This Started Out as a Love Story

Hard nutty cheese.  Musky red wine.  Candles drip on the lapis blue cloth on a table by the sea.  A black cat sits on my lap and I let it.

It is just you and me and the cat.  It’s dark.  The candles flicker in the warm breeze.  Our music is the roar of the waves as they wall-by-the-seacrash against the wall by the sea.  I am perhaps most in love with you in this moment.  Our hearts suspended together.  Breathing in peace, an ocean away from home.

Home.  Where bills need to be paid and alarms are set.  Where the light over the kitchen table dims our dreams.  Where expectations and household maintenance avert our gaze away from each other and the content of our hearts.

What I didn’t know then was how hard it would be to be with you again like that—with hard cheese and a bottle of wine.  We tried.  Romantic restaurants in other towns.  But a black cat never sat on my lap again.  And you never wanted any wine.  And the cheese just stinks.

Another Racist Day at the Soccer Field or Two Bad Uncles

My son, Ben, played soccer for a racially diverse club team more than 20 years ago.  The Croation Eagles had Latino kids, African American kids, and kids of just about every white European heritage possible.  Ben was one of the few members of the team who was actually of at least partial Croation heritage.  The BS the kids of color had to put up with was deplorable.  On numerous occasions I heard parents from opposing teams drop the N bomb and call the Latino kids spics.

The Croation Eagles team parents did our best to shield our kids but the slurs from the opposing teams continued.  And our parents weren’t always well behaved either.  One of the moms on our team actually screamed “You must be on the rag,” to a female ref at one game.

I really did think it was going to be better by the time my two grandkids played soccer. Last winter, Ben was coaching his boys Noah and Ezra’s 10 and 8 year old teams in indoor soccer through the local rec department.  During Noah’s game, one of the Latinas on Ben’s team, Breeza, accidentally collided with Vickie, a white girl from the other team, accidentally knocking off her glasses.  Vickie picked them up.  Breeza asked her if she was okay.  Vickie nodded yes and the game continued.  No big deal.  Noah’s team won.  The onlookers and players started heading for the door

Vickie’s uncle, a young guy of about 20 wearing a neck brace that we later learned was because of a drunk driving accident, started talking smack to Ben.  “So I guess it’s easy to win when you teach your team to play dirty,” with lots of cussing for emphasis.  It became clear that it was the “aggressive” Latinas like Breeza that he had a problem with.  Ben told him to watch his language in front of the kids and suggested they go outside the school to talk.  They did.

Vickie’s uncle immediately throws off his neck brace and pulls out a switch blade posturing for battle.  Shocked, Ben said that if he wanted to fight him he needed to lose the knife.  A crowd gathers around.  Vickie cries.  Her mother yells to the uncle, her brother, to quit and come home with them.  There’s lots of commotion but finally, the uncle stalks off.

Everyone was upset.  But if there was anything good about the situation, it was that I got to watch my son in action.  He stayed calm and coached Ezra’s soccer game immediately after the incident.  He talked to his sons about how men behave.  “Tough guys don’t use weapons and don’t start fights.”

He said really thoughtful stuff about how they should be kind to Vickie because none of this was her fault and not to let anyone else be mean to her either.  That Monday at school, Vickie told Noah that she was really sorry for what happened, that she didn’t want anything bad to happen to his Dad.  Noah hugged Vickie and told her that she didn’t do anything wrong, just like his dad told him to.

This spring, Noah and Ezra, now 11 and 9, left rec soccer behind and joined the fabulously diverse teams of the Club Deportivo Aztecas (Aztec Sports Club) along with Breeza and her friend Nonny.  These girls are a force to be reckoned with.  All last year during community rec soccer, all the boys whined that no one could get past Nonny.  And Breeza, I saw her take a ball in the face and just keep moving.

The families are friendly, sharing food and carpooling.  There’s lots of Spanish and English flying around and we’re all learning from each other.  The kids are respectful and the coaches are smart and caring.  It’s a poor team compared to some of the big clubs.  We have one field at local elementary school compared to clubs that have more than a dozen fields, a concession stands and bathrooms.  We don’t go to a lot of tournaments.  But the Aztecas are affordable and inclusive and we like that.  I thought everything was pretty hunky dory.

But then this happened at the Aztecas versus a big club game last weekend.

Nonny’s uncle lit up a cigarette.  Within seconds, a tall man I assumed was a parent from the opposing team demanded that he put it out.

“This is a kids soccer field.  There’s no smoking.”

Nonny’s uncle, a slight man with a long scraggly brown ponytail, said something like, “I don’t see any signs,” and suggested that he mind his own business.  And he put out his cigarette.

The tall guy, the kind of good looking well dressed and groomed guy that has the arrogant glow of privilege, wasn’t satisfied.

“When you’re a guest in our house you follow our rules.”

That comment sparked a conversation between Nonny’s uncle and Nonny’s mother in Spanish.  And then the shit hit the fan.

“Speak American.  You’re in our country, at our soccer field,” said Mr. Privilege.

“Hey this is my America too,” said Nonny’s uncle.

Mr Privilege said something like “you don’t act like it.”

It was like he lit a match.  Nonny’s mother unleashed a firestorm of cuss words.  This is what happens, I thought, when weeks and months and years of the constant drip, drip, drip of racial insults and stereotyping finally ignite.

And there was plenty of fuel flowing from Mr. Privlege…”You people this and you people that…”

One woman came over to take video of Nonny’s cussing mother on her cell phone.  Another woman gently walked up to her and asked if she was drunk or high.

There were so many people standing around gawking that it was hard to tell who was there to support Nonny’s family and who was there to watch the side show of a Latino family melt down.  Mr. Privilege stormed off somewhere to “file a formal complaint.”  It was whispered in the crowd that he was on the board of the soccer club.

Ben was the only person who came up with a way to end the stalemate.  He simply invited Nonny’s family to join ours.  To the gawkers, Nonny’s mom said, “We’re going to go sit with the cool people.”

Noah and Ezra’s other grandmother, Char, welcomed Nonny’s mother to our group by saying, “Nonny is so tall.  Where does she get her height?”  I intervened with “So now we’re going to call her (Nonny’s mother) short!”  People chuckled and a tenuous calm was restored through the rest of the game.

Up until then, the families of both teams had been interspersed along the spectators sideline of the field.  Slowly lawn chairs continued to be rearranged until all of the Aztecas families were on one side and the big club on another.

After a hard fought battle on the field, the Aztecas won!  6 to 5.  Of course, Nonny’s uncle couldn’t resist giving the finger to Mr. Privilege who shook his head and looked away in disgust.

When the teams came around for the ceremonial round of high fives, both sets of parents congratulated both teams although Nonny’s uncle needed a little encouragement.  I was grateful that the kids had been too busy playing a competitive game to pay any attention to what their idiot families were doing.

I’m sure that not every adult associated with this big club was in agreement.  And it’s true that Nonny’s uncle shouldn’t have been smoking and her mother should have tried harder to contain her rage.  But as Ben says, “tough guys don’t use weapons,” and I can think of no sharper weapon than the racism Mr. Privilege and the smug group of parents wielded on this fine sunny afternoon.

Me and Bill

In the summer of 2002 I was “between jobs,” which means that brief, liberating yet nerve wracking time when I stupidly, I mean boldly, quit a job without having another.  I was thrilled at the freedom to explore opportunities and do freelance work at home in my pajamas but terrified by the idea of running out of money before I had built up enough work or secured another “real” job.

So when my friend Kate called and asked if I wanted to participate in a Milwaukee area Democratic fundraiser for Tammy Baldwin featuring none other than the former President Bill Clinton, I quickly declined.  The $250 minimum price tag was just too much even though I really liked Tammy and wanted to see her reelected.  Besides, Bill pissed me off.  I was still really mad about how he cheated on Hillary with that dumb Monica Lewinsky and tried to deny it.  What a chump!  How could a whole country trust a man whose own wife couldn’t?

But Kate called back whining about how much she really needed my help and offered to comp my ticket in exchange for volunteer time.  I was still reluctant.  Then she reminded me how many “important” people would be there and how it would be good for my career to be networking.  And my husband butted into the conversation with a snide comment about it not being “healthy” to hang around the house in my pajamas every day.   “Okay, fine.  I’ll do it,” I finally said.

The Performing Arts Center where the midday event was to take place was abuzz with activity when I arrived.  I was helping to organize name tags while scary looking federal security personnel lurked around with their curled chords plugged into their ears.   They looked like “Men in Black” and it gave the ambiance a kind of surreal feel to it.  And Clinton’s so called advance team was intimidating in their efficiency.  A terse young woman in very high heels and a prim suit answered her cell phone with a piercing verbal jab.  “Go!” was all she said.  Kate and the rest of us volunteers scurried around like peptic crazy people to a constant barrage of announcements—“He’s 30 minutes out; He’s 25 minutes out; He’s 22 minutes out.”

Frenzied guests began to arrive and move through the security check.  It felt like the Easter Parade with everyone in their best business formal ware, men in dark suits with their best silk ties in spite of the heat; women gussied up with colorful summer suits, sheer hose and light colored pumps.

“He’s 19 minutes out.”

The guests were a bunch of nervous nellies.  “Where’s my name tag?”    “I know I made a reservation.”  “When will President Clinton arrive?”

“He’s 14.2 minutes out.”

The Men in Black paced faster.

“9 minutes out.”

The air felt electric.   I could hear the distant sound of sirens, the police escort.  The guests were literally tittering.

“5 minutes out.”

The Men in Black and the sharp young woman and other campaign workers stood outside the entrance at straight-back attention, hands crossed behind their backs while we volunteers rolled our eyes.”

“2 minutes out”

No one was breathing.

“30 seconds out.”

And with amazing accuracy, Bill’s motorcade pulled up at exactly zero.  He got out of the car like a celebrity surrounded by his fans only in this case it was the Men in Black.  He whispered something to the sharp young woman, who scurried over to Kate to whisper something in her ear.  Kate made a gesture to point down the hall.  Bill had to use the bathroom.  Even former presidents have to go potty.

Just like everything else about this event, the photo taking proceeded with amazing efficiency. In less than 30 minutes more than 75 couples or individuals assembled themselves in poses with Tammy and Bill and shots were taken.  I could feel the righteous smirk still lingering on my face but I had to admit that Bill looked good.  He had lost weight and wore a trim black suit with a pink shirt and a pink and blue striped tie with small flowers in the pink stripes.  His thick white hair was well cut and coifed and the small pompadour poof gave him a 60s rock star swagger. I swear I could smell Aqua Velva.

Kate gave me a nudge and knocked me out of my stupor.   “Your turn.”  What?  Me?  No kidding.  Me and the other women volunteers (there were no male volunteers) got in the end of the line for our turn for a group photo.

“Go” said the terse young woman and five of us stepped into the frame.  I stumbled around like a fool uttering “where should I stand?  where should I stand?”    “Right here,” said Bill and he put his arm around my waste and pulled me in for the shot.  And just as quickly, he  moved his hand to my back and gently shoved me away so that the next group could move in.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” I practically shouted as I  joined everyone else in my group beaming from ear to ear .

Bill Clinton and MeWe transitioned on to our new role of helping to seat people in the theater.  I wound up filling a seat in the front row.  I hardly remember anything anyone said except that Bill talked about forming a more perfect union.   I remember most clearly the look on every single woman’s face in the audience.  Regardless of age, race, or economic status, we looked at Bill with an upward tilted face, adoring glistening eyes and a smiling slightly agape mouth.  He was Elvis.  The King.  We hoped he would look in our direction and give us a personal moment.  Just one.

And just like that it was over.  Elvis had left the building.

Kate grabbed me and said, “It’s ok that we have the ‘wheels up’ party at your house, right?”  Wheels up?  What?  Apparently it is tradition for campaign workers to have a few drinks together after the president’s jet has taken off and I happened to live close to the airport.

But first, we were all to scurry to the private chartered flight part of the airport where I had never been before and help Bill shake hands with a few more donors.   It was my job to stand outside the airport and peer down Layton Avenue to watch for the motorcade.  I got excited when I saw a limo make a u turn into The Nite Owl, a well known custard and burger stand.  Bill was known for his love of fast food, but it wasn’t him.  A decoy, maybe.  But then Bill showed up in the biggest blackest SUV I’ve ever seen.

More hand shaking and photos and then everyone jumped in their cars and headed to my house.  The wheels were up!  Everyone included about 30 members of Clinton’s and Baldwin’s staffs, my friend Kate, and a few of the other volunteers.

The guests emptied the refrigerator of beer and drained every bottle of wine, including the supply Kate brought, into every glass I had in the house.  Ninety percent of the revelers were smoking in the small closed in space that connects the house to the garage when the squeaky automatic garage door announced my husband’s arrival home from work.  I reached the door of the garage just as he opened it.

“Hi,” he said as he quizzically scanned the bar scene from Star Wars going on in our house.  “What did you do today, honey?”

Disco Crash

I check my reflection in the mirror.  Stretch marks and a caesarean scar have put an end to my bikini days but with my sleek new black dress I look like any other slender 22 year old.  I load the boys into my used Chamois Gold 1973 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale, drop them off at my parents house, and head out to the Tropicana Disco to meet my friend, Sandy.

Under the swirling, flashing lights, we do the Hustle, the Bump, the Funky Chicken, and our own brand of free style disco to Donna Summer, the Bee Gees, and KC and the Sunshine Band.  But when the DJ plays Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” the perfect anthem for a newly-minted divorce`, I own that dance floor.  I belt out “Oh, no, not I” with all the conviction in the world.  But my disco zen is interrupted by a silly gaggle of weird looking guys jerking wildly with flailing elbows, clearly trying to get my attention.  I ignore them.

On my way home, a yellow Ford Pinto appears in my rear view mirror.  The guys from the disco pull up in the left lane along side of my Olds, beeping their horn, whooping and hollering, thrusting an index finger to the sky, mimicking Travolta’s signature dance move.

“What the_______” I think just as my car clips the bumper of a parked car.  The jolt ricochets my Olds into the left lane and as I close in on the car full of guys, their faces change from hilarity to open mouthed alarm.  I hit them full force in the right fender sending both of our cars spinning out of control.

When the Olds finally loses momentum, I guide it to the side of the road as do the four nerds in the Pinto.  They jump out of the car and run to ask if I am okay.  We are all shaky but okay.  I assess the damage.  The Olds took the hit pretty well and doesn’t look too bad except for a flattened fender, but the Pinto isn’t going anywhere.

“You guys were at the Tropicana tonight?” I ask for confirmation.

“Yeah, man.  We saw you,” says the curly haired one. “We were gonna buy you a drink but….” The other three pimply faced guys sort of shrink behind him like a bunch of 12-year-olds.  I yawn with impatience.  “So, how about we don’t sue you if you go out with us?” He asks.

“All four of you?”


Certain they will never call anyway, I give the bold one my phone number.

But they do call.  I get Sandy to agree to go with me but she backs out at the last minute. I go anyway.  To get it over with.  They take turns dancing with me but my effort is flat.  They are all clearly nervous..having trouble with eye contact, fidgeting with their shirt collars, scratching their ears.  We have scant conversation shouting through the blaring music. I learn that they graduated from high school just a few months ago.

I stir the remnants of my screwdriver and mention that I have to get home soon to relieve the babysitter.  “Yes, I have two kids.”  The needle skips on the record, and everybody in the disco turns to stare at me with that look, that disco crash look. The “date” ends abruptly.  I drive myself home, the voice of Gloria Gaynor  and “I will survive” playing in my head with just a little less conviction.

I never hear from them again.  Didn’t expect to.  Even if I had found them charming and attractive, so much more than a few years separate us.  Their lives are college chemistry and spring break and new beginnings.  Mine is diapers and food stamps and a slightly damaged Chamois Gold Oldsmobile.

me and the boys 1978

A Tribute to Mary Jo

In a black and white photo of my first day of school, you can see Mary Jo in the background with her hands on her hips and a little jealous smirk on her face.  Me in the foreground with a matching pixie hair cut and a smart new plastic school bag.  My sister is three years younger than me which means I have always been a step or two ahead.  I rode a bike first.  Lost a tooth first.  Went to school first.

But when her turn came to go to school, to half-day kindergarten, she hated it.  She didn’t cry when mom dropped her off but she regularly escaped.  As soon as the teacher let the class out for recess, she walked the three blocks back home all by herself.

I was in the second grade at a different school, a Catholic school that didn’t have kindergarten.  We were serious in the second grade.  Serious about reading and math but mostly serious about our first communion.  That spring, my class was in church practicing for our First Communion ceremony which mostly meant practicing to assemble in an orderly line for the procession and sitting quietly in our pews.

I was concentrating hard on my prayers, trying not to be distracted by the boys who were snorting and punching each other in the pew behind me, when the black and white clad sister who was the principal came in and whispered something to my teacher.  Sister John pointed to me and I shrank with fear and guilt even though I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong.  I wasn’t talking or moving at all!

The stern nun beckoned to me with her curled finger and led me back to her office–the principal’s office, the scariest possible place on earth for a kid.  This was the place where parents were called.  The place from which some kids never returned to class!  I was wracking my brain to formulate a defense against the trouble I was sure those horrible boys had gotten me into.

But that wasn’t it at all.  It was Mary Jo.  At my school!  Sitting on a stiff wooden bench in the waiting area with her scrawny scabby legs dangling in the air, arms across her chest, and her face screwed up in a defiant sneer.  I was relieved that I wasn’t in trouble but also peeved that my sister had interrupted the transformative holy experience of first communion practice.

Apparently, my kindergarten-hating little sis had managed another one of her escapes and went home to an empty locked house.  My grandparents lived next door to us but Mary Jo didn’t dare knock on the door.  She was perpetually mad at Grandma for holding her doll hostage.  Grandma was trying to teach her a lesson for leaving the poor thing outside in the rain.

Determined Mary Jo had navigated more than a mile walk to my school crossing the treacherous Fond du Lac Avenue and wandered around the hallways until she was spotted.  “I’ve called your mother at work,” said Sister Principal.  “You are to walk home with your sister now.  Your mom will be there by the time you get home.”  I was allowed back into my classroom to collect my homework and Mary Jo and I set off for home.

“How did you get to my school?” I asked as she struggled to keep up with my brisk purposeful pace.

“I dunno,” she said.  “I walked.”

“You’re going to be in so much trouble,” I told her.  Mary Jo didn’t even flinch.

Mom flung open the door as we approached and rushed us inside.  Mary Jo got a hard hug and then a serious lecture.  Mom knelt down and held Mary Jo’s shoulders tight.  “Mary Jo, you are never, ever, ever to leave school again.”  Mary Jo sat in a tight knot and glared at me over mom’s shoulder.

I couldn’t help but admire the guts and outright boldness it took to do what she did.  It’s been that determined spirit that I’ve always respected in Mary Jo.  It shines whenever she’s up against a challenge.  It was there when she fiercely advocated for and supported her children through some challenging times, when she cared for her husband through a health crisis, when she went back to school and began a completely new career, and countless other times.  I stand with my hand on my hip, a smirk of understanding, and watch her with awe.


A Memorable Birthday

2015 Birthday with Dave and Misao

My birthday is January 8th.  Two weeks after Christmas and one week after New Years, in the dead of Wisconsin’s winter.  It’s usually not much of a celebration.  I’ve had a birthday gathering that was canceled due to a six foot snowfall.  A birthday when no one, not even my mother, remembered to send a card.  Oh, and then there was the year I turned 40.  I had an emergency tonsillectomy.  Yep, at best, my birthday has been just another day for my entire adulthood.

Except for last year.  I was turning 59, the last year of a big decade, and I had just quit a job that paid well but sucked the joy out of life.  It was time to get out of the god forsaken freezer we live in and let our friends, California Dave and his wife, Misao, show us a good time.

Dave and Misao live in San Jose and are wonderful hosts.  My husband, Tom, and I had visited many times before and they knew exactly what I would like.  The morning of January 8th we set out for a long hike in the red woods of Henry Cowell Park and had a picnic lunch.  Then on to wine tasting at Beauregard Winery.  Late afternoon we headed to Bonny Doon beach to watch what promised to be a glorious sunset.

As we started our slightly tipsy descent down the sand dunes with a blanket to find a comfortable viewing spot, something besides the setting sun caught our attention.  A paunchy middle aged naked guy with shoulder length white hair, who had a remarkable resemblance to my husband from a distance, was running laps between dunes, his junk flip flopping with every step.

“Hey, that guy could be Tom’s stunt double,” said Dave.  A humorous observation.  There were distinct similarities.  But seeing a naked guy wasn’t a big deal.  We’d been to this beach before and been exposed to similar situations.  This is a nude friendly beach but we’re not the type to indulge.

We had just settled down on our blanket to watch the sunset when Misao inexplicably got up and took off after Naked Guy.  Most of the time, Misao is pretty quiet and reserved but every once in a while, she surprises us.  Like the time she yelled “Heat it up, heat it up” at the craps table at Potawatomi.  Or the time she leaned over the balcony to blow kisses to the cast of Jersey Boys.  Or the time she scolded me for being impatient with my husband.  She later apologized for “going all Japanese on me.”

We could see that Misao and Naked Guy were exchanging a few words and then they turned and ran back to the blanket together.

“Oh, no she didn’t,” I said and had serious thoughts about running the other way.

“I hear it’s your birthday,” said Naked Guy whose wing dang doodle was at my eye level.

“Yes it is,” I said trying to avert my gaze.

“Well, happy birthday,” said Naked Guy with a shrug and returned to his jiggly lap running.

“Nope,” said Tom who had the same close up view I did.  “No way that guy could be my stunt double.”

I laughed so hard I snorted merlot out of my nose.  “If I was going to see a naked guy on my birthday, couldn’t it have been Antonio Banderas?”

Note:  A version of this essay with the naughty bits edited out aired on WUWM’s Lake Effect 1/7/16.


Christmas Mitzvah

I’m a professional fundraiser but there wasn’t a charitable bone in my body when I offered to work on Christmas day.  My motivation was to save paid time off for a vacation to California in January.   I didn’t have any other plans anyway.  My grandkids spend Christmas day with their other grandparents.  for Mitzvah story

The job was to host a group of Jewish volunteers who were coming to deliver poinsettias and visit with patients; they call it their Mitzvah Day, a day to serve their Christian neighbors.  I figured most of the patients would be asleep or in a coma anyway.

I arrived at the hospital and took the stairs to my second floor office where I encountered a couple, a tall white-haired man pushing a woman in a wheel chair. I asked if I could help them find something and they told me they were looking for the Breast Health Clinic.  I explained that it was right down the hall but that it was closed today.  “Oh, we know,” said the man.  “Dr. Joan said she would meet us here.”  Dr. Joan is a world renowned breast cancer specialist.  She could surely find someone else to cover for her.  But she was coming in. I was impressed.    I found a comfortable place for the couple to wait for her to arrive.

After reviewing the instructions the volunteer coordinator provided an getting my carts together, I headed to the lobby to wait for my guests from the synagogue.  There, I found a middle-aged woman was crying in the outer lobby.  She kept saying that she was waiting for the number 18 bus.  The security guard said that she was drunk.  My guess was that there were some mental health issues at play too. At first I looked away, embarrassed for her.  But then I observed a security guard treat her with complete compassion—inviting her to rest in the warm inner lobby while they made some calls. I couldn’t imagine being so alone in this world that I would be standing drunk and crying on 12th and Kilbourn in the freezing cold on Christmas day.

Five volunteers arrived and we gathered for an orientation.  Sylvia had organized similar outings for the synagogue for years and knew just what to do.  She explained that our objective was to share who we were, visit with each patient capable of a visit for a while, and leave behind our gift of a poinsettia and a decoratively wrapped tube of scentless hand lotion.

One of the volunteers was a class “A” jerk.  Randy.  He just wanted to plow through it. Kept complaining that we were wasting too much time getting instructions before we started.  And then when we hit the floors he’d abruptly blurt:   “Hi, we’re from here to bring you good cheer and leave you a present.  Goodby.”

“Oy,” said Gladys, a tiny woman who was clearly the most senior member of the group.  “That Randy is somtin’ else.”  He was the first to leave.

There was a middle aged couple who volunteered, Bob and Lois.   I noticed that Bob had to help Lois complete the volunteer form.  I noticed that she smiled sweetly but didn’t talk or ask any questions during our orientation.  And it occurred to me that maybe for Bob and Lois, this special act of charity on Christmas day was about helping Lois.

We split into two teams, each with a cart full of gifts, and headed off in separate directions to deliver our good cheer.  The first person, I encountered was Annie, an old woman standing outside her room holding her gown shut with one hand and waving her TV remote around in the air with the other.

“There’s something wrong with my TV,” Annie said. The lack of teeth in her mouth made it hard for me to understand her.  Her coarse, thin, grey hair was pulled back into a pony tail that stood up off of the top of the back of her head like a stiff paint brush   I offered to help.  I took the remote from her and cleared a patient survey question on the screen and scrolled through the menu until I found a nice Christmas concert for her to watch.

I asked if she would like to visit for a while.

“Who?” she asked.

“With me?”



“Yes, why not.”

I helped Annie get back into bed and fixed her tangled covers.  “God bless you,” she said.

She showed me her swollen arm.   It was as big as the top of my thigh and she was not a large woman.  And I’m not thin.  She told me that she had asthma and diabetes.   She said she told her family that they had to “go on and do what they had to do,”  but that she had to go to the hospital.  Annie told me that she had five children–four girls and one boy.   She got to seven and lost track of how many grandchildren.  I asked how old she was and she said 75.  It was kind of a shock to think about the comparatively youthful glow of my late-70s parents.  This woman looked decades older than even my 90 year old mother-in-law.  But she is just a reflection of what we know.  Being poor kills you…sooner.

My next visit was with a couple with an Eastern European accent.  The cheerfully smiling wife with blond haired pulled back into a pony tail looked to be about my age.   She spooned  thin oat meal into her handsome silent husband’s mouth.   I explained what I was doing with the group of volunteers and the wife, Mary, had questions about the temple the volunteers were from.   I called the nearest volunteer I could find, Gladys, the older woman who was part of my team.

Gladys answered all of Mary’s questions and then inquired about her Eastern European accent.  “My husband and I are originally from Croatia,” she said, “but I lived all over Europe as a foster child.”    She told us the story about how her father had died and her mother was a refugee from Yugoslavia who just didn’t have the resources to care for her.  She said a few words in Croatian.  Gladys told me that Mary was thanking me for visiting.  I wondered if I would be as kind and cheerful as this pretty blond Croation woman if my husband became incapacitated.

The next person I visited was Jean, who seemed fine except for the obvious tremors in her legs.  She talked about the dullness of her life in an assisted living facility.

“Get up, have something to eat, watch TV; eat lunch, watch TV; eat dinner, watch TV; go to bed.  Repeat.”

Jean said that as soon as she gets a few new cribbage partners, they “leave” and she has to start all over again.  She has a great grandson named Marco.

She said that she wanted to die.  I was afraid to ask what brought her to the hospital.

It was time to bring our visits to a close and reconnect with the other volunteer team, so I went to find Gladys, who was a few rooms down the corridor.

“Come in,” said Gladys when I motioned to her from the door.   “You’ll never believe it,” she said, gesturing to the man lying in bed attached to an oxygen tank.  A woman wearing a multi colored  hijab stood by his side.  They were from Palestine.  Gladys explained that she asked them if they could speak Arabic and they could.  “The same dialect I speak!” exclaimed Gladys.

“You can speak Croation and Arabic?” I said maybe too incredulously.  “Oh,”  I can speak French  too,” Gladys told me.

In the meantime, the couple beamed with joy at having someone to speak with during this health crisis.  “Salem, Salem, (God is great!)” they repeated over and over.  They offered me chocolate.

As Gladys and I walked back to my office with our now empty cart, we shared our patient visiting experiences.   I told her about Jean, who said she wanted to die.

“Oh my ‘got’!” said Gladys.  “If you are alive in this world, it is to do good.”  She explained that even when people are ill or incapacitated they play an important role.  They give others the opportunity to learn kindness and patience, and that is “doing good.”   My face filled with the warmth of embarrassment.  People like me I thought.

On my way out that day, I physically bumped into Sally, an administrative coworker, who was there with her two adult children to bring fruit baskets and cookies to the staff.  We were both so surprised and delighted to see each other that our eyes welled up with tears knowing that we had both experienced something very special this Christmas day.  My heart felt large and my spirit felt light.  I felt peace and happiness.

On Monday, I wrote thank you notes to all of the volunteers.  Except Gladys.  She didn’t include her last name, address or phone number on the volunteer form.  Only “Gladys.”

Indeed, no one was served more from this Mitzvah than me.