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Just Call Me Mrs. Claus

Tue, 18 Dec 2007 19:24:29 GMT

Remember the story "The Emperor's New Clothes?" More to the point, do you remember that the one who could see most clearly was a small child? If it is true that small children see most clearly, than I am married to Santa Claus. What a revelation!

Without the help of a small child, I would never have imagined that FogieKnight had such a rich secret life. I've been married to him for almost 24 years and I've never seen him chose to wear red. Although he is a few pounds heavier than when I met him, I doubt anyone would suggest that he had a belly that shook at all, let alone as though it were a bowlful of jelly. The man is tall and lanky. He's over six feet and, if I were to guess, weighs 175 pounds tops. Rounded is not a word usually associated with him.

Perhaps it is the beard. He does have a beard. I've never been completely sure that he has a chin. I've never seen his chin. When I first met him, the beard was really quite red—not so much to match his hair as to contrast with it. Brown hair, blonde mustache, red beard. But now it is rapidly going white.

So, last night's revelation came as a bit of a surprise. The evening started with me getting home from work late and not managing to get dinner together. No surprise there. It happens from time to time. We (mainly FogieKnight) decided to go out to eat as the most likely route for actually getting dinner.

As the hostess showed up to our seat, we went near the next table. A family was sitting there with all sorts of very blonde children. The youngest, in a high-chair-type seat looked as though she were approximately fifteen months. As we passed her, her eyes got very, very big and she twisted around and almost upside down to look at us. I twisted around, in hopes of amusing her, and thought her reaction was in response to me. I should not have been so self-centered but I did not know it yet.

Suddenly, she started jabbering very excitedly to her mother. Her mother turned to us, looked at FogieKnight, and said, "She thinks you are Santa Claus." (Kat was not at the table at that moment and had to be filled in later.) FogieKnight grinned at the little girl and she grinned back.

And then he ordered a beer. A beer? I was appalled. How could Santa order a beer? FogieKnight explained that if Santa could smoke a pipe, as many a Santa he had seen in his youth could do, Santa could have a beer. As a Jewish child and later a Jewish adult, I've never known that much about Santa but I was horrified. Shouldn't Santa set a better example?

And, as I nagged a bit, it became clear. For sure, if FogieKnight is Santa Claus, I am Mrs. Claus.

Who Woulda Thunk It?

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 00:49:29 GMT

Who woulda thunk it? Kat, it turns out, has become an excellent cook. When she left home, she would boil water only under duress. Yet now she is making elaborate meals. She made a mean sweet kugel (noodle pudding) the other night with apples and raisins. Tonight it was homemade onion soup, egg-cheese bread with peppers (and, for FogieKnight and me, mushrooms), and salad. She even takes recipes and adapts them.

My amazement is even greater because Kat labors under a handicap (or, as Rob would say, battles with a monster albeit a largely tamed monster). No, I'm not referring to her dexterity, even though it renders her incapability of flipping pancakes or latkes—a problem she recently discovered and that is still in search of a work-around. I'm referring to her lack of a sense of smell. We are not entirely sure what damaged her sense of smell so much but we suspect the problem is in her brain. The area of the brain that handles smell is very, very close to where her seizures used to start. The beginnings of the seizures (that she seems to be growing out of) often involved very strong and very bad smells. Perhaps those brain circuits just burned themselves out. But whatever the reason, Kat's sense of smell is badly damaged-- and taste is amazingly dependent on smell.

She does say that she does not vary spices, except pepper which she can detect herself, until getting feedback from others. If there is too much thyme in the egg-cheese bread recipe, there will be too much thyme the first time (although there really wasn't.) She won't change it until someone who can smell and taste better than she does tells her what needs to happen. Her experimentation is with items such as peppers, mushrooms, and changes of texture ingredients.

And she is sensitive to the textures of food. That child was always sensitive to touch. However insensitive her sense of smell, her sense of touch is highly, highly developed, even in her mouth. It took me a few years to figure out why she liked the broccoli some nights and not others. It had to do with texture. I suspect she still does not like mashed potato because it is too mushy. Her cooking tends to have a wonderful mix of textures. That toasted bread with parmesan cheese in the middle of her onion soup was perfectly crunchy.

No, I'm not sure how she does it but I know that she does. She cooks very well. I probably should take lessons from her except that then people might start expecting good cooking out of me—and we couldn't have that happening, could we?

Generation to Generation

Sat, 08 Dec 2007 15:09:55 GMT

Last night was the synagogue’s Chanukah dinner. The food, as usual, was not the real reason to go to the dinner. I understand why the synagogue stopped relying on potlucks, but I miss the potluck days. We still retain the lukewarm chicken breasts and the latkes. It’s a good thing that I mainly go for the sense of community.

We had what we refer to as a “family service,” with the youth choir singing and a moralistic story rather than a sermon (although the stories often are better than the usual sermons. The stories always have a beginning, a middle, and an end and generally have a clear point.) Our congregation is aging and there are not nearly as many children around as there used to be but I love watching the kids. Mostly, I loved standing next to Kat and harmonizing with her. It’s not that the harmonizing is a tradition because it’s not. It’s only been a few years where she was too old for the youth choir and came and sang with me.

The oneg (or dessert and coffee afterwards)was fun. I have been so good about sweets that I restricted myself to one small decorated cookie but that was not particularly hard. The other option was sufganot, the jelly-filled and oily doughnut, which is a treat for Chanukah. Unfortunately, the jelly is always red and it’s rarely clear if is it strawberry or cherry. I’m allergic to strawberry so I left it alone.

I looked around and there was Kat with her “kittens,” the group of younger children who would follow her just about anywhere. The kittens used to be mainly under the age of eight but they are growing up. Some of the girls are young ladies now, or very close to it, and sit next to her with dignity.

But it was even more fun watching FogieKnight. I like watching him with a group of boys. We have only daughters and so he has had to seek out groups of boys. I think it’s part of why he enjoyed heading up the middle school stagecrew for many years. But there he was surrounded by boys who were soaking up the really important male information. FogieKnight, you see, was doing what all boys I have known seem to need to learn. He had a dreidl and he was spinning it upside down. From my earliest days in Hebrew school, I remember seeing older boys teach younger boys how to spin the dreidls upside down.

It’s not exactly that girls can’t spin dreidls upside down. I can--sometimes. Kat can. I know a few other girls who can. The difference seems to be that girls either learn or don’t learn. Spinning a dreidl upside down seems to become an obsession with the boys. It’s not religious. There’s no religious significance to spinning it upside down. It’s more of a “because you can” thing. It’s like….well…skipping stones on a pond.

And there was FogieKnight, who came late to Judaism but not to boyhood, crouched down by the floor, with his little plastic dreidl, giving upside-down dreidl spinning lessons with several boys around him, each working very hard on learning how to do it.

From generation to generation……

Bad News, Good News

Thu, 29 Nov 2007 02:48:03 GMT

The bad news is that my car is easy to break into. The good news is that my car is easy to break into. How do I know? Well, I watched a maintenance worker at one of our state prisons do it—with my blessing and undying gratitude. It only took him a few minutes and then I could get on my way again.

Getting over feeling really, really stupid took me a bit longer. I can remember the last time I locked myself out of my house but that was a team effort. I thought Kat had her key. Kat thought I had my key. It worked out because I had planned for the contingency of someone doing it. We walked down the street to a friend's house and got the extra key.

But yesterday I was a distance away from home and office. It would have taken FogieKnight at least 45 minutes to come and rescue me. The second I realized the problem, I felt awful. I came out of the prison after visiting with my client, opened up the locker, and put on my coat. My hand went into my pocket. No keys. None at all. Checked my other pockets. Nope, no keys. And then I remembered…

If I were an irresponsible person, I would blame that particular prison. The prison I was visiting is the only one I know of in the whole state (and, as a appellate public defender I know of most of them) that requires two quarters for their lockers. Most of the others either use a token or require one quarter.

How can one measly little extra quarter cause such a problem? Well, I take as little as possible into the prisons. I usually lock most of my stuff in the car. I took out my ID, my pen, my file, and a quarter. So far, so good. I took the keys out of the lock. I was about to put them in my pocket when I remember. The darn lockers needed two quarters. At that point, I made my fatal error. I disrupted my routine. With my keys in my hand, I went back into my purse for the other quarter---and absentmindedly put my keys away. I gathered up my stuff, pressed the power lock, and closed the door.

But prison staff rescued me. When I discovered the problem, I asked the gatehouse sergeant if I could use the phone to call FogieKnight. "I have a better idea," he said. "I might be able to help you and, if I can't, we'll call Mike." He arranged coverage for the desk and came out with me. He couldn't get it but, in response to his call, Mike came and Mike could.

Funny, isn't it, how a skill that often gets my clients into the prison, got me out of the prison's parking lot.

Parents' Line

Mon, 26 Nov 2007 00:32:16 GMT

Because I am a good mother, I was up at 4:30 a.m. this morning. Because I am a girl scout, I sent Day back to college in better shape than I found her. She came with a horrible cold. She went back healthy. I think she did not pass it on to us but it is too early to be absolutely certain.

She had a 7:30 a.m. flight to Hartford. Her travel agent (aka me) put her on that flight in case of bad weather. There are very few flights to Hartford, planes often fly full, and I wanted as much leeway as possible, especially as Hartford is just under two hours away from her college and she must rely on school shuttles which run at pre-arranged times.

In any event, we were all ready to leave even earlier than we planned and we just went ahead to the airport. We were thrilled to discover that the coffee places open quite early. Day had her last Starbucks white hot chocolate for a while. There is no such place in her neck of the mountains.

At 6:30 a.m., we realized that the line to get through security was getting very long so Day picked up her things and got in line. We got in line with her and figured it would be quite a while. We were wrong.

After Day went into the security area, FogieKnight and I hung out. Because Day is not 18 yet, we tend to hang until her plane leaves. If, for any reason, there was a problem and she had to rebook, she does not have a credit card. We hang around to help, if necessary.

And so we people-watched. (Actually, FogieKnight examined the inside of his eyelids for a time, but then joined in watching the people.) It was then that FogieKnight realized one of the reasons the security line was moving so fast. Only approximately 75% of the people in the security line were actually flying. That security line was the “college special.” Approximately 25% of the people in the line were parents who stood in line with their kids and then stepped out at the last moment with a quick hug. Amazingly, the hugs were very quick—whether from child embarrassment or fear of security personnel. The real line was much shorter than it appeared.

Eventually, the flight board showed that Day’s flight had left and FogieKnight and I drove the 45 minutes home and then went back to bed. Day is gone for another few weeks (although Kat is already on break.) But we won’t do it again next time. The morning flight was full for January and she’ll go back in the afternoon next time.

A Fish Story

Wed, 07 Nov 2007 22:23:16 GMT

(Warning to my kids and husband: this entry is a memorial one of sorts. Brace yourself if you have to or skip this one.)

Sometimes it really is the little things that get bigger and bigger as though they were a fish story. You think you are doing better---and, for the most part, you are. And then something pops up unexpectedly and wallops you.

I heard it hit FogieKnight on Monday night (and I would have posted this yesterday but I spent almost nine hours on the road in the last two days.) On Monday, I came flying in after work and began to make dinner. FogieKnight had a n appointment to give blood so we were eating early, but I had gotten caught by a telephone call just as I left the office and I was running late. I pulled into the driveway, grabbed the mail, notice they finally put the gravel down next to our new pavement (not so much because I took the time to notice as because I did not fall into a hole when getting the mail), opened the door, and dropped the mail on the table. Unlike most days, I barely glanced at it.

There was a letter from our local zoo. I saw it but did not think about it. I was too focused on cutting green beans. (Aren't you glad you weren't home for dinner, Day?) FogieKnight followed me into the house, took off his coat, grabbed a letter opener (because we must never mess up envelopes), and started in on the mail. And then I heard it—a sharp intake of breath and an "oh." I turned. He looked startled and miserable. I was going to ask what was wrong when he explained it in two words: largemouth bass.

Largemouth bass are, or were, a family joke of a sort. FogieKnight and his father loved each other, you see, but they had a few fundamental disagreements about life. FogieKnight is a vegetarian and has been since 1979 or so. He disapproves of hunting. He disapproves of fishing. His father, B, however, loved fishing, possibly behind only his family, God, and his co-workers.

FogieKnight long ago found a way to make his own statement on this disagreement. On his whim, we began to sponsor a largemouth bass in B's name every year at the local zoo. If B was going to fish, FogieKnight was going to make sure B helped some fish too—even if indirectly. Every year, we sent the money to the zoo and the zoo sent B a certificate of the sponsorship of the largemouth bass in his name. I had never been sure exactly what B thought about the whole thing but, after he died this summer, we discovered that he had posted each sponsorship certificate about his workbench.

And now, apparently, it is renewal time for the sponsorship of that largemouth bass. I don't know what FogieKnight is thinking but I'd be willing to renew. If sponsorship of that bass in B's name was appropriate, so is sponsorship of that bass in his memory. The only question I have is whether, if we continue to sponsor the bass, someone in the family has to take up fishing just to keep the balance. If so, count me out.

The Saga of Day's Passport

Thu, 25 Oct 2007 23:33:44 GMT

Consider the difference six months can make. In the life of a child it can make a huge difference. In the life of a government agency, it usually makes very little difference at all. But I have been pleasantly surprised. The government agency which handles passports seems to have itself under much better control—or just wants to keep us guessing.

Day applied for a passport in May. In June, Kat applied for a passport to replace the one she lost. (Naturally, I made her pay for it. I only pay for first passports.) Kat's passport came within three weeks. Day's passport did not come but I knew there were delays and I was not concerned. August, and the date she was to leave for college, came and went and still no passport. Although we went across Ontario, Canada to get there, there was no problem. Passports were not yet required so I was not concerned.

Then came September and I got antsy. I went up on the government website to check the status of Day's passport and the website could not find a record of it. I still was not particularly concerned because the site seemed to anticipate that such a thing might happen. It suggested emailing the information to make further inquiry. I did and received a response that basically suggested that I must be spelling my own last name wrong. It also suggested that, if the information was correct, I add more information about where we applied. I did so—and received the same exact email response the second time. I wrote a note suggesting that I understood that they were busy but noting that I had added the information they requested---and received the same email response for the third time.

It was time to sit on the telephone. The first time, the agency refused to talk to me because Day was not traveling within two weeks. I tried a second time because my question was whether we should apply again. The second time, a man took my call and asked me to check with the post office on whether they had delivered the application. I was supposed to get that information and call back so poor FogieKnight (aka Mr. Postal Guy) went out to a different post office than he usually frequents. The post office was very nice. They supplied information that proved that the passport application had been delivered. As the man suggested, I checked whether my checks had been cashed. The post office had cashed its check but the State Department did not cash the check.

I sat on the phone again, received one brush-off because I was not calling to travel in two weeks, and got through on a second try where the words "You told me to call back" helped. I spoke with a very, very nice woman who laughed at what I had been told by the man. "Clearly," she told me. "We lost it. We never find the application and not the check." I asked if I should have Day apply again. She put me on hold to speak with her supervisor. It took a while and then she came back. "Yes," she said. "We believe you should apply again. From our perspective, we never had any application. Frankly, we'll never find it."

I then questioned her a bit further. "When we apply again," I said. "What do I say on the application about the first application?" Another hold. Another consultation. "Do it like a first application," she and her supervisor advised. "We'll never find the first and from our perspective, it will be a first application. Anything else is likely to cause us to wait and see if we can find it—and that will result in total futility." She then asked me who my congressperson was and suggested that, if the second application went awry, I contact him. "And you are lucky on that score," she said. "You have a congressman with clout."

So, we started again. First, we had to wait several weeks to get a new birth certificate for Day because they lost that with the application. That procedure cost $12. Then I had to wait for Day to come home because she is still a minor and they wanted me to come in with her. That problem delayed us until the first week in October. Next, I paid a second $8.00 for the passport pictures. On to the post office, where we paid the post office its $30 again (which I suppose the post office was entitled to as they had done what they were supposed to do the first time) and the State Department its $67. As directed, we indicated that the application was a first one because it would be the first one from the agency's perspective. The postal clerk told us that it probably would take from 6-8 weeks because things were better.

Last Friday, Day's passport arrived in the mail and I panicked. What if this were a passport from the first application? I looked to see which birth certificate was there because the new one looked a bit different but they now are sending the birth certificate under separate cover and it was not there. I called Day and asked if she could remember what she wore. She could not. I sighed and waited.

And today I had my answer. It is the second "first" application. The birth certificate that arrived today is the new one. With any luck, the woman will be correct and the old one will never surface—and no one will use it for identity theft. (I plan to check Day's credit history in a week or two. Sigh.)

But at least Day will have a passport when I deliver it to her on Saturday.

What Do I Say?

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 21:38:38 GMT

I am angry. I am deeply angry—and I do not know what to do with my anger. The hopeless and helpless feeling, the impotence, feeds that anger. So here I sit, reliving history but worse. This time I'm the mother and I have no idea what to suggest. How do you pass on a belief and hope that you do not have.

Day was home from college on a break and she and I went to see "Across the Universe" on Friday. "Across the Universe" is one odd film. It is a musical, using Beatles music, about the sixties. It is a musical and a love story (albeit a somewhat weak one) but it is not a children's film at all. While it's historical liberties were a bit unsettling at times to me, the feeling was there. I've always marveled at how less realistic art sometimes touches me more deeply that totally accurate documentaries. This file was one such example.

So Day and I immersed ourselves in Vietnam. We watched the goodbyes, the deaths, and the damage. We watched as futility after destructive futility piled up. But we also watched the hope, the belief that ordinary people could do something that might stop it, and the dangers of trying to stop things with destruction. Yes, there were problems. Yes, it was scary. But the young adults there had some hope.

Shortly afterward, Day received a telephone call from her friend, R. She had spent the weekend volunteering up at camp the weekend before and he had been there. He had been hoping to see her this weekend as well but his family was off to Minnesota. He called her because he wanted to say goodbye. Last weekend likely was the last time they would see each other before he goes off to Iraq.

Day was calm on the phone but just melted down after she hung up. We sat in the parking lot in front of a store as she sobbed and I had no idea what to tell her. I could not tell her it would be okay. We both knew that it might not. I listened as she cried out her fears about R, and Kat's good friend D who will be there for the second time because the Marines just will not let him go back to civilian life, and B who will go if the war does not end in a few years, and S who probably will be going. I listened to her frustration knowing that she believes that nothing worthwhile will result from their sacrifice.

And I thought about sacrifice. If the American people I know who say that they believe in this war really believed, they would share the sacrifice. They would pay the taxes. They would institute the draft or encourage their own sons to go. But they don't. It is the people my children met at camp, the ones who didn't have suburban, upper middle class lives, who put themselves at risk—for lack of other opportunities, for education, and sometimes for adventure. Maybe a few for belief.

But most of all, I wondered what to tell her. What could I suggest she do that might make a difference? I could not think of anything—and that made me angriest of all.

Surprise

Mon, 08 Oct 2007 01:16:49 GMT

Surprise! It's home-grown tomato season. What's the surprise? Well, considering I did not know we were growing tomatoes, I was shocked when FogieKnight brought in his harvest. He apparently was aware he was growing something, but originally thought it might be zucchini.

No, FogieKnight did not have a vegetable garden this year. He had a garden for a few years when the children were small but he gave up after multiple attempts at harvest. He grew vegetables just fine. His problem was that the rabbits harvested them long before he ever did. He tried special fencing and all the rest and still had little to show for his efforts. So he gave up. But, in any event, he never tried growing tomatoes.

He didn't exactly try growing tomatoes this year. Apparently, at some point, he threw some rotten tomatoes on his compost pile at some point because, eventually, he discovered that he had some plants growing next to his compost pile. I would have considered them weeds and pulled them up but I do not go back there much. He thought the plant might be some sort of vegetable and he left it alone.

Until today. Today he went back there as part of his yard clean-up and found tomatoes. Lots of tomatoes. Green tomatoes and red plum tomatoes. So he picked them and brought them in to see whether they were any good.

So we had home-grown tomatoes with our spinach pie for dinner tonight and we will be eating a lot of tomatoes this week. But at least they are our tomatoes—and we grew them with pure, dumb luck.

Weddings, Funerals, and Life Events

Mon, 01 Oct 2007 22:11:21 GMT

I have never understood the people who believe it matter whether they are comfortable at weddings, funerals, or other life events. I have never understood why they view these events as opportunities to express their agreement or disagreement with the choice of religion, of spouse, of life, or of ceremony of the people involved in the event. I have never understood those who think they are so central to everything that it is all about them and their comfort rather than about the couple, the dead, the family, or the community of which they are a part. Or maybe I do understand—and I just strongly disagree.

A Catholic wedding is not a referendum on Catholicism any more than a Jewish wedding is a referendum on Judaism or a Methodist funeral is a referendum on the Methodist Church. Weddings are about commitment, family, community, and (with some luck and hard work) stability. Funerals are about the life of the dead, grieving, saying goodbye, and community. They provide an opportunity to support others. Attending them is a way of fulfilling basic duties toward family, friends, and neighbors.

The thought that I might have let FogieKnight sit without my support at his father's funeral simply because it was a Methodist service at a Methodist church horrifies me. Who cares if I am Jewish? He needed me there and I belonged there. To be elsewhere solely because of comfort on one of the key days in the life of the family would have been to declare myself no longer part of the family. It was not about me. It was about my father-in-law, who definitely was Methodist, and about what reflected his life and beliefs.

Ritual merely gives form to these occasions and should reflect the immediate participants, not each guest. The "right" ritual is the one that is meaningful to the immediate participants. The only "wrong" ritual is one intended to insult others, to exclude other, or otherwise to function as a weapon rather than a bond.

No one is required to participate in any part of the service that conflicts with one's beliefs. It is enough to sit quietly and respectfully. But being part of a diverse community sometimes means moving beyond what is comfortable. Being part of a diverse family often means moving beyond what is comfortable. It is the price of being a real part of those families and those communities.