame is an emotion not often discussed; but, of course, we all know that the Bible tells us that in the beginning there was no shame. According to Genesis, Adam and Eve were both naked and were not ashamed; but after eating the forbidden fruit, they knew of their nakedness and tried to hide it. Shame thus came into existence.

Since then its been used in many cultures as a way of teaching children and sometimes adults acceptable behavior. Not unlike Adam and Eve, children are made to feel self conscious about exposing their bodies or losing control of bodily functions. Feelings of shame and humiliation take root.

There are even shame cultures like Japan after WW11, when their defeat left them with feelings of shame and humiliation. The Muslim culture can be described as a shame culture as well.

As we all know adults in our culture, at least in recent years, are not made to feel ashamed for exposing large areas of their bodies. The culture does however attribute feelings of shame to the aging body. What a shame--she used to be so pretty. He hasn’t got the strength to hit that ball the way he used to. As a society we are very self conscious about our bodies and much of our self esteem stems from a young, healthy, attractive physique, full of vim and vigor. It’s a blow to our self-esteem, what the psychologists call a narcissistic injury when our bodies start to show signs of aging, even as little as a few wrinkles or some gray hairs. Even when we fall ill, some of these feelings emerge. Animals hide when they get sick.

As I’ve grown older, being self-conscious about my physical self is certainly present, but is it shame I feel? I acknowledge that I “feel ashamed of myself” if I put on weight . Obesity is definitely a state that our culture makes us feel ashamed about.

What I have been aware of is that the need to occasionally ask for help, or be offered a seat on the bus, stirs up a feeling of self-consciousness, being yes, slightly ashamed of being perceived as needy.

But there is also the pride of the older person who is active and “doesn’t look her age.” It prompts me to tell my age, so that I can enjoy the response. “I can’t believe it!” You don’t look your age,” the older person’s highest compliment.

Perhaps some day as more people live longer and remain healthy and vigorous, being older will not be accompanied by feelings of self-consciousness, neediness, or shame.

Travel on a Time Machine

      I was ambling down an aisle displaying toys in a local store, looking for a present for a four year old friend. Suddenly, my eyes landed on a package of jacks, in a ziplock bag. They were made of hard plastic and they were of different colors. The bag also contained a small ball.

     As if I were traveling on a time machine, I was onthe floor of a cabin in the Adirondack Mountains. It was one of the cabins of a girls summer camp on Schroon Lake. I was one of six eight year olds playing jacks. I could feel the rough texture of the floorboards tickling my bare legs, spread out so that the jacks are close to my body. These jacks are metal and not colored.

     I could see the white shine of the shirts worn by my cabinmates as they sat in a circle around me, transfixed by my raised hand holding the ball. Some of their names flashed through my mind, the way a long forgotten melody sometimes appears. I could even see beyond the circle of girls, the narrow cots, the unadorned windows, framing the lush foliage of a summer day in the woods.

     That eight year old girl didnt know or even think about the woman she was to become or the life she was to lead. But the woman she became has a special image of her in her memory and it only takes a package of jacks or some other trigger to bring her back to life for a bright, shining moment.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

So, I’m 95. It doesn’t seem very different than 85 or 75 — only when I look in the mirror and even then the image is so familiar. I’ve gotten used to the gradual changes over the years. It’s the same face, the same familiar expression. What does that expression convey? Why hasn’t it changed over the years? It seems to reassure me — tell me that I’m OK that I’m still a lucky lady — so get on with whatever you have in mind.
Would I want to have that image reflect a different Shirley? Of course, over the years, especially in my younger years, I hoped I would see a beautiful face, a face gazed on with envy by every onlooker.
Would I want that person I see in the mirror to have a different history, different memories? I don’t think so. I was born into a loving family, educated, easygoing, loving their lives and without any major problems or traumas.
Would I want to have chosen a different career? Definitely not! I chose the right one for a lifetime, with a moderate amount of success, and even had my fifteen minutes of fame!
But, come now, who are you kidding? Of course, you’d want your script to have had some different lines. Of course! I wish I had learned to play a musical instrument, been a talented tennis player, danced more under the stars, sung more songs, had more lovers, kept my husband alive to be by my side in my old age, had him next to me as we flew around the world one more time!
I wish I had had more impact on making the world a better place for my children and grandchildren as they grow old.
But as I look at the mirror one moment longer before I start on my 95th year, I sing to myself, to paraphrase Cole Porter's song, "Luck, be a lady today!"

The Voice of the Siren

There are many voices within me that I have listened to in the course of my long life. I can trace them back to my early childhood. Their messages have been loud and clear and I’ve always listened to them with little resentment or conflict. I’ve been obedient to their content. "Be a good girl. Be kind. Be caring. Work hard. Reach for the golden ring on the carousel. Don’t envy others because you have so much to be grateful for. Be proud of what you do, what you are."
But there’s another voice that has always been there, silent, making no demands, causing no trouble. I guess it never had a chance to be heard against those other voices, so clear, so confident. Lately, that other voice, silent for so long, has begun to murmur, to make its sweet voice audible.
"Come roam the city streets with me and try to catch the tender petals drifting from the trees. Come dance with me. Taste the salt in the ocean waves. Linger in your sensuous bed."
Now I listen for that voice, let it seduce me, let it lure me down unexplored roads, desire new possibilities. Now I welcome its siren call!
How fortunate I am that that voice is no longer silent and I can enjoy the pleasures it offers me, sometimes in reality, sometimes in fantasy.

How I Celebrated My 58th Birthday

We were enjoying a family lunch on a beautiful summer morning. My husband and I, my sister and brother-in-law and my parents were joined by my brother-in-law’s business partner, Ed Hirsh. Ed was what was known in those days as a bachelor, a single man. He was a frequent guest at my sister’s home and was particularly fond of her eight year old daughter. He often talked about the wish to have children of his own.
At some point, I mentioned that I had a birthday the following week. Ed told us, excitedly, that it was his birthday, the very same day. "I’m inviting you all to celebrate next week at my favorite restaurant. They have dance music there and we’ll have a wonderful time."
The night of the birthday party arrived and we all met at the restaurant in a festive mood. Ed brought a guest, who I guessed was a professional dancer. The men in the party took turns whirling her around the dance floor.
We enjoyed a wonderful dinner and then a waiter marched to our table with a lighted birthday cake inscribed with my name and Ed’s. With a bow to all of us, murmuring "My pleasure" Ed got up to cut the first slice of the cake.
He held the knife high in the air, then suddenly it dropped and Ed fell to the floor. After the first moment of shock, my husband and my father, both physicians, bent down to examine Ed’s motionless body. After an interminable moment, they announced that Ed was dead. We all sat there, immobilized, unable to believe that what had just happened was true.
The management of the restaurant called the police and my husband and brother-in-law went with them to identify the body. The rest of us left for home, sad and silent.
Early the next morning, there was a telephone call for my husband, a very frequent occurrence in our household. This time it was not a patient. A woman identified herself as the wife of the man who had died in the restaurant last night, the man known to us as Ed Hirsch and to her as Tom Gilbert. The morning pages had written up the story of the way Ed had died and my husband’s name was mentioned in the article as the physician who had been present. The woman described that their family lived in Queens and that she and their two daughters had been expecting Tom home last evening and had prepared a surprise birthday party for him. She knew his work as a traveling salesman and said he was often on the road. She was completely unaware that he was a partner in a prosperous business.
There were many complex developments to this story, but that’s another story. This is the story of how I celebrated my 58th birthday.

Spin the Bottle

When I was ten years old, I lived with my parents, my sister and brother in Berlin. It was an exciting life, seeing new sights and having amazing experiences. However, I do remember from those many, many years ago something that disturbed me very much and that I did not understand then, as I do now, as a cultural difference. My mother let other men kiss her, not on her lips or her cheek as my father kissed her, but on her hand. I watched as a male friend bent slightly from the waist, my mother extended her hand, and that hand, my mother’s hand, was kissed, not only by one man, but a number of men on different occasions. I remember crying almost every time I witnessed this behavior.
Little did I know then, as I do now, that people kiss in different ways in different places in the world. Kissing the back of the hand was a common sign of respect in Victorian England as well as all over Europe in genteel circles.
The Eskimos, Polynesians and Malaysians rub noses rather than kiss lips as a way of showing affection and sexual interest. By the way, the Eskimos call making love laughing time. Among many Indian tribes, hand pressing was more a part of courtship custom than kissing. The Japanese male considered the nape of his partner’s neck more erotic than her lips.
Even in our own society, until TV and the movies glamorized kissing and gave everyone permission to copy what they saw, kissing was not as common among the less educated segments of society, whereas the more educated spent more time kissing and less in explicit sexual activity. Times have changed this!
The different ways in which societies view kissing certainly demonstrates the way sexual behavior is shaped by culture. If I had known that those kisses planted on my mother’s hand all those years ago were a sign of respect, rather than desire, my ten year old self would have been spared a lot of tears.
For those who enjoy the erotic pleasure of kissing someone they love on the lips, I say, "Vive la Difference."