The Route to Resolution - Just for Today

I’m not a big fan of New Year’s. Never have been. When I was a child, it signaled an abrupt halt to the excitement and anticipation of Christmas. The presents were opened, the cookies mostly gone, the magical lights would be coming down, and the long western NY winter months stretched interminably ahead.  As an adult, it’s pretty much the same thing. Just strike the “western” part.

I’ve never been the party type either. The idea of being out in public amongst a bunch of on-their-way-to-drunk revelers trying to look/act like I am having fun strikes me as about as appealing as a trip to the dentist.

The turning of one year into another often makes me feel melancholy. Even when it’s been one of the “good” years, even when the year to come holds a promise of fun and new adventures, I still feel mournful. I have just come to expect it. I do not let go of things, years included, easily.

As a child and a young adult, I always made the same New Year’s resolution until I realized it was a losing proposition.  “I will stop biting my fingernails.” It never lasted more than a few days. That’s partly because it was such unconscious activity. I would suddenly realize that I had chomped half-way through a nail. And then, of course I had to finish the job. Off the wagon, there wasn’t much point climbing back on. Perhaps you know the drill. It could be the same for any addiction, any compulsion, any bad habit. You want something to be different (or maybe you don’t, really) and you - along, perhaps with your brain chemistry and other hard-wiring -  are the only barrier en route to the difference.

I still bite my nails. Well, not so much biting as ripping. Sometimes mercilessly. I often complain to the woman I call my heart mother, “I don’t stop until I draw blood.” The analytic route of considering who I might want to bite instead hasn’t put a dent in my habit. I’ve tried nail polish – it works for awhile, until it doesn’t. A friend suggests that I commit to a weekly manicure but I am too embarrassed to let a manicurist see the condition of my fingers, so that’s out. Plus I would have to deal with my entrenched belief that this activity falls in the category of unnecessary extravagance. [Aside to daughter and best friend – this is my issue, not a commentary on your activity.] Those who’ve been up in a hot air balloon or who are planning a Parisian trip with me know that I do not disallow all extravagance. 

So forget the nails. Maybe I’ll torture them until death do us part.

There are several other things on my mind as I skid into 2011. Sugar is one of them. Those who have known rail-thin me all my life might scoff. However, some time during the four years of my mother’s illness, and continuing in the almost five years she’s been gone, I managed to develop an addiction to sugar. It started with mom’s cookies –the ones she always had waiting for me whenever I arrived. Luckily I was pretty underweight to begin, otherwise the problem (and I) might be bigger. It wasn’t until this past year that I began to take a hard look at my compulsive sugar behavior and realized that if I didn’t want to end up diabetic or overweight, I was going to need to intervene. As with the fingernails, I have been a member of the “You’ve gone this far, you might as well finish” club. The things I might as well finish would be the box of cookies, the box of candy, the cupcakes, the half-gallon of ice cream. Far be it from me to actually throw it/them out instead. That would go against my puritan ethic of waste-not-want-not. I’m stuck no matter what I do.

I did learn something in 2010, however, that I see as potentially helpful as I move closer to, oh my god(dess), life without (extra) sugar. I am a binger. I realized this when I began to examine my shopping practice. I could be shopping dormant for weeks, maybe months, but once I made up my mind to buy something, and the first purchase was made, there was no stopping me until I was sated. The trick was to not make that first purchase, which seemed ridiculously easy to me once I realized it. Don’t look in the catalogs, stay out of the stores. Remove temptation. Case closed.    

Although I suspect that sugar will be a harder demon to corral, the principle is the same. Just don’t start. I tried an experiment during my school’s annual holiday party this season. The morning of the party, I said to myself, “Let’s make a deal. Just for today, why don’t you try to not consume any sugar. See if you can do it. No dessert at the party, ok?” I agreed with myself that I could tolerate anything for just one day.  And I did. I successfully walked past the box of high-end candy sitting on the low gray file cabinet where office personnel tend to place temptations. At the lunch-time party, I ate the entrée, the veggies, and the salad. When it was time for dessert, I gave a brief glance at the array of goodies to see what I was missing (Damn! Cannoli!), said “Just for today” to myself, and “I’m getting out of here” to my staff.  Done! Success! Empowered! But sadly, it was just for that day. The next day rolled around and I made no such pact with myself.  

I suspect this is like any other addiction. A little turns into a lot and then too much before one realizes what has happened. The pleasure-in-the-moment makes the what-have-I-done aftershocks sink into the background. Until it doesn’t.  Maybe I am edging toward that point. We’ll see.

I will stop short of pledging a reduced-or-no-sugar resolution for this New Year. The nail failure is still vivid and I don’t need another reason to feel badly about myself. My plan is to employ the one-day-at-a-time strategy. So when I am facing the enticement of icecreamcookiescakecandysodapiefruittarts cannoliscremebrulee and other tasty delights, in that moment of decision, I only entreat my brain to remind my mouth that this morning we urged Just for today. Who knows, maybe in an instance of research carryover, my nails will thank me.

The Magic is in the Lights

The magic is clearly in the lights. As I walked home from the train every night during this most unholiday-like of seasons toward my unadorned apartment, the colorful lights along the way invariably lifted my mood which varied between sad and anxious on most days.

When I was small, during that last anticipation-filled week before Christmas, my family would pile in the car and head off toward our town, in search of houses decorated with Christmas lights. We had our route. First was the three-story white house positioned on the left just as our town officially turned into the city. My sister and I were thoroughly impressed by the massive show of lights that hung from the roof, every window, every bush and tree. Then, we'd turn right down East Avenue, where my sister and I thought the "rich people" lived. Many of their homes were beautifully  - but tastefully - decorated with lights. The house with the seen-from-the-street chandelier featured a tree that was bigger than any we'd ever seen inside.

Next stop was the grounds of the Veteran’s Administration Hospital . The long driveway leading up to the hospital’s front doors gave us plenty of time to gape in wonder at the two majestic fir trees elegantly decorated with hundreds of lights. Then we'd turn down Redfield Parkway, the second bastion of rich people. It was the only street in our town that featured a wide median, beautifully landscaped during non-snow months. Each house had a small evergreen tree planted in its front yard, and almost every one on the entire street decorated those evergreens with lights. When we asked why some people’s trees were not lit, the answer came back, “They are Jewish.” I didn’t know what that meant and somehow I didn’t dare to ask. But I secretly could not understand why anybody would pass up the opportunity to decorate the tree in their yard.

It was the time before the over-the-top displays started to emerge, at least in our town. Some houses had little statues, sometimes a crèche, or wooden Santa and reindeer figures. I remember my dad cracking up over one particular Santa, whose reindeer were trying to nudge his heavy butt up onto the roof.

Our absolute favorite stop was “The Blind School” – which was really The NY State School for the Blind. They had a huge campus, with trees and bushes colorfully adorned. But the best part was the little houses. There were two or three doll-sized and electrified houses that always sat clustered in one area of the massive side lawn. We would get out of the car and trudge through the snow to those little houses and peek through the windows. Inside, they were fully furnished and decorated for Christmas, complete with little doll people. I was fascinated by the detail – and longed to take them home with me.

Eventually, I grew up - at least chronologically. The man with the white house at the edge of the city got too old to do all that decorating. The VA stopped lighting those majestic firs -- budget cuts. And the "blind school" put away its little houses after vandals struck. I moved away where I started my own driving-around-town tradition with my little girl.

Still, Christmas time took us back to mom's house. After my grandmother passed away in the late eighties, my family started going to late night Christmas eve services at the church of my childhood. There is not really a connection between my grandmother dying and going to church. It just happened that way. In the beginning, my brother-in-law would stay home with his and my sister's youngest daughter and my brother. When she got older and able to stay awake, she joined my mom, my aunt and uncle, my older niece, my daughter and I in the annual pilgrimage. I speak only for myself and my daughter when I say we are not religious but the familiarity of the Christmas story, the soothing sound of the old Christmas hymns, and especially the beauty of the church, lit only by the white lights of the Christmas tree near the altar and the twinkling candles we each held were balm to my spirit. 

Many times as we’d leave the church after midnight, the snow would be swirling about, quickly covering the streets and making driving an adventure. We’d drive through the quiet streets back to my mom’s house, and detour to see the new generation of Christmas lights, often making the first of the tracks in the new snow. We’d be all squished together in the back seat of my aunt and uncle's big car, on top of each other, giggling, with our teeth chattering, “Turn up the heat” – and we’d ooh and aah at the beautiful lights, shining magically in the quiet Christmas night.

Last Saturday night, I drove my brother through the streets of my old hometown, scouting for Christmas lights. My mom used to take him to do that when she was living and I don't want him to miss out. When he says, "That be fun" to my invitation to hop in the car, I know that the lights hold magic for more than just me. Not living there, I have no idea where the "good" displays are. We simply drive around and go down any street that looks promising. U-turns are the norm. He’s partial to the over-the-top collections of “stuff” that adorn the lawns of many who compete in the Jaycee’s annual lighting contest. I prefer the simpler displays that are merely colorful.

I am in Virginia now, where my sister and her family live. Last night I drove back to my sister's after dinner at my older niece's home. In the mile between the two homes, there were several streets with houses that were colorfully lit. My daughter was speaking as we drove, while I was busily fighting my impulse to quickly u-turn and follow my eyes down those streets. I did not follow the lights. But I am still thinking about them. It will be dark again in about two hours. And perhaps I will be pulled out in the cold (yes, it's cold here) to drive around one last night and soak in the magic.  

I'm late! I'm late! For a Very Important Date!

"I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date! I'm late! I'm late! I'm late!" So panicked the White Rabbit of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland.  WR and I have a lot in common at this moment.

I have been trying to write an entry for this blog since last Friday. It’s Wednesday morning. Not much has interfered with my disciplined effort to produce on a weekly basis, but this time, a multitude of obligations have come between me and myself.

Right now, I need to get to the post office to mail a box of Christmas cut-out-frosted-decorated cookies to my aunt and uncle in Florida and they need to arrive by Friday. These are my mom’s cookies – the ones that take oh-so-much time to make, but are oh-so-worth-the-effort. My aunt and uncle are 90 and 91, respectively and I have done this for them since the time my mom couldn’t do it any longer. Their exclamations of joy and appreciation make the time and effort entirely worth it. However, I should have been at the post office when it opened – or so I believe. The reason I am not is that I have my sweet brother in residence for the holidays. He has two speeds, slow and slower (although my daughter maintains the speeds are slow and stopped). We must get through a shower, a shave, a brushing of the teeth, and the donning of clothing – all of which are meticulously completed, after which he will likely proudly announce, “See? I fast!” I take a deep breath and try to find something else to do while I am waiting that’s equally as important (like writing this).

When did the time of Advent become a race to the finish line? Someone I know has been posting daily “antidotes” to the stress of the holidays on her blog since December 1. Most of the antidotes involve, simplistically summarized (and I do mean “simplistic” because her writing is at once elegant and thought-provoking), recognition of and connection with what is real. 

I can’t recall a year when I have been so torn between values and tradition, must-do’s and want-to-do’s. Much of it, I am sure, is simply a result of conflicting time frames. Every time I had to make a choice between something I wanted to do vs. what was due for some class, well – you know what I did. Consequently, for the first time since the early 1970s, my Christmas tree remained in the closet until December 19. It’s usually up the weekend after Thanksgiving because ordinarily, it probably gives me more pleasure than anything else associated with this holiday. Getting the tree out and up this year happened solely because of the brother-in-residence phenomenon….otherwise, this would likely have been the year that Christmas barely happened.  My beloved Christmas village remains boxed. Only about a third of my massive collection of ornaments dangles from tree limbs. There are no lights on the porch, no Christmas dishes to eat on, no poinsettia or wreath…. I am feeling a little like a Christmas failure.  

While I listen to the whir of my brother’s shaver and tell myself that express mail is a miracle, I cling to the moments during this season of theoretical joy when I have felt real and connected, and wasn’t thinking about what I needed to do next. In no particular order, they are:

• The family Christmas party at my brother’s group home. After four years, I’ve come to know and appreciate his housemates and their families, and to cherish the dedicated and kind staff. All but two of the staff members made it to Saturday’s party. One former housemate returned. Two former staff members showed up. The eager, “Are you here for our party?” from the verbal housemates, the dishes of food we all contributed, the easy conversation that comes from years of shared concern and strategizing, and the excitement with which my brother’s housemates tackled their Christmas presents – that was real and it was fun.
• Ninety minutes with two good friends, a mother and daughter whom I’ve known since I was in my teens. We three once worked together in a restaurant in my hometown. I don’t get to see them very often as we live 350 miles apart, and when I am in their vicinity, I am usually attending to my brother. I knew from the younger of them that Saturday would be their cookie decorating marathon, and so when the gift of time presented itself, I took the chance and dropped in. No advance phone call needed. I knew I would be welcome. Besides the delicious opportunity to sample their cookies, the love and laughter that flows between us when we get an opportunity to catch up and just be with each other is affirming. They ask nothing of me, except to show up when I can. And when I can’t, they understand.
• Two hour+ phone conversations with my sweet daughter about our changing perceptions of holiday celebrations and what’s important to each of us. It is sometimes painful as we slog through this together… but it’s real and it’s honest.
• The half-mile walk at night from the train station to my home amid all the Christmas lights that adorn the trees, shrubs, and walk-ways of the various apartment buildings. The lights of Christmas have always soothed me. Light is important. Color almost equally so.

As I formulate my plans for future holiday celebrations, I will revisit these moments. The effort to determine what needs to remain and what needs to change will require that.  At the moment, my sweet tortoise brother has just proclaimed, “See? I fast.”  

Mom's Christmas Cookies

Christmas has always been the hands-down winner of the My Favorite Holiday vote. I’ve loved everything about it for as long as I can remember (except for the real-tree-fire-hazards of my early childhood).

When I was small, there would always come a day in the endless set of days between Thanksgiving and Christmas when my mom would pull out her big old Mixmaster.  She would announce that today we were going to bake cookies, and my sister’s and my eyes would light up with happiness. The first job was to mix up her renowned sour cream sugar cookies. That dough had to chill for what seemed like hours until it was stiff enough to roll out. So after the dough was deposited in the refrigerator and covered with a dish towel, we got to work making “Spritz” butter cookies. My sister and I, decked out in matching aprons made by our grandmother, traded off cracking the eggs, being careful not to massacre the shell or lose any of the unwanted egg white in the bowl of ingredients, lest our mother (the perfectionist) decide we were too young to be trusted with the job. We watched intently as she loaded the pastry tube with the yellow dough and perfectly pressed out wreaths and trees and poinsettias. If we promised to be neat, we got to carefully sprinkle the red and green sugars (no such thing as blue and purple and pink back then) on her creations, and press little cinnamon rounds where a wreath bow or tree star or poinsettia cyathium belonged. It was then that I decided that cinnamon was my absolute favorite flavor, and I probably snuck more than I planted in place.

Those delicious cookies baked quickly so we didn’t have to delay gratification too long to get the first yummy bite of Christmas. Then it would be lunch time, and after that we’d pepper her with constant teasing, “Is the dough ready yet?” until finally – finally – she’d declare it firm enough, and the real fun began. She’d get out her pastry cloth and flour it lightly, encase the old wooden rolling pin in its cloth, and deftly roll out the dough. My sister and I got to cut out the cookies – trees and stars and bells and Santas – and place them carefully on the cookie sheets, being mindful not to alter their shape with our small and sometimes clumsy hands. The best part was after they were baked, when mom mixed confectionary sugar, butter, and a little bit of milk into frosting. The privilege of frosting the cookies was always hers and she did it perfectly, carefully moving the frosting from the middle out to the edges, as neat as can be. Once the frosting was completed, she’d set it down and then my sister and I got to decorate again. This time, in addition to the red and green, we had yellow sugar and chocolate & multi-color “jimmies”, red cinnamon rounds, and silver balls to create our masterpieces. We still had to be neat about it. My mom was very particular – trees had to be green (though a little red as an accent was ok) and stars had to be yellow, and I guess she wasn’t fussy about the bells or Santas.

I still remember the first time I nervously frosted a cookie myself – I was probably about 12 or 13 – and I was determined that it would look as perfect as my mom’s beautiful creations.  

Mom’s cookies gradually developed a following outside of her immediate family. Everyone loved them and she never failed to deliver. When she was sick with cancer and the holidays were approaching, she made cookies on her better days and froze them so she’d have them when she wanted to start giving them away. After she passed away in January 2006, cleaning out her freezer, I uncovered a Tupperware container filled with bells and stars. I brought them home with me and put them in my freezer. Along with them came a couple of pie crusts and a cool whip container filled with her chicken stock. For almost five years, I dodged them as other things came and went in the freezer.

This year at Thanksgiving, with family coming for the first time for the holiday in New York, I needed to make room in the freezer for other items. Everything came under scrutiny. Out went the old frozen veggies and fruit that I hadn’t gotten around to using. Out went the boxes of Girl Scout thin mint cookies I bought years ago when my daughter still ate them. Out went the too-strong coffee from I can’t remember where or when. I checked out the container of chicken stock. Definitely time to ditch that. Out it went. Not too painful. I checked out the pie crusts. Freezer burned. Plus under the one that she definitely made, I discovered two “store-bought” crusts – bogus! Out they went. No tears shed.

The cookies were left. I argued with myself – these are FIVE YEARS old. You’ll make more. These can’t be any good. Stop being so sentimental. You’ll make more. You’ll make more. You’ll make more.

I stood there alone in my kitchen. Nobody else was around to urge me one way or another. I remembered walking into mom’s kitchen every other weekend during almost the entire last year of her life. Though she was usually lying on the couch in the living room when I arrived, exhausted from chemo and the effort to keep the house and everything going for my brother, the kitchen counter almost always held her large round Tupperware container filled with frosted, decorated sour cream cookies just for me because I loved them. Those cookies were an ongoing act of mother-love. The evidence sat on my shelf. They still connect me with her.

I put the cookies back in the freezer.

Curbing the Christmas Shopping Frenzy

It’s been four months since my daughter and I made a pact during our annual trek to Maine to not buy any new clothes, shoes, bags, or (in her case) new and unnecessary “product” (i.e. make-up, creams, and other potions) for a year. The reason was simple – I had become uneasy over my compulsive need to accumulate. I felt guilty because I have so much that buying more seemed gluttonous and immoral. My space felt crowded and disorganized, which was leading to overwhelmed. My inner guide whispered, “j u s t   s t o p.”

For a few weeks, I wrote about having/not having and enough/not enough, and then my thoughts turned to other things. But “the commitment” remains in effect.  I’ve had one instance of “catalog longing” over a sweater in colors that soothe me. It lasted just about one moment. Most catalogs that still come to my home go straight to the recycling pile without a second glance. I stopped all retail email solicitations, which has been a relief. There is enough clogging my in-box. What manages to slip through on occasion is simply deleted.

I had an interesting debate with my best friend in September about whether rain shoes – also seen in a catalog - constitute a need or a want. She argued that they should not be on the no-buy list; I wasn’t so sure. Her reasoning included a reference to wet feet and discomfort. Mine included the suspicion that I could get along without them. The conversation was inconclusive. I didn’t throw the catalog out, but I haven’t ordered them either. That was two months ago. I’ll see how I feel about it when the next rainy season comes around.

Now Christmas is coming. ‘Tis the season of gluttony and excess. I realized in the early fall that Christmas was going to require some strategizing.

In Maine, before we made our commitment to each other, my daughter had bought me a small piece of art that I loved and I had bought her a couple of items she wanted. We often do that when we are together on vacation and then save our purchases for Christmas. Ordinarily, that would be just the beginning of our shopping-for-each-other-frenzy. But by October, we had determined that it had been the end instead. The present shower was over, at least between us.

This is not easy for me but it’s palatable because she and I are doing it together. I love buying/giving presents. I love the excitement that goes along with pleasing someone I love with something I know they will love. But the reality is that it’s rarely some-thing with me – more like some-things. Once I start, it’s hard for me to stop. My brother-in-law teases me about my shopping stamina. He’ll walk in the room and, if I’m there, wonder, “Stores closed?”  

A few years ago before Christmas, my best friend had said in passing that she thought she would like a charm bracelet. I bought her the bracelet, and I didn’t stop buying charms until I had exhausted every single thing I could think of that might have meaning to her. And yes, she loved it, and I loved giving it to her, but it serves as an example of my compulsiveness where shopping is concerned. Last year, my entrepreneurial daughter mentioned a desire to make her own greeting cards. I didn’t stop until I bought every conceivable tool, accessory, paper, rubber stamp, punch, ink, etc etc etc that I could think of in order to create her own card studio. Actually, I might have missed something. I simply ran out of time.

Therefore, curbing my Christmas shopping habit is a very big deal. I suspect that if I were not buried in school work, I would find this more painful. Next year, when my coursework is over will be a better test of my control. For now, the compulsiveness that gets my papers done will partially replace my throbbing need to go Christmas shopping. I simply do not have time.

I am not planning to give up Christmas altogether. I suspect a cold turkey decision would depress me. I have a brother who would be devastated and would just not “get it”. And I have other family and friends I still want to please. There are elements about Christmas I love, and I hope some of them will remain when whatever inside me that’s shifting settles. More than the wish to declutter and stop accumulating, I want to curb compulsivity so it’s not driving me. But underneath compulsive is also a generous soul – and I do not want to lose her.

Don't Mess With Him - You'll Answer to Me

Forty-eight years ago on November 20, I woke up in the middle of the night to find my grandmother in my double bed next to me. “Your mother went to the hospital,” she reported, when I wondered what she was doing there. A few hours later, the phone rang, and my father announced, “You have a little brother.” My sister and I were ecstatic. A boy was unusual in my family so this would be a novel experience. I had little idea at the time how novel it was to be.

I was 9 years old and this was my first real experience with a baby. My brother was pudgy and cute and he didn’t cry very much. I learned to change and feed him and didn’t think anything about it when he didn’t crawl until he was over a year old, take a step until almost two, and wouldn’t eat table food until he was four.  When I was 12, a “friend” told me that another girl who was the “neighborhood nasty” had said that my family was trying to hide my brother because there was something wrong with him. She whispered the word, “mongoloid.”  I was crushed. Why would we try to hide such a cute little guy? In a rare expression of feeling, I went home crying and told my parents who reassured me that the “neighborhood nasty” was being true to her reputation and that they certainly were not trying to hide him.

I recovered but became super over-protective. More than once, seeing behavior that led me to believe another kid was enroute to taking advantage of him, I sped through the house, leaped out the door and screamed at those kids to stop whatever it was they were doing. And over the years, I perfected a glare that warned, “Don’t mess with him or you’ll answer to me.”  I still pull it out from time to time.  

My brother has provided my family and those who know him well with 48 years of adventure, laughs, and occasional high blood pressure. Although incapable of distinguishing between left and right, up and down, or over and under, especially in moments when I need him to follow directions because I have my thumb in a dike and can’t move, he can hook up a VCR/DVD player in no time flat. My mother once stared in disbelief at his handiwork when she realized that he had switched his broken VCR with her working VCR without her knowledge. He also is smart enough to have figured out that if he removes a certain piece from the top of the doors in his group home, the bells that signal someone’s arrival and/or exit will be deactivated. He also figured out how to de-alarm the fire system because it made too much noise and awakened him in the middle of the night for fire drills.

My brother can find nothing you want him to find, but he has perfected his disappearing act so nobody can find him! Trust me when I say he’s good at it. Even the bloodhounds would agree.  

    

My brother says the funniest things. Every time he walks through the front door of his group home, he calls out, “Oh honey, I’m home!” as if he were on the set of Leave it to Beaver or Father Knows Best. Although some things he says are clear, his speech is often difficult to understand. Since many words sound the same coming out of his mouth, it’s often a guessing game to figure out what he is saying. Sometimes he helps us by spelling (yes, you read that correctly). He tells me that somebody at his group home made him a strawberry lello cake for his birthday. A lello cake, I think, my mind quickly making associations. A yellow cake? No, he says, a LELLO cake, J-E-L-L-O. Ah, a strawberry jello cake.  He tells me about a DVD he wants, Wicka. Wicka, I think, drawing an absolute blank. Wicker? Wicked? I try a few variations and he’s only frustrated with my inability to get it. “F-L-I-C-K-A” he spells as if I am daft. Oh!  Flicka, I say, triumphantly. Yes, “Wicka” he repeats. Okay.

My brother has unbelievable rhythm and all the right moves which he has learned from movies and Sha Na Na.  He is also as light on his feet and as debonair as Fred Astaire. He plays no favorites on the dance floor and the girls all love him. The staff at ARC refers to his harem with a laugh. Look for the crowd on the dance floor- my brother will be in the middle of it. He dances every dance and will be the last one on the floor at the end of the night, bowing graciously to the band or the DJ in thanks before he makes his grand exit.

My brother is meticulous about some things – a slob about others. On the one hand, his ability to fold clothes rivals that of any GAP employee. He even folds his dirty laundry as if it were going straight to a drawer instead of the laundry bin. On the other hand, his room is littered with random papers, empty juice bottles, and lone unmatched socks. It drives me insane.  But as I stand in a grocery store pondering the store brand vs. a name brand, he is busy straightening up the cans or boxes on the shelves - perfectly.

My brother takes great photographs and he bowls a better game than I do almost every time.

My brother walks at least 3 steps behind no matter how slowly I go. “Can’t you walk a little faster, D,” I’ll sputter in exasperation when I’m in a hurry. “Come on feet, hurry up,” he’ll command, immediately changing my mood from frustrated to laughing.  

My brother has a memory like an elephant. He remembers that I had spinach pie at a restaurant a year before and has in mind to order the same thing when we go back. He remembers the one DVD or video that was on his Christmas list that you couldn’t find/buy. At the mention of a long-dead relative, he’ll tell you the year of his/her birth (even if it was in the 1890s), and what their phone number was when they were alive – even if they died 20 years ago. But he doesn’t always remember to comb his hair, change his socks, or put on a belt.

I picked my brother up on Saturday morning, November 20, from his group home in western New York to head back to NYC where we would celebrate Thanksgiving and his birthday. I went in his room to check on his packing. For seven days, he had neatly (think GAP) assembled 7 pair of underwear, 10 undershirts, 9 pair of socks, 12 pair of long pants, and 3 shirts. It was hard to not laugh. I edited the pants and increased the shirts and before long, we were on our way. As we pulled out of the driveway, he looked at me, grinned, and said, “Hit the road, Jack.”

Somewhere between Dansville and Corning, he peered out the windshield up at the clear blue sky, then settled back in his seat. “Well, mom,” he said. “My birthday is today. I am 48 years old.” A lump threatened my throat. I promised my mom moments before she drew her last breath that I would take care of him. I glanced over at my passenger. “I’m sure mom knows it’s your birthday today, honey,” I said. “And I’m sure she is happy because she knows we are on our way to New York City together.” He reached over and patted my shoulder reassuringly.  “I am happy too,” he said.

Breaking Tradition

For much of my life, I have taken solace in the traditions of holidays. Actually, it wasn’t just solace – some traditions were so important to me that I actually thought I might not survive without them.

Once the gauntlet of snake-necked swan statues and barking, biting dogs ended (see Thanksgiving at Aunt Boo’s House, 11/13/10), Thanksgiving became a safe holiday. From the time I was 8 until my beloved mom’s final Thanksgiving in 2005, the holiday was always spent at my childhood home. The guest list was always the same except when death, divorce or birth intervened. As a child, two sets of my grandparents were always invited (I had three sets, but that’s another story), my aunt and uncle who would have to sneak out in the afternoon to go “do their chores” (they had a dairy farm), and a grand-aunt who gave very wet kisses (yuck). Later, as my sister and I grew up, my father left, spouses were added and subtracted as we married, divorced, and in the case of my sister, remarried. Children were born and there was a long stint of status quo until our children started adding boyfriends, fiancés, and husbands to the mix.  And no matter where we were living, when Thanksgiving arrived, my sister and I always traveled to our childhood home with our families for the long weekend. 

Routine was very important and so was the menu, which never changed. I usually arrived the day before, and spent much of the day helping my mom with preparations. That time together was quiet and sweet as we cut up bread for dressing, rolled out pie crusts, sliced apples, and chatted. Late in the day, we’d get out her Spode china, brought from England long ago by her cousin, and set the table. Thanksgiving morning, with parade sounds in the background, there was usually a panicked, “Didn’t I buy a bag to roast the turkey in?” and my mom would rout through her floor-to-ceiling cupboards in disbelief that she might have forgotten this most important element (and always find one buried someplace). 

The house gradually filled with the smells of turkey and dressing and the sounds of our children complaining of hunger until finally, it was time to carve the turkey – always my job. The yummiest bites were those I snuck ahead of time and passed around to anyone in the vicinity of me and my knife. At the dinner table, our children’s voices sped through, “God is great God is good Let us thank Him for our food Amen.” Later, my mother’s voice quietly intoned, “Bless, Oh Lord, these Thy gifts which we are about to receive” when our children grew too cool to say grace.

After dinner, we always lingered around the table. As a child, I loved listening to the grown-ups talk and tell jokes, and later turn the conversation toward Christmas.  As my sister and I moved into the middle generation, Thanksgiving night usually included a “Kmart run” for Christmas stocking shopping, which was fun beyond belief. We’d run around Kmart with our carts, buying things for each other, for our kids, spouses, mom and brother, warning “Don’t look!” if we had to pass each other or stop and ask a question.

Friday morning we’d often be up at the crack of dawn – yes, that would be us out at 4:30 a.m. and in line somewhere to buy our mother a computer or buy our kids some coveted gift. As we got older (and more tired) we moved our start time a couple hours later. But the tradition of sitting in a mall with my sister, my daughter, and my nieces not long after dawn, having coffee together and heading off in our various directions to shop till we dropped was special, and in our minds, compulsory. Friday night was always given to celebrating my brother’s and my youngest niece’s birthdays. Saturday was designated for more shopping – my sister and brother-in-law might sneak off to see his family, or occasionally to play cards with their friends, and in later years we always put my mom’s Christmas tree up and decorated it for her. Finally, Sunday morning, Thanksgiving was officially over. We’d pack up our cars and head south or east – until it was time to reconvene at Christmas.

Those traditions are sweet in my memory and I smile when I think of them. The usual and customary, however, came to a screeching halt during fall 2005 when our mom took a turn for the worse in her fight against ovarian cancer. She had been hospitalized for a few weeks at the end of October and came home to hospice care in mid-November of that year. Our celebration was vastly different, though it stands out as my most memorable Thanksgiving. My sister and I, exhausted from trips back and forth to care for mom, had no inclination to prepare, bake, or cook anything. We let our neighborhood supermarket do it. We set up card tables and chairs to eat our dinner in the living room where mom lay in a hospital bed. Although the rest of us remember the meal as forgettable, our mom, who had not had an appetite for days was alert, able to sit up in bed, eat some of it, and with a big smile, pronounce it “delicious.”  We looked at each other and gave thanks.

The following year our mom was gone, our childhood home was sold, and we convened at my sister’s for Thanksgiving. My sister and I flew solo for the first time in preparing Thanksgiving dinner and everyone lived to tell about it. A few laughs, a few tears, and without missing a beat, we began another tradition in another town, another state.

This year we are breaking with tradition again. My daughter and I are staying home for the first time ever. We want to see the Macy’s parade in our adopted home town. I want my brother, who loves parades, to experience it too. The parade passes the building where my daughter works. Her office features floor to ceiling windows on the 4^th floor overlooking Times Square. Her boss has given us permission to be there. We won’t be cold (or wet) and we won’t have to fight the crowds.

Although we were prepared to “go it alone” for Thanksgiving, some of our family will travel north to join us. While we feel honored, we know we would survive if they didn’t or couldn't come. That’s the important thing. But we will all look at each other next Thursday morning in a totally different setting – surviving, no – embracing another break with tradition and we will give thanks.

Thanksgiving at Aunt Boo's House: Back When I Was 6

Thanksgiving is coming but I don’t feel like giving thanks. I just found out that we will go to my Aunt Boo’s house for dinner on Thanksgiving. Aunt Boo is one of my grandma’s older sisters. She used to have a husband but she doesn't any more because he is in heaven. She doesn't have any kids either.

Aunt Boo’s name reminds me of her house, which is scary scary scary. Even when the lights are on, it feels dark. And there are places in it where we are not allowed to go. Right off the big dining room where we will eat our dinner is a door that's more glass than wood. On the other side of the door is a long hallway at the end of which is the front door. On the left side is a stairway that leads up to their upstairs, where I have never been. There's a sideboard against the wall by the stairs where there's a big ugly white swan statue. That swan scares me. Its neck is like a snake. I can't figure out why any grownup would want a swan with a snake neck in their hallway. There are never any lights on in that hallway no matter how dark it is. It looks to me like nobody lives there except maybe some ghosts. Boo!

Worst of all, there are the dogs. Aunt Boo has two great big black collie dogs with super sharp teeth and a bark that hurts my ears. They jump really high and bark like crazy when the car pulls into the driveway and they don’t stop until the people in the cars disappear inside the house. I am sure they bite. My sister and I will make my father promise to please pretty please carry us from the car to the house. My father is taller than my mother, so he’s higher up and safer. My sister and I are scared scared scared of those dogs. I think I said once that I was scared of fire and lightening the most. Well, I forgot about the dogs. Dogs are right up there with fire.  

There are lots of people at Aunt Boo’s when we go there. The grown-ups are mostly my mother’s cousins and the people they are married to. They have kids but they are pretty much older than my sister and I so we don’t play together or anything. I like to stay in the kitchen where my mother and aunt talk to all the other ladies while dinner is getting ready.

Dinner is ok because nobody pays too much attention to me and what I am eating. So mostly I can eat what I want. I like the tray with the pickles and celery and carrots and those bite-y things, radishes, on it.

There isn’t very much to do at Aunt Boo’s. Sometimes my sister and I sit on the floor in the living room and look at Aunt Boo's old stereoscope. It's sort of like a viewfinder but it's old fashioned, and you have to put these cards with the same picture on each side in the holder at the end, and look through the goggles. The one we think is funny is a man sitting on a toilet. Mommy doesn't like that one so we don't show it to her when we find it.

Sometimes I get sick on Thanksgiving and then I don't have to go to Aunt Boo's. Usually my father stays home with me while I lay on the couch and sleep. I don't think he minds a bit. Maybe that will happen this year. I would be thankful for that.

The Chance to Win

My last blog entry [Walk Away Now!, 10/29/10] has gotten more "hits" than any other one to date. The reactions that people have had to the topic of gambling have been interesting and illuminating. I just finished a massive paper on gambling and older adults and during the course of my research, read more journal articles on the topic than I ever imagined I would. The latest national studies have estimated a lifetime prevalance of problem gambling in the U.S. of between .6%-2.6% (*1,*2).   The 2.6% is for adolescents and young adults; the .6% is for all adults.  I'd be willing to bet it's higher.

I saw a friend on Monday. I asked her what she did for her weekend. She blushed and inserted a book between her face and me. "I don't want to tell you," she said. "It involved a casino, didn't it?" I said, knowing without knowing. "Did you win?" Of course not. Curious, I asked, "Did you read my blog?" "Of course," she said. Then in one breath she told me the Friday night before right after work, she'd taken the subway as far north as it will go in the Bronx, then caught a bus to Yonkers and Empire Casino. She'd only intended to stay an hour, but she hadn't actually left until 11 p.m. In the next breath, she told me she'd gone alone and that she doesn't have a problem. OK.

The same day I was told about a person who works where I do -- that person had lost the equivalent of three paychecks (that's 6 weeks worth of work) at the casino recently and had to borrow money to pay the mortgage. My heart skipped some beats.

The stories continued.

"I have to stay away from blackjack. Just put me near a table and it's like a magnet."

"My ex-husband gambles -- he plays poker. But he's good at it."

"So & So is a really heavy card player. She's been doing it for years."

My "heart mother" told me about someone she'd known many years ago who was addicted to gambling and that he'd told her it was the worst of all addictions. She hadn't believed it then but she does now.  

After I had my first casino experience with my dad and sister, for quite a while I itched to go back. I saw a little tabletop slot machine in some catalog and looked at it more than once, considering. My attraction to repetitive motion was making me vulnerable. However, I eventually decided it was not a good idea. Not because I was afraid of developing a problem, but because I thought - what's the point? All you can win is your own money. That's no fun. 

While writing my paper, I searched the internet to find free on-line slots (I had no budget for research, LOL).  I experimented, opening one web site and trying several games, one right after another, to see what they were about. I was paying close attention to my thoughts and feelings. I quickly lost interest. I didn't feel much of anything in this process - unless you count exhausted - but my mind was busy. I didn't believe my spin results were truly random, and, more importantly, I thought I can't win any money. That's no fun.  [Now of course, I realize that one can pay to gamble on line. And then there is a chance to win. I realized in this experiment that it wasn't just the repetitive motion, it was the chance to win that was key.]

During my research, I read disagreements about the addictive power of a slot machine. Some call it the crack-cocaine of gambling and others say poppycock. Those others are mostly casino stakeholders. The study that made me the angriest was the one that asserted that older female gamblers were an untapped source of revenue for casinos and then went on the "prove" that as a group they were not particularly vulnerable to developing a problem with gambling (*3).

The bad news is that the study - as are many of them - is seriously flawed. The good news is that I think I found my dissertation topic.

*1 Kessler, R. C., Hwang, I., LaBrie, R., Petukhova, M., Sampson, N. A., Winters, K. C., et al. (2008). DSM-IV pathological gambling in the National Comorbidity Survey Replication. Psychological Medicine, 38(9), 1351-1360.
*2 Welte, J. W.,  Barnes, G. M., Tidwell, M. O., & Hoffman, J. H. (2008). The prevalence of problem gambling among U.S. adolescents and young adults: Results from a national survey. Journal of Gambling Studies, 24, 119–133.

*3 Taras, J., Singh, A.J., & Moufakkir, O. (2000). The profile and motivations of elderly women gamblers. Gaming Research & Review Journal, 5,(1).

Walk Away Now!

I wanted to go back. Fortunately, Atlantic City was far enough away and I was far too busy to become a regular customer. However, once or twice a year, my best friend would venture that she was itching to head south down the Garden State Parkway to Atlantic City, and I was always game to join her. Summer weekend….the possibility of winning… a nice lunch… free vouchers to gamble “on the house” -- why not? It took me more than a few jaunts before I realized that uneasy feeling I left with every time I got sucked into a casino was depression.   

Since that first time with my dad and sister, I’ve rarely won, and never as much as I did on my first attempt. If I pour money into a machine, I feel depressed because I lose it. If I don’t pour money into a machine, I feel depressed because I am resisting a driving compulsion to play. I lose my first twenty dollars, then wander aimlessly around the casino floor arguing with myself, wondering what I am going to do for the next few hours.  “Oh c’mon,” I urge myself, “What’s another $20?”  Sometimes I give in, and break my second twenty. I rationalize that if I play the nickel and the penny machines, my money will last longer. But then there is the reality that in order to win, you really have to bet more “lines” and multiply your winnings x2, x3 and more. When a single pull of the lever yields close to a dollar deducted from my credits, I pull myself up sharply and remind myself that if I am going to be that frivolous, I might as well be playing the dollar slots. And that’s not happening.  

Sometimes I do not give into the urge, but find a stool that nobody wants for the moment and sit and watch other people as unobtrusively as possible. I am always struck by the intensity with which some people work those machines – some two at once. Some seem to be doing really well with that strategy and I wonder if they will stop when/if they are ahead. Many look older than I – some much more so. Some are attached to oxygen tanks. Even though they usually look like they know what they are doing, I worry. I wonder where their money comes from, if they are independently wealthy or dependent only on social security, and I wonder what will happen if they lose all their money. I wonder if they have been gambling all their lives or if they are relative newcomers to a novel and exciting way to spend their time.   

There’s always the chance I can win. There’s a greater probability that I won’t.  The times I’ve sat and watched three 7s (or whatever) almost line up in a row, I realized how easy it is to believe that they’ve just got to land on the same line sooner or later.  I’ve learned from my research that slot machines are the most addictive of all gambling types, and that when one’s first experience is a win, there is a greater likelihood of trouble down the road. It wasn’t long ago that I realized my casino depression occurred because I was constantly trying to recreate the feelings of that magical day in Atlantic City with my dad and my sister [See A Magical Day -- Gambling, Slots and My Dad, 10/24/2010)– and that wasn’t happening either.  Proximity is also a factor in the development of gambling problems. I can understand that as well. Besides Atlantic City to the south, there are Connecticut casinos to the northeast, no more than 3 hours away. There’s a casino in Yonkers, only a few miles south of where I live. And as I travel back and forth frequently across the state to western NY, I pass a casino in the town of Tioga.  Even in my old hometown, the race track has added a casino.  

Lucky [!] for me – although I totally “get” the allure of a slot machine and have experienced its magnetic pull, often with great conflict, I won’t be getting into trouble. There is the legacy of my risk-averse mother. There is my penchant for analyzing every feeling I have that I don’t understand. And there is my patient ability to delay gratification – hence, as I go about my business locally, traveling across the state, or in my old hometown, I consider the possibility of stopping and throwing away just a little money and say, “Maybe another time.”  Maybe – not.   And there is the text message I’ve saved that was sent to me a few year’s ago from a friend. Upon getting my text that I was “up $50” while on vacation and in a casino, he had sent one back to me – I look at it, as needed - it says, “Walk away now. Exclamation point.” 

A Magical Day -- Gambling, Slots and My Dad

I’m writing a paper on older persons and gambling for a seminar I am taking in my doctoral program. The assignment is to engage in a critical study of a specific area of social gerontology, which must include an extensive literature review, identification of gaps in the research, and examination of relevant policies and interventions. Because I would be living and breathing this paper for several weeks, it was crucial that I select a topic I could really embrace.

My father gambled in his later years. I don’t really know why he started. We lived in a town where there was a race track but my parents never went to it. It was at the other end of our town and was known to us mostly for the traffic headaches it created during the racing season. In the sixties where I spent most of my growing-up years, the only casinos were in Nevada. Though my family visited both Reno and Las Vegas on a cross-country road trip when I was in my early teens, entering the casinos was not on my parents' agenda. We drove by admiring all the lights, then parked in our motor home in a campground not far from the strip and turned our attention toward the swimming pool. I never heard any wistful conversations that involved ditching us kids and heading off to gamble. The casinos seemed slightly dangerous to me and I was afraid of them. I was happy to drive by the flashy signs and entrances but even if I’d been old enough to go inside, I would have been afraid. I’m not sure of what… gangsters…perhaps.  

So when dad was in his 60s and started going to OTB and the racetrack in season, it felt out of character. I know he went often but I don’t know how much he bet and lost. I only heard about his wins. He’d announce that he won a certain sum on the horses – $200 here, $900 there. Always looking for the big win, he worked hard on his own system of calculating which horses “should” win…. a system he wanted to teach me before he died so I could carry on and win big. Although I tried to humor him by attempting to understand his process days before he passed away, it was a complicated system that involved the horse’s gate position, his handicap, and other variables that I just didn’t “get” and would never be able to explain to a single soul, much less execute.

Many years later, when he was in his 70s, my dad visited me in New York City. My sister came up from her home in Virginia the same weekend to see him. Not quite knowing how to entertain him for the weekend, we decided to take a bus trip to Atlantic City. Somehow it seemed like something he would like to do. I’d never been – never had an inclination to go. We arrived at the Showboat casino at one end of the boardwalk just before lunch. I still remember how intimidated I felt when we walked onto the gambling floor teeming with people. I didn’t know what I was doing and felt I did not belong. There was a circus atmosphere, with garish lights, and the electronic musical sounds the slot machines made whether someone was feeding them or not. We fooled around with a poker machine but quickly abandoned that because we didn’t quite get how it worked. Then we settled down at slot machines -- three of us all in a row. At that time, machines still took real quarters and you still had to pull the arm to register your bet. Ding ding ding ding ding was accompanied by jingle jingle jingle jingle jingle. Now that is music to a novice’s ears. And we had beginner’s luck. I won $200. My father wisely told me to put it away and not use it, and I listened to him. My sister won $75.  And at the end of the day, in his last bet, my dad’s last dollar yielded a $700 jackpot. We were all flying high. I snapped the picture of him happily displaying his seven $100 bills in front of the winning slot before security informed me photos on the floor were forbidden.   It was a truly great day. 

I understood almost immediately the seductive lure of a slot machine. Being more or less obsessive compulsive, the repetitive motion of pulling the lever was appealing and calming.  Having sat through my share of psychology classes, I was aware of the principles of operant conditioning. Reward on an intermittent basis and keep them coming back for more. It works. They do return.

I hope my readers will too. More to come…….

In Honor of My Dad

When I was small, I adored my father. He was the handsomest man in the world and no doubt, the smartest. He had an infectious laugh that would make you double over and clutch your aching stomach and cry real tears because you couldn’t stop laughing at his mirth. He absolutely cracked up while reading Horton Hatches the Egg. Every time.

He’d play my sister’s and my favorite songs on the record player so we could hear them after we went to bed, often speeding up the 45s, making everybody sound like chipmunks. If you’ve never experienced Witch Doctor played at 78 rpm, well.... your loss. He lobbied our mother to let us stay up until 9 p.m. on Wednesdays so we could watch Top Cat at 8:30, which came on after The Alvin Show. He didn’t always win but we knew he was on our side in the matter.  

My father hardly ever said, “No.” Not to go-cart rides or midnight swims, with campfire and marshmallows, down in our pond with our friends, or sleeping out in our tree-house under the stars. Not to cotton candy and popcorn at the circus or carnival, one more ride on the Ferris wheel, one more game of Skee-ball, or one more trip to Lane Drugs for a few more plastic rat finks. More summer nights than not, he’d pack us all in the car, along with a couple of friends, and head off to Flavorite Farms for a “cms” (parent-code before we got wise for ‘chocolate milk shake’) or a hot fudge sundae. 

My father loved to roam and our vacations usually involved a road trip. My family would pile in our 1956 blue Buick sedan and later our 1962 maroon Oldsmobile in the wee hours of the morning and head out. Settled in the back seat with my sister with our pillows, our activity books and crayons, and our first day’s lunch in the picnic basket by my mother’s feet, we always knew we were off on a grand adventure.  One time on a Sunday afternoon drive, he and my mother reminisced about an old amusement park in Cleveland, Ohio they visited as young adults. They remembered the name of it, Euclid Beach Amusement Park, and told us about all the neat rides it had. By the end of the afternoon, my little brother had been safely deposited with my grandmother, and my parents, my sister, and I were en route to Cleveland, Ohio, in search of Euclid Beach. Magically, it was still in business and my sister and I were introduced to the same three very cool wooden roller coasters our parents had loved. 

My father loved music. Our home vibrated with his piano playing. He especially loved ragtime and the lively sound of the Maple Leaf Rag dancing under his fingers is written in my DNA. Sometimes when I was small and he was in a patient mood, I would sit on the piano bench next to him and sing while he played. I knew all the lyrics to There is a Tavern in the Town, Boo Hoo and By the Sea by the time I was eight and had a grand time belting them out with him, not always in tune – but no matter, the piano was loud enough to drown us both out. If he wasn’t making music himself, he was playing it on our record player…. Guy Lombardo, Teresa Brewer, Mitch Miller, Jo Ann Castle. My father was often obsessive about songs he especially loved. He’d set the record player arm strategically so once the record finished, it would recycle by itself. Although my friends might not “get” why Winchester Cathedral was playing for the 15^th time in a row, it seemed perfectly normal to me.   

My father used to dance with me to music on the big old-fashioned radio in our living room when I was a very little girl and small enough to be held in his arms. I watch old regular “8” movie films of me in my father’s arms, bouncing gently to the rhythm of the music, the sound of which I can only imagine, and experience a sense memory that moves me to tears.

If I were to write a want-ad today seeking a man in my life, it would read something like this: "Wanted -- Smart and handsome man who can make me laugh – often. Must be willing to learn to dance – not partner-not-needed kind of dancing – but REAL dancing. Must love music with every cell in his body. Ability to make music is a plus.  Must embrace road trips and concomitant adventures with fervor." 

There would be more, but those are the important parts. My father would have been 87 years old on October 20. This post is in honor of his memory.

Ghosts Lived in My House

Home for me as a child was a big old two-story farm house built in the mid-1800s. That house, which was surrounded by several majestic old trees on three sides, was “home” on some levels from the day my parents took me there from the hospital after my birth until my beloved mom passed away inside almost 53 years later. Although I “moved out” officially at 19, it was the place to which I always returned – sometimes for temporary lodging, always for holidays, and in the end, to care for my mom.

I had mixed feelings about that home as a child because deep down inside, I was very much afraid of it – especially the “upstairs”. When I was very little the second floor was not used. I slept downstairs with my parents in a room that would later be our living room. Just outside that room was the open staircase leading to the second floor. I was forbidden to test my climbing abilities on those stairs, and at night, it was dark and scary up there.  

Some time after my sister was born, we moved up those stairs. My crib was relocated in an open hallway on the left at the top of the stairs, and my parents occupied a large bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs. I was now afraid to go in their room because there was a round hole in the floor. I knew there was a hole because the few times I’d been taken up there when it was uninhabited, I had been expressly told not to go near it because I might fall in.  It didn’t matter now that their bed was safely situated over that hole (and it might even have been fixed). I feared that somehow, some way I would be sucked alive through that hole with unspeakable consequences.

Eventually, a second bedroom was readied for me and my sister and we moved out of the hallway into our own room in the front of the house. The new danger was the large room straight ahead at the top of the stairs known as “the attic”.  My father’s ham radio equipment was situated in a corner of that dimly lit room, with the rest of it used as catch-all storage. To get to my father’s buried corner, one had to wend one’s way past old furniture, trunks, boxes, my mother’s papier-mâché torso (for dress-making) and assorted other stuff.  A door that was kept closed separated “the attic” from the rest of the 2^nd floor living space. 

Both my sister and I were afraid of the attic, sure that there were ghosts or bogeymen lurking inside. “Go upstairs with me?” we’d plead to the other. When we’d reach the top of the stairs, we’d run like crazy past the attic door to the relative safety of our room. “Go downstairs with me?” we’d wheedle for the return trip. When we left our room, we’d run like crazy past the attic door and leap down the stairs as fast as we could. One day when the attic door creaked slowly open on its own, caught alone in the hallway, my sister learned to fly.  

Besides the ghosts that lived there, the attic held a special terror for me. For in that room, near my father’s radio equipment, there was an old-fashioned red glass ball fire extinguisher mounted on the wall in case of fire. Fire was my first and worst phobia. My heart knew that the mere presence of that extinguisher forecast a fire for sure. The mere thought of it almost stopped my heart from beating.

If fire was my first phobia, lightning was my second. My kindergarten teacher taught us that lightning was electricity and electricity could cause fires. So from age 5, I was sure that our front corner bedroom, situated underneath those majestic trees was going to sustain a direct hit by a lightning bolt with my name on it. It was simply a matter of time.  

Sadly, I spent an inordinate amount of time as a child worrying about my home going up in flames. The live Christmas trees my parents bought and draped with old-fashioned hot lights were a source of incredible anxiety. So was the fireplace that my father had built in our living room when I was nine. I was plagued during the day by “real” worries about fire and at night by nightmares about fires in my home. My prayers before bed well into my adolescence included a line begging God to please-please-please not let my house catch on fire and to please-please-please not let me dream about fire. 

The year my parents brought home a beautifully modern aluminum Christmas tree, which eliminated the need for hot lights draped over live evergreen changed my life for the better. So did the eventual abolition of the “attic” in favor of a second bathroom and a new room for my sister in my early teens. The scary red ball fire extinguisher was packed away, no longer foreshadowing disaster.

Although these two events made me slightly less afraid of my home, we still had an uneasy co-existence. I was not to really feel physically safe in a home until I moved out of that one.